I saw him again this morning—shirtless, sweaty, dragging a bag of concrete across his porch like it was nothing.
The man next door had moved in three weeks ago. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t smile. But every time he caught me watching, he looked me dead in the eyes—like he could see through me, to every filthy thing I’d thought about him since day one.
He was older. Grizzled. Hands like he could break me and still be gentle. I never caught his name, but he didn’t need one. He was a type. The kind of man who knew how to take control without raising his voice.
I didn’t realize I’d been standing at the window in nothing but panties until the knock came.
Three firm raps. I froze. Then opened the door.
There he stood
A streak of dirt across his forearm, tool belt slung low, jaw tight. His eyes dropped to my bare legs, then dragged up—slowly, like undressing me was a privilege he was already claiming.
“You’ve been watching me.”
It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed. “I—yes.”
His gaze sharpened. “Good. I don’t like games.”
He stepped inside. Just like that. No invitation. I stepped back because part of me wanted to run—and part of me wanted to be caught.
“I’ve got rules,” he said, kicking the door shut behind him. “You want to play? You follow them.”
I nodded before I even knew what they were.
“On your knees.”
Heat shot straight between my thighs. I dropped.
“Good girl,” he murmured, and fuck if those two words didn’t make my whole body shiver.
He circled me slowly, letting silence build tension like rope. Then he stopped behind me, his hand wrapping in my hair—not rough, but firm.
“You don’t come until I say. You don’t speak unless I ask. And if you want to stop, you say red.”
I nodded, breath shallow.
“Use your words.”
“Yes, sir.”
That earned a low, approving sound. “You’ve done this before.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then open your mouth.”
I obeyed, and the leather of his belt brushed my tongue a second before he slid it between my lips. Not tight. Just symbolic. A gag of obedience.
“Hands behind your back,” he said, his voice a gravel scrape of command.
I complied, moaning softly around the leather, wet heat dripping down my thighs. I was already ruined, and he hadn’t even touched me properly yet.
He undid his jeans slowly, letting me hear every click of the zipper. His cock, thick and hard, pressed against my cheek as he gripped my hair tighter.
“This mouth isn’t yours right now,” he growled. “It’s mine. Just like everything else.”
I moaned again, louder. He guided himself between my lips, and I opened wide, gagging slightly as he pushed deep. He didn’t stop. He held me there, letting the tears prick my eyes, then eased back, slow and filthy.
“That’s it. Look at you—such a good toy.”
He used my mouth with practiced rhythm, fucking my face like it was a ritual, and I offered myself willingly, dripping with need, choking and moaning, lost in the dizzying rush of surrender.
Then suddenly, he pulled back.
“Up. Bend over the couch.”
I scrambled to obey, the belt slipping from my lips with a wet smack. My body throbbed as I leaned forward, ass in the air, heart hammering.
He stood behind me for a moment, just breathing. I felt the cold drag of leather against my back—he was folding his belt again.
“Count for me,” he said.
The first lash landed with a crack. I gasped.
“One…”
Another, across my thigh.
“Two…”
By the time I hit ten, my ass burned and my cunt was soaked, clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered.
I reached between my thighs and moaned the moment my fingers met slick heat. My hips rocked back, needy and exposed.
“Stop.”
I whimpered, but obeyed.
He knelt behind me, parting me open with two fingers, slow and deliberate.
“Look at you. So wet from a little discipline. You really do need a man who knows how to break you, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I breathed.
“Beg.”
“Please fuck me. Please, I need it. I’ll be so good for you, sir, I swear.”
The sound he made was pure hunger. He shoved inside me in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt. I cried out—relief and pain and pleasure all colliding in a single, breathless scream.
He fucked me hard, his hands gripping my hips like handles, dragging me back onto him with every brutal stroke. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. I was just sensation—owned, used, adored in the roughest way possible.
When he reached around and rubbed my clit, I nearly collapsed.
“Not yet,” he warned, voice dark and close to mine. “Hold it.”
“I can’t,” I sobbed.
“Yes, you can.”
And somehow, I did.
He thrust harder, faster, until his rhythm broke and he spilled inside me with a groan like a storm.
Then finally—finally—he said the words I was dying to hear.
“Come.”
I shattered. Screaming, convulsing, my body shaking as the orgasm tore through me like fire. I felt him holding me as I collapsed onto the couch, limp and shaking.
He pressed a kiss to my spine. Gentle. Intimate.
“You did good, sweetheart.”
I smiled into the cushions, utterly wrecked.
“I hope you like noisy neighbors,” I whispered.
He laughed low in his throat. “Darlin’, I moved in for the noise.”
