#sir john

"Why are you ignoring me, darling? I know you like it, please look at me."

John knelt before you, your hand brushing against his head, teasingly tugging at his hair back, making him look up at you, with the obedient gaze of a man starved. But you didn't return the glance with the same eagerness, after all, you knew that's what Sir John enjoyed. He thrived on trying to serve his partners, especially those who never returned that desire. He got off on this, on knowing he had to crawl and serve, and the gratitude was hardly a confirmed reality.

You tugged his head into your stomach, and he submissively crawled closer on his knees, dragging them on the floor closer to you until his head nuzzled your tummy, his hands daring to push up your blouse enough to sneak his head underneath it and kiss the soft skin now exposed to him. He exhaled with a deep shudder. It made your skin tense at the wave of warm air that left his lips.

"Please, look at me… Love me. Why won't you listen to me?"

Sir John begged, pleaded like a desperate dog, humiliating himself for nought but your attention. And yet you didn't give in. Your hand scratched at his head, at his scalp. Your other hand rested on his shoulder, thumb pressing into the bone. You did so to keep him behaving and on his knees. Your leg slid to the side slightly, and upon the gesture, John clung to your hips and lodged his head between your thighs.

His hands groped the flesh, and he kissed and pecked and nipped at the clothed skin, grunting as he continued to attempt to gain your attention. But you didn't give in, your hand pushing his head back, away from him only enough to taunt him into clinging harder and trying to keep his favourite spot against your trousers' crotch.

"Please, Y/N, please. I can make you feel good, I swear. Give me a chance. Why won't you give me a chance?"

The hand from his shoulder left its comfortable spot and migrated to your trousers, fingers hooked in the waistband, pushing lower with a wickedly delicious pleasure in knowing how hard Sir John must be hoping to be able to eat you own. But until then, there was a long road ahead; a path of tests and teasing that you'd give him to make sure by the time he got to taste you, his own cock was rock-hard and throbbing, threatening to cum on himself.

Nothing could equal that sight.

The sight of Sir John, with his mouth and tongue against your cunt, his hands caressing your thighs and knees and ankles as if you were nothing less than a goddess he had no access to. And while he'd do that, while his tongue would be concerned with worshipping you, his own trousers would tent up at the crotch with his erection, stiff and slick, dripping at the tip until a wet splotch would grow larger where the head of his cock was angled.

After all, you know John's kinks.

You learned why he liked to come to this hotel. This was the place where nobody knew who he was. In this place of lustful, filthy abandonment, he could pay to have that anonymity that got him off. Where he could serve his purpose, come and kiss the ground you stepped on, eat you out greedily and with the sole intent of earning your pleasure, again and again, until your body would give in to him.

Like an instrument, your body would be played by him, the strings fingered and stroked until moans would give way to climaxes and orgiastic, sinful pleasure.

And yet, you feigned ignorance because that was John's desire.

Your trousers were at last low enough for John to see a snippet of your cunt, and he leaned in without another thought in his mind other than testing you. But your hand had other plans, and you pushed him back without words.

Without praising or degrading.

You merely toyed with him as if he were nothing but the inanimate means of your pleasure.

You let him kiss your cunt, a few kisses, but then you ignored him and shoved down your trousers entirely, shoving him away, which made him crawl over again. You grabbed his hair, rubbed it rewardingly but still without acknowledging him and walked over to the bed, leaving the pants and knickers on the floor. You sat on the edge of the bed, spreading your legs and whistling over to him.

He dragged his knees to you, unquestioningly, finding lodging between your legs once again, this time guiding them on his shoulders. His hands stroked your skin, and he kissed, nails grazing over your ankles and knees to make you shudder and moan. At the sound of those delightful noises, his own breathing shuddered, and he gulped in vain, because he knew you were not going to give in. That's why he always came for you specifically. You alone could truly understand what his needs were and fulfil them, and for your trouble, he had always repaid you generously.

"Darling… I know I arouse you. You are excited. Wet. Why don't you look at me?"

But no matter how hard he tried and how honeyed and needy his voice was while he went down on you, you didn't answer. God, was it hard. He was experienced and skilful. No man could make you cum as John could, but for this to happen, you had to sacrifice something. You couldn't return that desire. You had to play pretend to let him buy it off you.

But one day, you would confess.

That day, however, wasn't today.

His tongue was pressed flat between the lips of your cunt, working his way up to your clit, his hands everywhere from your ankles and knees and thighs to your ass, kneading it and eating you out as if you were a treat.

His treat.

That was Sir John.

Now that he's started, you knew there'd be a long night ahead.

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