For two years, I wrote emails to him. They were intellectual provocations disguised as flirts. Aman was the kind of writer who dripped ego from every sentence. I adored it. I fingered myself imagining being the woman he fucked. Sometimes I plan how I’ll get his attention.
He replied only twice in two years. And when he did, it was dry. Civil. Unmoved. I was ghosted by him again. That should’ve been the end. I should’ve stopped. But something about the silence made me write even more until last week. I finally said the one thing that hit home.
I called him a ‘safe hiding and not replying like a man who can only imagine hot stuff. But in reality his dick has never been touched by a woman.’
It took less than an hour. An email. Just coordinates. No hello. No explanation.
Only an address? Fuck! I got this fucker in the bag! I had it all planned. No matter how badly I wanted him to devour me, I’ll act hard to get. I’ve got to make sure that I ain’t easy to forget.
But not before the realisation of going to an unknown location with no one to contact hit me. I wore my best VS black lingerie under my top and jeans. I visited the nearest mall and switched into a hot, deep neck red cocktail dress. It had a big slit exposing my thighs.
I took an Uber right where Google Maps directed me. The building was tall, dim, and unexpected for a guy like him. I reached his floor and could hear distant jazz playing inside. When I knocked, the door opened before I could second-guess it.
There he was. Aman. Tall, fair, with lean fit physique. Casual in a worn grey tee and joggers. Barefoot. Jaw sharper than most Korean heroes. His eyes? Dark. Like he’d been waiting, but he’d never admit it.
“Hi,” I said. My tone was teasing and arrogant, as if I owned the scene. He didn’t reply. Just stepped aside. Invited me in with a nod. I heard him lock the door shut behind me.
The place was curated. Neon blue lighting under shelves, dim red strips framing the bed. A sound system hummed soothing music. There was a small fridge, absurdly close to the bed, for alcohol and drinks, probably.
On the fridge, there was a multiplug filled with connections to all light fittings and the woofer, and of course, condoms. I smiled. Bachelor pad fantasies. So predictable.
“You’re as dramatic as your stories,” I said. He spanked me gently but finally spoke, voice low. “I didn’t invite you for small talk.”
“Small never satisfied me anyway,” I replied, removing my jacket seductively. Jiggling my boobs in front of him and placing it on his sleek leather chair.
“This deserves a drink,” he said.
Being a gentleman, He poured bourbon into two glasses and handed one to me. I swirled it, watching the way his eyes dug deep into my cleavage. He sat on the edge of the bed.
Legs spread in that obnoxiously male way that gave the toxic masculine vibe. Yet it was so hot, I was getting wet just from his way of looking at me. But I stayed put.
“So,” I said, sipping, “This is your idea of setting the mood, huh? Do you plan to sweet-talk me into your bed, or are we skipping straight to the good part?”
He smirked. “You talk too much.” Continuing to sip his alcohol.
I leaned against the wall, one brow raised. “And you don’t talk at all. That’s why I had to twist your ego like you’re some virgin motherfucker…”
He interrupted me by standing and placing his glass aside. Slow. Calm. Walked over to me, stopping barely a foot away. I didn’t move. His eyes dropped to my neck, then to my cleavage, and back to my lips. I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he untangled the strings of his joggers.
One. Two. Slow, like punctuation marks in a poem. Then he lowered it. His cock was half-hard, thick, veiny, unapologetic. He held it in his hand, stroking it gently like it was a response. No words. Just that.
My breath hitched, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the sheer audacity.
He took my glass from my hand and placed it aside. Then, with a subtle push at my shoulder, he guided me down to my knees.
The air thickened. My mouth went dry as I kissed his tip. “Straight to the good part. Got it” I made myself ready. I looked up, and he was watching me like I was part of the show.
“Was that a woman touching my dick?” he murmured.
I smiled. “Yes, dear.”
Then I licked the underside of it. A slow, teasing drag of my tongue from the base to the tip. He twitched in my hand. I wrapped my lips around him, the warmth and saltiness overwhelming my senses. He tasted like a challenge. Like a male ego dressed in skin and need.
His hand slid into my hair, not forcefully, but with the intent of control. I liked it. I gave him a slow, wet suck, then bobbed gently, gradually, building rhythm. His cock hardened fully in my mouth, thick and pulsing against my tongue. I glanced up.
Aman was sipping my drink, slow, calculated sips, while watching me like I was a scene in his stories, the one I get to live. “Look at you,” he whispered, thumb brushing my cheek as he thrust gently into my mouth. “Two years of desperate chasing… and this is how it ends.”
I pulled off for a second, my mouth slick, eyes gleaming.
“Oh no,” I said, “This is how it begins, Mister.”
Then I took him in deeper. Sloppier. Letting my spit trail down to his balls as I worked my mouth and hand in sync. He groaned, barely, but I felt the twitch in his thighs, the shift in his breath. His hand tightened in my hair.
“That mouth of yours…” he murmured, thrusting into my face, “Bet you feel you should’ve used it like this sooner.”
I hummed around him in response, the vibrations making him growl low in his throat. He didn’t rush. Neither did I. It was a game of control. My tongue tracing every ridge, my lips curling over the head, my spit glistening down the shaft like silk.
Every second built the tension between us like a string pulled tighter. When he finally pulled back, gently but firmly, I let go with a wet pop. He grabbed my face and looked down at me with his throbbing cock hard and glistening between us.
“You want to play games?” he asked.
I stood, wiping the drool on my mouth with the back of my hand, eyes still locked on his. “I am the game,” I said.
He smirked, “Your dialogues are straight out of a film.” He slashed as he dropped his joggers. I jumped him, helping to remove his shirt from his firm chest.
He unzipped my dress, and I slid it off me, revealing my thick curves to him.
His eyes lit up in excitement, admiring my beauty with his gaze. I could feel his response from the cock twitching more than ever.
He grabbed my chin. “Get on the bed.” That voice was hoarse, strained, and dangerous. It sent tingling shivers down my spine. I obeyed, not because I submitted, but because I wanted to see what he’d do next.
I climbed onto his ridiculous bed like a happy slut then teasingly asked, “So this is where the magic happens?”
He just smiled and climbed over me, eyes wild. His cock slapped against my thigh. It felt so heavy, hard and ready to ruin me completely. Aman then slipped his hand behind my back. In one swift flick of his fingers, he got my bra to come off like it was nothing.
“Well, someone’s done this before,” I smirked.
Please feel free to drop your comments and feedback in the comments. I’ll write part 2 if this gets good feedback and response.