Your parent's neighbor is a control freak, and you want to see what happens when he loses it. Unfortunately, that means that you're going to have to learn a lot more self control, instead.
content and warnings: age gap (hope you like being called kiddo), exhibitionism, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, dub-con/cnc, praise, no gender specified, no anatomy specified (vibrator use, penetration) 1.8k-ish words
Your parent's neighbor seems successful, from the outside. Wealthy. Nice, mid-century modern house. A son, about your age, attending university for engineering.
But you know he's not. He's actually... kind of a mess.
He's neurotic. Tense. And he's controlling to the point of compulsion, sometimes. It makes him excellent at his job, and terrible with people.
You're a little obsessed. And tonight, you're going to do something about it.
Last week, you helped him install new security cameras around his house. He was the same as ever, that day; when you looked over his shoulder to examine the laptop to check that all of the feeds were working, your breath brushed his ear, damp and hot.
"That's enough of that, kiddo," he said, as usual, without taking his eyes off of the screen.
You were frustrated. Petulant, maybe (which wasn't helping the "kiddo" allegations, despite being an adult.) But you couldn't help yourself from provoking him, just a little.
"What's that, old man?" you asked, voice low and playful. "Can't control yourself?"
"I can control myself just fine," he corrected, pushing his reading glasses up onto the crown of his head and snapping the laptop shut. "It's you who needs to learn a little self control."
But you saw it when he stood, even though he tried to hide it. The undeniable reaction to your teasing, your proximity, pressed tight against the fabric of his slacks.
You thought about it for the rest of the day. That night, you came up with a plan.
You're watching the puppy again. It's not your neighbor's; technically, it's his son's, but since his son lives in student housing, it falls to his dad by default. Which means, often, it falls to you. At least you get paid.
The dog is actually the reason for the new security cameras. Presumably, they'd allow him to keep an eye on the thing while he's at work, though you suspect he liked the security aspect as well. He seemed pleased with the idea of keeping tabs on all of the rooms in his house while he was away.
Control freak.
But tonight, that's a blessing. Your neighbor is attending some fancy winter party for his work. You know him well enough to know that he'll likely check the cameras at least once while he's there - not to be weird, not to peep or anything - but because he just can't seem to help himself. His need for control is almost compulsive. But just in case he forgot about the cameras, you do give him a little nudge.
You get there right on time, backpack slung over one shoulder. He opens the door wearing a tux, his salt and pepper hair slicked back. (Fuck.) He gives you the standard speech about what the dog needs and when. (Half a cup of his kibble and a small scoop of the raw food from the fridge. His walk. Twenty minutes of fetch in the backyard.)
You make a point to roll your eyes and seem annoyed by this.
"Yeah, yeah," you say, shrugging. "I got it. Really, you should just check the cameras if you don't trust me by now."
That should do it. You smile politely as he leaves.
Once the dog is taken care of, he's tired enough to go curl up in his crate, and you're ready.
You choose the living room. It has the nicest lighting, and, from what you remember, the best framing. You settle in right on the dark leather couch, taking off your sweater, assured that anyone watching the feed can see every inch of you.
You start slowly, by running your hands up and down your skin, over the thin fabric of your shirt and the soft expanse of your thighs. But you don't need much warm up. You've been aching for this since you thought of it. You can already feel your need building between you legs, just wondering if he's checked the camera yet. Has he noticed? Seen what you're doing?
Something throbs at the idea, and you reach for the backpack, unable to hold back any longer. When you find what you're looking for, you let out a soft sound of anticipation and turn it on. It buzzes to life, strong and loud. You charged it all night for this.
You start by running it over the denim of your pants, legs spread. As your need grows, you begin to slide down the leather of the couch, your knees spreading father and farther as your breath comes faster. Shallower.
Eventually, the teasing becomes too much, and you lose the jeans entirely. You don't bother to censor yourself as you gasp and buck your hips. That's the point, after all, isn't it? Let him see. Let him fucking hear.
You're as loud as you want to be. But you do pull back as you feel yourself get close.
His words echo in your head as you gasp, ripping the toy away from that sensitive spot between your legs.
Self control.
When the trembling, needy feeling has passed, you press it back, this time in a new position. Something new for anyone watching to look at. Your leg slung over the armrest; on your knees; on all fours.
You do this over and over. The vibrator was not the only toy you brought, and you want him to see just how good you can be. You can fill any hole, fight through any sensation, and still pull back. Deny yourself. You stuff yourself with glass and silicone, as much as you can take, all the while never letting that vibe leave you most tender spot.
Once, you almost lose control, practically throwing the toy when you realize just how far you pushed it. Even without the stimulation, your soft flesh trembles and aches, and for several horrifying seconds, you feel your orgasm bearing down on you.
"Fuck--" you gasp. In a desperate attempt to stop it, you bite down hard on your arm, crying out against the skin in pain and agonizing, annihilated pleasure.
But it stops. You lie there, panting, for almost a minute before starting again with a pitiful moan.
By the four hour mark, you're a whiny fucking mess on the couch. You've used up all of your good positions, all of your cute little poses designed to make him pay attention; now, you're just flat on your stomach, vibrator between you and the couch cushion, humping in a relentless, steady rhythm. The feeling between your legs is an unending drone, a source of ecstasy and exquisite pain.
You've entirely lost track of time. It's just you and this haze of ache and denial.
And then... there he is.
He bursts in suddenly. You didn't even hear the car in the driveway, just the sound of the front door slamming and heavy footsteps stomping toward the living room. You don't even look up, but you can feel his eyes on you as you grind into the couch.
"Hey, old man," you manage. Your voice is slurry, almost a moan; you sound utterly wrecked, floating in a cloud of sex and deprivation.
Your neighbor makes a sound you can't decipher, something between a groan and a growl, and suddenly there are hands in your hair, wrenching your neck back.
"Don't old man me," he says. "What is this?"
His voice is low and dangerous.
But still controlled. Always so fucking controlled. You feel something desperate rise from your stomach, a need to see him snap.
"I did it for you," you say. You can barely pant out the words with the vibe against your sex and your head yanked back. "Did you see? I touched myself... for so long..."
"For me?"
His voice cracks, and he pulls your head back even more, exposing your throat like a predator baring its prey's weak point.
"So you wanted me to see, then," he says. "You wanted this. This reaction."
You feel it, then: his cock, hard and straining against his perfectly pleated black tuxedo pants. He presses against your side, grinding just once. You groan, blood throbbing between your legs.
Before you can say anything, he tugs you by your hair to pull you back. The vibrator falls away, the incessant stimulation finally relenting. You don't have time to enjoy its absence, though, before he's pressing you against the back of the couch with one hand, the other tugging at his bow tie. His suspenders.
"Do you-" he says, yanking the black tie, letting it hang open on his collar, "-have any idea-" tugging on his suspenders, letting one fall, "-what you looked like?"
You shake your head, though he seems utterly unconcerned with your response.
"Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight?" he asks, pulling the other suspender down. "Do you have any idea-- Fuck. What were you trying to prove?"
"Control," you say. Breathy. "I waited for you. To prove I have self control."
You swear you see something flash in his eyes. Something dangerous. Something hungry.
"You think this is control?" he bites out. He reaches down and finds the vibrator, still humming uselessly against the cushion, and shoves it between your sweat and sex soaked thighs. "This isn't control, kiddo. This is fucking reckless."
He grinds the palm of his hand down, pressing the vibrator hard against you. You cry out, overstimulated and aching.
"You wanted to drive me crazy? You wanted to see me lose control?" he growls, leaning down by your ear.
You blink up at him. You've never seen him like this. He looks wild. Feral.
Your heart drops, but, slowly, you nod.
"Then congratulations," he says, killing the vibrator and tossing it to the side.
Then he flips you over.
He's not gentle as he breaches you from behind. He pierces halfway in with the thrust; you cry out against the cool leather. You're plenty ready to take him, though; your toys from earlier in the night prepared you, and you arch your spine, pressing back against him. Fucking yourself on his cock.
You should probably be more embarrassed that you cum after only one or two deep thrusts, but you're too far gone for that. You can't even be bothered to care about the mess you make on the nice leather.
It doesn't stop him, though. He keeps going. He's relentless, his hands all over your chest and neck and jaw. His fingers in your mouth. A large hand squeezing a thigh.
After you cum again, you think he might be finished, since he slows a bit and pulls out. But you soon learn that he's flipping you over.
"That's it," he grunts, voice low as he thrusts into you again. "That's what I need. Just... just take more for me. I can't stop now, do you understand? I cant... fuck, baby. You just have to take it. You've got this."
This time, he reaches down between you two, hand stroking even as you thrash. It's too much.
It's too much.
And still, you cum again.
"That's right," he pants, unbuttoning the top button of his white shirt, already soaked with sweat. "Just hang in there. You can do it. Atta-kid. Just... a little more..."
