Yes, Sir (MF)

I can’t say he isn’t attractive. He is. So much that I could look at him straight. But he looked mean, cold in that black hoodie, nursing his drink at the other end of the bar. I use my drink as an excuse to sneak a peek. A beautiful woman just took the seat next to him, made even more beautiful under the warm lights. She touches his arm and smiles, her breast almost pressed against him. I curve into myself, I wish I had that confidence. Those curves.

But the guy in the hoodie just sips his drink and says something to her. When he turns to her, I realize his neck is all inked and he has a lot of piercings. I can’t hear him, but from how rugged he looks, I imagine his voice is deep. Guttural. My toes curl in my sneakers. Then he turns back to his drink. She responds by picking up her drink and her purse and returning to her friend at a table.

Then he lifts his gaze and meets my eye. Shit. I was staring. The eye contact sends a bolt down my hips and I look away with a big gulp of my wine.

Someone takes the seat next to me and whoever it is drapes an arm on the back of my chair. I’m used to this. People typically don’t see me and they take up my space in bars, clubs, restaurants. This person is so close I can smell the cigarette and body wash on them, and my first instinct is to graciously excuse myself so they can have all the space they want. I don’t even look, I just grab my purse from the hook under the bar, mumble an “excuse me” and move to get up.

But a tattooed hand grabs mine. Not painfully, but firm enough. His hold encompasses my whole wrist and something about the size of him makes me a feel a bit like jelly.

“Don’t leave on my account.”

It’s the guy with the hoodie.

Up close he’s even harder to look at. There’s a sharpness in his eyes, like a creature that watches and waits for prey. And he’s huge. For a split second I let myself imagine him throwing my on the bed and pinning my wrist above my head while he shoves that beard against my neck, forcing me down while I squirm under him. I imagine him shoving himself between my legs until a spread them, exposing myself, keening in need. And maybe he’ll indulge me.

Christ. How impolite of me. I snap out of it and he loosens his grip. Just enough that I can pull away if I wanted to. I don’t.

“Okay,” I say. My mouth is dry and suddenly I’m imagine him shoving his tongue in my mouth and telling me to open my mouth and—

“You finally looked at me,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Fuck yeah I did. Everyone on the bar did. They turn to us for a moment before going back to their conversations.

I was right about his voice. You know that feeling when you get a good stretch and you feel that tingle all the way to your toes? His voice had that effect. Like it reached right through my skirts and tore my panties down. Yeah, sure, that metaphor makes sense.

He still hasn’t let go of my hand, but now he’s rubbing his thumb on it. I know what you’re thinking. Who does this? And who lets some stranger do this? This guy who looks like he could break me in half does. And I, who will happily let him, does. That’s who.

I take a deep breath, nervous and kind of jittery. The truth is this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this guy. Or have avoided looking at him. See, girls like me are the ones the hot girls bring for their crush’s less attractive friend. I’m the designated driver. I’m the one who sits in bars admiring men like this who attract the hot ones. Like a creepy wallflower. And I’m cool with that.

What I’m not cool with is the object of my secret admiration wrapping that arm on my backrest around me while he lets go of my wrist and picks up his drink. His chair screeches as he pulls it closer to me. Our knees bump until I’m practically on his lap. My arm’s on his leg and I can’t escape.

Then he presses his lips against my ear and whispers, “Did you think I haven’t seen you around?”

“I’m sorry,” I respond instantly. Shit. Maybe he really could break me in half. And not in a fun way. But I’m glad my stupid body decides to respond by starting to soak my panties. Real convenient.

He noses my hair, the lip of his black baseball bumping against my head. Then he goes back to his drink like nothing’s amiss and I still can’t get up. I’m starting to get comfortable. Every time his hand grazes my back, it tickles and it sends me further onto his lap.

“I, um, have to go to the bathroom,” I say. And like a goddamn gentleman, this guy in a hoodie rises from his seat. At least I thought he was one until he followed me up the narrow staircase to the dark hallway leading to the restrooms. Then, he pulled me into the empty unisex bathroom and locked the door behind us.

What was I supposed to say? Please don’t hurt me? My mother didn’t raise a liar.

“You don’t have to go to the bathroom,” he said, backing me against the door. This man is huge. When he slides his hand up my thigh, taking my skirt along with it, and he grabs my ass, he nearly lifts me off the ground. He has to bend down to press his mouth against my neck and lick. “You went to the bathroom a few minutes before you had one drink. Not nearly enough to piss.”

Wait. How did he know that? Was he…watching me?

“Oh,” he gently shoved his hand in my panties and his fingers find my hole right away. I barely stopped myself from bucking my hip against them.

I grab him, one arm draped over his back, one hand on his wrist. Not only is this stranger observant, he’s also understanding. He obliges and shoves a finger in my cunt. The slick of it sounds obscene. The way he maneuvers my panties off and hikes my leg up until my hips screams in pains, the way he shoves his hand under my sweater, under my bra, and pinches my nipple. All of it is obscene. And not enough.

I struggle and I reach for his zipper. He laughs, actually laughs, and it sends a whole new wave of shivers down my spine. He back away and lets me undo it until his cock springs out.

I swallow. There is no fucking way that will fit. But my mother didn’t raise an ungrateful brat. I take my meals with grace.

And apparently he wasn’t raised a fool either. He grabs me and leads me to the counter where he sets me on the cold marble. He strokes his cock, hard and veined, red headed and slick.

In a moment of courage, I reach down and play with my clit, just to feel how wet I am and I look up at him. What I see scares me. He looks cruel, hungry. Impatient. And I want it.

“Open your legs,” he says. I do. Without question.

My vision sparks in the moment he shoves his cock in me. I feel full. It’s hot and almost painful, but I forget when he reaches down and presses my thumb against my clit. “Don’t take that off.”

The authority in his voice is unbothered and it gets me bothered. It makes me arch my back in obedience and puts the words on the tip of my tongue. Then I let it spill.

“Yes, sir.”

The sound that escapes him is a growl. Low. Deep. And he thrusts so hard he nearly shoves me off the counter. He grabs me by the thighs and drives his dick in me. Punishing. I bite my lip so hard I think it splits. I try to wrap my legs around him but he pushes down on my leg until my knee touches my breast.

But it’s not deep enough. I think he feels the same way because he starts pulling me toward him at each thrust. He curses under his breath and the sound makes me squeeze my cunt around him. Christ. I want to moan out loud but the force of him reduces me to a whimper.

Something clicks in my head. “Please,” I manage. “Cum inside me.”

His pace quickens and when he says, “Fucking say that again,” I obey. And I squeeze around him in sudden desperation for the feeling of him squirting inside me. Filling me up. I want to walk out of here with his cum pooling in my panties, threatening to drip down my thighs.

And when he’s done, I want him to keep fucking me, make me messy and keep filling me up until I’m leaking cum.

“Fuck, fuck,” he grunts against my neck. “Take it all, take it all.”

And I do.

He’s a gentleman when it’s done. He helps me to my feet, gives me his arm when my legs give out under me. He turns around to tuck his cock in his pants and to let me put my panties back on. He even lets me wash my hands first.

When I reach for the door, he grabs my wrist again and it sends my imagine back to that bed, with his him pinning my hands above my head.

“I’m John,” he says. “And I’m not done with you.”

And I’m telling you I couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “Yes, sir.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/uvufhq/yes_sir_mf