On Thursday, I had a really long, trying day at work and texted the Neighbor. We were supposed to go out later that evening, but I just wanted to go home and nap forever. But he asked if I wanted to take a walk and maybe just hang out at his place, and I decided it was probably better than just hiding out.
There’s a way that people can touch you, when you allow them to, that conveys a kind of power. It was in the way the Neighbor reached over to pull my cardigan back up on my shoulder. In how, when he was sitting on his couch and I stood to get something, he reached over and pulled my skirt up to see if I was wearing underwear. In the way that, after rubbing me close to edge, he patted my thigh and told me to go into his bedroom.
He fucked me from behind until I got close again. Then, he pulled out and stroked himself with one hand, keeping the other cupped over my needy cunt. “If you want more, you’ve got to beg for it,” he said.
“No,” I pouted. “Come on, fuck me.”
He reached up from between my legs and grabbed my chin, turning my head to face him. He has these cold blue eyes that carry sternness well, the kind of grip that implies that he’s tempering himself, just holding back. “That isn’t how you ask.”
The thing is, I just always need to be made to.