Entry Two

Still catching my breath from earlier. I keep replaying everything that happened, trying to pin down the exact moment I stopped just wanting him and started needing him.

He sent a text on Tuesday, 9:03 am — “Don’t make plans today.”

My breath caught in my throat, immediately excited at the thought of seeing him. We had been friends with benefits on and off for years, but something had shifted recently. It was always casual, like background noise in my life, but lately, he’d started to come into focus. We cared for each other, of course, but our spark was all physical. That balance had created a safe place for us to explore all of those desires we couldn’t explore anywhere or with anyone else.

He was quiet, but striking. Broad, strong shoulders—the build of a man who wasn’t chasing muscle for vanity, but shaping it out of necessity. His eyes were piercing, sometimes sparkling, adding punctuation to his otherwise reserved presence. He didn’t talk much, but when he looked at you, it said more than enough.

We treated each other’s bodies with reverence, and I loved how I felt under his command. I think that’s why it was so easy to give him full control, all of the power he wanted over me. The moment I handed him that key, told him he could have me any time he wanted, he knew he had me wrapped around his finger.

I made sure I was ready for him the way I knew he liked. Fresh out of the shower, shaved, and easy to get to—no fancy garter belts or lingerie, just some soft cotton panties underneath a simple sundress. He didn’t ever tell me he wanted those things outright, but picking up on his preference made me feel good; it made me feel more like his.

I was putting together a little lunch, just a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in the kitchen when I heard the key click in the door and the lock start to turn. I had expected him later in the day, maybe even that evening, so it caught me off guard entirely.

“Hey,” I said, my voice crackling and sounding more startled than I would have liked him to hear.

“Hello, kitten.” He smiled at me, leaning against the door, closing it and turning the lock behind him all at once.

I set the jelly-covered butter knife down on the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of my body; trying to play it cool and not let him in on how nervous I suddenly found myself.

“I didn’t expect you—” but he was there, already next to me, hands on my waist, pulling me into him. His left hand ran up my body, gently clamping over my mouth to stop me from anxiously talking. He always knew how to give me what I needed.

He walked me backwards, still pressed against his body with his hand over my mouth, then turned me around to the kitchen island. He pushed aside a small stack of cookbooks with his right hand and bent me over the counter with a heavy kind of tenderness. He lifted my skirt up over my hips and ran his hand down my ass. I felt him admiring me with soft squeezes, caresses, and gently pulling me apart—the satisfaction I felt already getting me wet for him.

Then he looped his finger into the panties I was wearing, tugging at them gently, and I heard him click his tongue in disapproval.

Fuck. What did he not like?

He leaned forward, left hand still clasped over my mouth, and whispered in my ear: “Your ass looks so good in these panties. But next time, don’t bother. I don’t like fighting through layers to get what’s mine.”

The words rippled through my body and I felt my pussy flutter in response.

He stepped back, removing his hand from my mouth. “Take them off.”

I started to stand, my dress falling back over my ass, and he pushed my upper body back to the counter with deliberate force. He pulled my skirt back up.

“Try again.”

My cheek felt cool against the marble countertop, and I reached behind me, pulling my underwear off my hips, one side at a time, and letting it fall to my ankles. I was bent over, fully at his mercy, and much more excited than scared of the vulnerability.

He knelt behind me, gently helping me step out of my panties. He steadied me as he pulled my ankles further apart, gliding his hand up my leg and planting steady, wanting kisses all the way up to my ass. He stood again, placing my panties in front of my face on the counter and softly rubbing my ass with his rough palm.

Suddenly, a sharp “POP!” echoed through the room; I heard it before I felt it, landing firmly on my bare ass.

I let out a gasp, completely shocked at the sensation.

Then, a second one—the sting both sharp and sweet—entirely unexpected. A third quickly followed and I let out a noise somewhere between a yelp and a moan. His hand clasped over my mouth again. He leaned back in, “No more panties on my days, understood?” His hand hovered over my mouth, allowing me to answer him with a soft and needy, “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

I braced for another swat, but heard him kneeling behind me again. His hands softly roamed over the pink spots his palms had just left, and he began to leave a trail of gentle kisses over my skin. I sank into the countertop, savoring the adoration, knowing he preferred it to punishment. He placed both hands on my ass and spread me apart; I felt the tip of his tongue caress my pussy and moaned, spreading my legs further for him. He rubbed his thumbs along my lips, his territory and his treasure, savoring me like he needed me to live, like he was trying to taste sunlight.

He slipped his finger inside me, and I whimpered softly at the sudden sensation. His tongue and hand worked in a perfect rhythm, playing my body like an instrument, drawing sounds from me I didn’t know I could make.

He pushed one of my legs up to the counter, opening me up wider for more of him. His pace quickened, and I knew he could feel it building, cresting—almost there.

“Gooooood girl,” he half-growled from behind me. “You can take it, that’s my girl.” I couldn’t see him, but the pace of his breath told me he was touching himself while keeping me right where he wanted me. It made me all the more excited.

I began to pant, a bit of drool spilling out of my mouth onto the marble. His fingers curled upwards inside me, stroking with perfect, punishing precision. My body seized, pleasure crashing through me in waves so sharp it almost felt like pain. My thighs trembled. I cried out—helpless, grateful, wrecked—as the orgasm tore through me and left me trembling in his hands.

He lapped at me, like he was parched, like whatever spilled from me was made just for him. Then he stood, suddenly, and thrust his hard cock into my wet, sensitive pussy. I gasped, instinctively arching to bring him in as deep as he wanted. His fingers pressed into my hips, gripping me with a force that told me he wasn’t holding back. Not this time.

He was always so controlled, so careful with me, but now he was fucking like he needed it, like something in him had snapped loose.

And I loved it. I loved knowing I could pull that out of him, that I could inspire that kind of unbridled lust.

He groaned and panted, thrusting into me harder and faster. I was there for him—for his pleasure, his needs. I braced myself on the counter with my palms, pressing my body up just enough to look over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes were wild, his close-cut beard still wet from tasting me. He spread me open as he fucked me, watching his cock push in and out of his little toy. His mouth twisted up a bit, then he spit directly on my asshole. I felt it hit—wet, warm, deliberate—as he slapped my ass hard, then placed his thumb where he had just spit, teasing me.

I whimpered again, prompting a satisfied groan from him, and I could tell he was about to lose all control. He grabbed my hair and steadied himself, almost bracing for the load he was building up, and my pussy tightened in excitement around him. I felt his cock pulse and twitch inside me, then a hard thrust as he began to come. He moaned my name, groaned, and pushed deep into me, and I took everything he gave to me, greedily. I felt his warmth pulse through me, claiming me. I was his altar and his addiction.

After a moment of catching our breath, I stood up, legs still shaking, and started towards the bathroom to clean up. He stopped me, gently grabbing my wrist and smirking. “Don’t wash me off just yet.”

He picked me up over his shoulder, walked me to the living room, and set me on the couch with a gentle thud—like a relic set back in its velvet-lined case, too precious to hold for long. He grabbed a bottle of water from the coffee table and chugged half of it as I watched on. Then, he reached down and put his hand under my chin, tilting it up to him.

“Open,” he commanded.

He poured the water into my mouth and I opened my throat, not realizing how parched I was and grateful for the care. He smiled, continuing the pour until he was satisfied with the amount I drank.

“Stay right here,” he told me, then went back into the kitchen. I heard him fumbling around for a few minutes, then he returned. He was dressed and carried a plate—the sandwich I had been making when he came in. He had finished making it for me and set it on the table in front of me.

He stood, looking down at me, beaming with satisfaction. He leaned down to kiss me softly. Then he handed me my phone.

“Turn your location on, yeah? That way I don’t have to text and ask if you’re here?” he asked in a sort of way that wasn’t really a question, because he knew what the answer would be if it was.

I smiled and nodded my head. He kissed me again. “Thanks, kitten.”

He turned at the door. “I’m headed back to work. Eat your sandwich, I’ll see you soon,” he said with a knowing grin.

I already can’t wait for next time. Even now, sitting here typing this, I can still feel the ache in my thighs when I shift in this chair. It’s stupid how much I like that; being used and then doted on like a favorite thing. He didn’t stay long. He never does. But I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

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