She Made Me Cum In My Pants

Reid was twenty-seven, and Yvonne had already decided how the night would go before he sat down. She was twenty-five, cute in a way that felt like a trap, dark hair pinned up so a few pieces fell against her neck on purpose. She slid into the booth beside him, thigh flush to his, and stole the menu out of his hand.

"You were going to order something safe," she said. "Don't. I like watching you take what I pick."

She ordered for both of them, then turned that sassy little smile on him and flicked a fry at his mouth the second the plate landed. "You're staring."

"You're making it easy."

"Good. Keep doing it. I didn't get this dress on so you could behave." The dress was short and black and she knew exactly what it was doing to him. She leaned in, flirty and unhurried, and told him she'd been thinking about his mouth since his second text. When he tried to pay she covered his card with her palm. "No. I asked you out. You'll pay me back however I decide to collect."

Outside she didn't ask if he wanted to come up. She named the cross street and started walking, heels cracking the sidewalk, and he followed because not following had stopped feeling like a real choice he wanted. Her apartment was on the third floor, lamp already on. She kicked her shoes off, locked the door, and pointed at the couch.

"Sit."

He sat. She stood between his knees and looked down at him like she was inspecting something she'd bought.

"Nervous?"

"A little. I want this."

"Cleaner."

"I'm nervous and I want you."

"Better."

She bent and kissed him, and it wasn't a polite first kiss. It was wet and claiming, her tongue pushing into his mouth, her fingers in his hair tugging his head where she wanted it. He groaned and she swallowed it, pleased. She kissed him until his lips felt used, and when his hands found her waist and tried to pull her into his lap she caught his wrists and planted them on the cushion.

"You don't move me. I move me."

She climbed on anyway, straddling him, dress riding high, and went back to his mouth. The makeout turned messy fast. She bit his lower lip and licked the sting. She sucked his tongue. She rolled her hips once, slow, over the front of his pants, felt him already hard, and laughed against his mouth, delighted, the sound of a woman who had expected to win and still liked the proof.

"There he is. All dressed and already useless."

"Yvonne—"

"I'm not done kissing you."

She kissed him longer. Deep, filthy kisses, hands on his jaw, chest against his, hips drawing lazy threats she wouldn't let become a rhythm yet. He was panting when she pulled back. A string of spit clung between their mouths until she wiped his lip with her thumb and pushed it between his teeth.

"Suck. Look at you. Date's barely started and you're shaking."

"You wanted me like this."

"I want you worse." Her palm slid down his chest, over his stomach, and closed over the ridge of his cock through his pants. She didn't stroke yet. She held him, heat and pressure, and watched his face. "This okay?"

"Yes."

"Words, Reid. Tell me what you're agreeing to."

"You can touch me over my pants. I want you to."

"And if I decide the zipper stays up?"

His cock jumped under her hand. "Then it stays up."

"That's right." She squeezed, firm, and he jerked. "You're going to stay in these pants. You're going to let me play with you through them until you make a mess. And you're going to thank me, because I felt like watching you lose."

"Yes, Yvonne. Make me cum in my pants."

Her smile went bright and wicked. "There. Was that so hard?" She kissed him again, one soft breath and then filthier, and her hand started to move.

The fabric was thin summer cotton, already warming under her palm. She dragged her hand up the length of him, slow, learning the shape through his pants: the thick line of his shaft, the fatter head trapped against his fly, the seam that bit when she pressed. He made a broken sound. She did it again, heel of her hand grinding the head, fingers curled along the underside, and his hips chased her.

"Stay," she said, and he tried. His thighs trembled. She stroked him through the pants in long unhurried pulls, base to tip, letting the cloth drag, letting friction do the mean work. Every pass made the cotton cling a little more. He was leaking. He could feel the damp spot blooming under her thumb, hot against the inside of his underwear, and she felt it too.

"Oh." She rubbed a tight circle right there, delighted. "You're wet. Before I've even decided to be nice."

"Can't help it."

"I don't want you to help it. I want you soaked." She spat into her palm, casual and obscene, and worked the spit into the front of his pants until the cloth darkened and molded to his cock. When she stroked now the glide was filthy, a slick drag that dropped his head back against the couch. She kissed his throat while she worked him, teeth grazing, her hand never losing its pace.

"Look down."

He did. Her hand was wrapped over the obscene tent of him, pants darkened in a widening patch, his cock clearly outlined, the head a blunt swell she kept worrying with her thumb. She squeezed and a fresh pulse of precum pushed out, a deeper wet shine under the cotton.

"That's mine. All of it. You're not taking it out. You're not touching yourself. You cum when I rub it out of you, and you cum in your pants like I told you to."

"Yes. Please don't stop."

"Begging already." She laughed and kissed him hard, swallowing his next moan, and her hand got serious.

She found a rhythm and kept it. Up, a twist over the head, down to the base, squeeze, up again. The spit and his leak made the fabric talk, a soft wet sound every time her palm slid. His balls ached, trapped and drawn up. His cock throbbed in helpless jumps she could feel through the cloth. She pressed her forehead to his and watched his eyes go unfocused.

"You're close."

"Yeah. Fuck. Yvonne, I'm—"

"Not yet. Hold it."

She slowed, cruel, just the pads of her fingers petting the head through the wet pants, barely enough, and he whined. His hands fisted the couch. She kissed the corner of his mouth, still flirty, still in charge, and whispered, "Ask."

"Please let me cum."

"In your pants."

"Please let me cum in my pants. I want to. I want you to make me."

"Good." She kissed him deep and her hand sped up, tight and fast over the clothed length of him, grinding soaked cotton against his cockhead on every upstroke. "Then do it. Cum for me. Ruin them. Show me who you belong to tonight."

It hit like she'd yanked a cord. His whole body locked. A raw sound tore out of him into her mouth and she kept kissing him through it, kept stroking, didn't give him a second of mercy. The first spurt was violent. He felt it surge up his cock and blow out against the inside of his underwear, hot and thick, flooding cotton that was already wet, and she felt the pulse jump under her palm and moaned like the victory had a taste.

"There. Give it to me. All of it. Soak through."

He did. The second pulse was heavier, cum pumping hard, painting his briefs and immediately forced out through the thin fabric by the pressure of her grip. Warm wet spread under her fingers. A dark glossy patch bloomed across his fly and kept growing as he jerked and spurted again, helpless, hips bucking into her hand even though she'd told him to stay. She didn't scold him. She used it. She ground her palm down and stroked him through the mess, milking another thick rope out of him, and another, until the cotton couldn't hold it and cum seeped through, slicking her fingers, stringing between her hand and his pants when she dragged up.

"Look at you," she said, breathless and triumphant. "Coming in your pants on my couch. Can't even get your dick out. Just spurting because I rubbed you like a toy."

He couldn't answer. The orgasm kept rolling, mean and long, his cock kicking in soggy pulses while she refused to stop. Every stroke smeared the cum around, worked it deeper into the cloth, filled the room with a filthy wet sound. The front of his pants was ruined, plastered to him, his cock still hard and outlined in his own mess. She squeezed the head and he shouted, another weaker spurt dribbling out, adding to the shine on her knuckles.

"More. I can feel you still going. Don't you finish pretty. I want these pants disgusting."

She stroked faster, slippery now, her hand coated, the fabric a hot soaked sheath around him. He writhed under her, oversensitive and still coming, thighs shaking, stomach clenching, and she rode his lap and kissed him sloppy and mean while she wrung him out. Cum leaked toward his balls in a warm trail, and she chased it with her fingers, rubbing the mess back up over his shaft, forcing wet cloth to drag over every aching inch.

"That's it. Cum in your pants for me. Let it drip. I want it on the couch. I want it on my hand. I want you sitting in a puddle you made because I said so."

He broke again, or the same climax crested harder, he couldn't tell. A last heavy pulse ripped through him and he came so hard his vision whited, cock jerking, spilling what was left in thick sluggish spurts that welled through the fabric and ran over her fingers. She laughed, bright and filthy, and kept stroking, spreading it, painting the front of his pants until they glistened, until a fat drop fell from the soaked fly onto the cushion between his thighs.

"Not done until I say." She rubbed that drop into the cushion with two fingers, then smeared the cum across his lower lip. "Open."

He opened. She pushed her slick fingers into his mouth and he sucked, salt and bitter, while her other hand gave his clothed cock one more slow crushing stroke that made his spent dick twitch and leak a final thin ribbon into the ruin of his pants. She pulled her fingers free, wiped them on his chest like he was a rag, and looked down at what she'd done: pants soaked through, cock still half-hard and obscenely visible under the wet cling, a dark cum stain spreading over his lap. Her smile was pure dominance.

"You're not cleaning that up. You're going to sit in it while it cools, and if I feel like stroking you again through all that cum until you get hard and blow another load in your pants, you'll say thank you and you'll do it. A desperate slut who can't even earn a hand on his bare dick."

She leaned in, bit his ear, and left him with it.

"Now thank me for making you nut in your pants like a pathetic fucking toy, and keep that cum-soaked cock dripping right where I put it."