Following instructions

The man who had me the night before wants more

The phone vibrates while I’m standing at the sink, rinsing a mug I’ve already forgotten about. The sound feels too loud in the quiet flat.

I don’t look at it straight away.

When I finally do, the message is already there.

I’ve enjoyed watching it back very much.

For a moment, I don’t breathe. The words sit on the screen with a confidence that makes my stomach tighten. Watching. Back. The implication settles slowly, deliberately, like he wants me to feel it rather than react to it.

I set the mug down before my hands can shake.

The phone vibrates again.

You didn’t stop me, did you.

It isn’t phrased as a question so much as a reminder — of something I didn’t interrupt, didn’t refuse, didn’t end. My instinct is denial, even silently, but it doesn’t quite take. The room feels smaller. Closer.

Another vibration.

You let me record it.
You wanted to be seen.

That one lands deeper. There’s no heat in the words, no cruelty — just certainty, like he’s naming something he believes I already know about myself.

I sit on the edge of the bed, phone resting in my hand, aware of how carefully he’s pacing this. No rush. No demand. Just enough pressure to keep me exactly where I am — thinking, remembering, questioning myself.

I don’t reply.

And somehow, that silence feels like an answer of its own.

The next message comes later.

How long are you in Bristol for?

I hesitate, thumb hovering.

A week, I type.

The words look harmless. Factual. Neutral. But as soon as I send them, something shifts. Time has entered the conversation. Duration. Possibility.

A week isn’t long.
A week is long enough.

By midday we’re out in the city, drifting through shops with no real plan. My friend chats easily, pulling dresses from rails, laughing at her reflection. I follow along, present enough to keep up, detached enough to feel like I’m watching myself from a step back.

The streets are busy. Music spills from open doors. Bags rustle. Someone bumps my shoulder and apologises. It’s ordinary in a way that feels almost aggressive.

My phone vibrates again.

Still a week?

Yes, I reply.

There’s a pause.

Then:

Plenty of time, then.

I don’t answer.

The afternoon carries on — shops, coffee, conversation — all of it layered over with the awareness that something unseen is threading itself through my evening.

Later, the message comes that changes the tone.

You’ll be available every night this week.
I’ll decide when we have fun.

I stop walking.

This is the moment where I could choose silence. Where I could step away.

Instead, after a long breath, I type a single word.

Yes.

The calm that follows surprises me. Not relief. Not excitement exactly.

Just resolve.

Another message follows.

He drops a pin. Mentions a large garden. A shed. A way to arrive without drawing attention. The words are calm, methodical, like he’s already pictured me moving through the evening.

Understand?

I answer immediately.

I understand.

Back at the flat, I move quietly. I don’t dress to be noticed. I dress to disappear. Something simple. Unremarkable.

Outside, the evening air is cooler. The walk isn’t far — just long enough for my thoughts to circle without settling. Every step feels deliberate.

As I reach the end of the street, I slow. Not to hesitate — to arrive.

He’s already there.

Standing near the gate, half in shadow, half caught by a spill of light. He isn’t pacing. He isn’t checking his phone.

He’s waiting.

I stop a few steps away from him.

The distance hangs there, deliberate.

Then he turns slightly, opening the way without a word.

I follow.

The garden feels quieter than the street, the air heavier. The shed stands at the edge, dark and solid.

He reaches it first, opens the door just enough, and steps aside.

I go in.

The door closes behind me.I can add emotional and sensory feeling safely — fear, anticipation, awareness, loss of control — without adding explicit sexual detail. Here’s a version with feelings layered between the moments you already wrote, keeping it restrained and psychological:

It’s dark inside. Fear ripples through me the moment the door closes, sharper than I expect. The shed smells of damp wood and old tools. Through the small window, I can see light spilling from the house — movement, laughter — the party carrying on as if nothing here exists.

“Remove your jeans and T-shirt.”

My hands hesitate before I move. My fingers feel clumsy, unsteady, like they don’t quite belong to me. As the clothes leave my body, a wave of conflicting sensations rushes in — nerves, excitement, the strange awareness of being completely exposed in such a small, enclosed space.

I can feel his presence close to me, sense the warmth of him in the tight air. The smell of alcohol lingers as he moves nearer, and it makes everything feel less controlled, less predictable. When he undoes the fastenings of my bra, my breath catches without meaning to. When his thumbs hook into my panties, embarrassment flares, followed by something harder to name.

The shed is small, but there’s a narrow workbench along one wall. He tells me to lie back on it.

I do.

The wood is cool against my skin. When he positions my legs and arms, I feel awkward and exposed, suddenly very aware of how little room there is to move. I stare up at the ceiling, my heartbeat loud in my ears, trying to steady my breathing.

I hear him step away. The faint scrape of metal makes my stomach tighten. Tools shifting. Something being picked up, set down.

That’s when the realisation lands — slow, heavy, undeniable.

He isn’t just standing behind me.

He’s tying me down.

If you want, you can paste the next section and tell me “feelings only” or “grammar only”, and I’ll follow exactly that.

It’s dark inside. Fear ripples through me the moment the door closes, sharper than I expect. The shed smells of damp wood and old tools. Through the small window, I can see light spilling from the house — movement, laughter — the party carrying on as if nothing here exists.

“Remove your jeans and T-shirt.”

My hands hesitate before I move. My fingers feel clumsy, unsteady, like they don’t quite belong to me. As the clothes leave my body, a wave of conflicting sensations rushes in — nerves, excitement, the strange awareness of being completely exposed in such a small, enclosed space.

I can feel his presence close to me, sense the warmth of him in the tight air. The smell of alcohol lingers as he moves nearer, and it makes everything feel less controlled, less predictable. When he undoes the fastenings of my bra, my breath catches without meaning to. When his thumbs hook into my panties, embarrassment flares, followed by something harder to name.

The shed is small, but there’s a narrow workbench along one wall. He tells me to lie back on it.

I do.

The wood is cool against my skin. When he positions my legs and arms, I feel awkward and exposed, suddenly very aware of how little room there is to move. I stare up at the ceiling, my heartbeat loud in my ears, trying to steady my breathing.

I hear him step away. The faint scrape of metal makes my stomach tighten. Tools shifting. Something being picked up, set down.

That’s when the realisation lands — slow, heavy, undeniable.

He isn’t just standing behind me.

He’s tying me down.

When he fixes my position, the reality of it sinks in all at once — the stillness, the lack of escape, the way my body feels suddenly displayed rather than simply present.

He then ties my legs open.

The exposure makes my stomach flip. I’m acutely aware of the air on my skin, of how vulnerable I am in such a small, enclosed space.

I feel so exposed.

The sensation hits before I can prepare for it, sharp and shocking enough to pull a gasp from me.

Without hesitation, he pushes two fingers into me.

I inhale sharply, the sound too loud in the quiet shed, panic flaring as I remember where I am — how close the house is, how easily someone could hear.

I gasp but stop myself from shouting, remembering where I am.

My heart is racing now, pounding in my ears, every nerve ending awake and overwhelmed.

He leans in close enough that I can feel his breath, his presence crowding my space. His voice is low, deliberate, like he wants the words to settle into me.

He whispers to me that he is going to use me and that I will beg for it.

The certainty in his tone makes my chest tighten. Fear and anticipation twist together until I can’t tell which one I’m reacting to anymore.

My body betrays me before I can think it through — moving instinctively, chasing the feeling even as my mind scrambles to keep up.

I am now pushing my hips against his fingers, desperately chasing release.

The need feels urgent, almost overwhelming, drowning out everything else — the shed, the party beyond the walls, the voice in my head telling me to slow down.

For that moment, there’s only sensation and the terrifying awareness of how much I want it.

The need inside me has reached a breaking point now, overwhelming and insistent, making it hard to think beyond the next sensation.

I pushed harder and harder. I could feel my release building — he must have noticed.

There’s a sudden shift when it stops — the loss of movement almost more intense than the movement itself. The pause makes my body ache, awareness spiking instead of fading.

As he stopped, he brought his hand to my mouth and I licked eagerly.

The act feels instinctive, automatic, like I’m responding before I’ve had time to decide. Shame flickers, quickly swallowed by the need to please.

“You’re such a naughty girl. You’ll do anything.”

My breath comes out uneven, my chest tight, the words hitting somewhere deep and undeniable.

“I will,” I pant.

The truth of it lands heavier than I expect.

“Look at you — in a stranger’s shed. You’re completely desperate.”

The way he says it makes my stomach twist — humiliation and arousal tangled together until I can’t separate them.

He moves, and the shift in position makes me suddenly aware of how unstable I am, how little control I have over my own body now.

He walked to where my head rested. I had to look up to see him. He hooked his hands under my armpits and shuffled me up so my head had nothing to rest on.

The change sends a rush through me — disorienting, vulnerable, my balance gone.

Then he put his hand on my forehead and tilted it back.

Blood rushes through me, my senses swimming as the world seems to tip.

I felt upside down, blood rushing to my head, as I watched him unbuckle his belt and pull out his cock.

The words come next, sharp and commanding, echoing louder in my head than the sounds around us.

“Open, bitch.”

They ring in my ears, drowning out everything else.

Then he stepped forward and pressed his cock into my mouth. I coughed and spluttered.

The loss of air, the shock of it, makes my body react before my mind can catch up — panic flickering briefly before dissolving back into the haze.

He drives himself into me faster and faster. I can barely breathe. He slaps my pussy and I buck against his cock. I gag and cough — the utter humiliation is exhilarating. I pull against my restrained arms and legs. His balls slap against my forehead. I can feel my spit and whatever else running down my face into my hair.

He fucks me harder until he pulls out. I open my eyes to see his cock pointed at me, and he starts to cum. I feel his warm orgasm cover my face as I pant and gasp for air. He rests his cock on my face for a minute before pushing me back on the table so my head isn’t dangling off anymore.

I am still gasping as he does his belt up.

“I’m not done yet. Stay here. Don’t make a sound.”

He pulls a large coat over me to keep me warm, turns, and walks out, shutting the door behind him.

I lie there, still gasping, my throat hurting.

Hours pass, though it doesn’t feel like time in any normal sense. It’s measured instead in sensations — the slow ache that settles in, the way my limbs grow heavy and numb, the constant effort of staying still. I lose track of how many times I’ve counted my breaths, how many times I’ve told myself just a little longer.

The night cools further. The air in the shed feels damp now, clinging. I shiver despite myself, then freeze again, terrified of making a sound. My thoughts come and go in waves — fragments of memory, flashes of the evening, then long stretches of nothing at all.

At some point, the voices in the garden fade. Laughter dies down. Doors open and close. The house settles into a quieter rhythm. Even that doesn’t bring relief. The silence afterward feels heavier, more deliberate, like being forgotten rather than spared.

Eventually, everything goes quiet.

Not the ordinary quiet of night, but a deeper stillness — the kind that sharpens every sound. My hearing feels heightened now, stretched thin, as if I’ve been listening for so long that my senses don’t know how to switch off.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps.

At first, they’re distant enough that I question whether they’re real or imagined. A soft crunch, then another. Slow. Deliberate. Getting closer. I force myself to keep my breathing shallow, controlled.

The sound grows clearer — shoes on gravel, then grass. Each step feels intentional, unhurried, as if whoever it is knows exactly where they’re going. My heart pounds so hard it feels impossible that it isn’t audible.

They’re approaching the shed.

The footsteps stop just beyond the wall.

For a moment, nothing happens at all.

Then the door opens.

He steps inside and lets it close behind him. The space feels instantly smaller, the air shifting with his presence. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he pulls the coat away from me in one smooth motion, leaving me suddenly aware of the cool air on my skin.

I stay still.

He moves around me slowly, deliberately, as if taking his time. I can’t see him clearly, but I feel his attention — the quiet scrutiny, the way he studies me without comment. Each step lands with purpose, making the silence heavier, more charged.

I don’t move.
I don’t speak.

When he finally stops, close enough that I can sense him there, I know without him needing to say a word that he’s satisfied with what he sees.

The waiting is over.

“It’s been hard to stay away from my waiting girl.”

The words land slowly, carrying a weight that makes my chest tighten. After so long alone, hearing his voice again feels unreal, like the night has shifted back into motion.

He walks around me, tracing his fingers over my body, occasionally brushing between my legs. I react before I can think, the anticipation sharp and immediate.

“Please,” I beg.

Each time I ask, he steps away, and the space he leaves behind feels deliberate — calculated. The teasing stretches the moment thin, drawing it out until it feels unbearable. His footsteps are soft as he circles the bench, unhurried, as though time no longer matters to him. When he begins to untie my restraints, my muscles protest, aching from being held still for so long, relief and sensitivity rushing back all at once.

He tells me his family is all upstairs now, and that he has all the time he wants with me.

The normality of that detail sends a strange shiver through me — life continuing above us, unaware. I fold inward slightly, wrapping my arms around myself and closing my legs, suddenly aware of how exposed I still feel despite being freed.

“I want you to fuck yourself.”

The command cuts through the quiet.

I slowly move my fingers between my legs, hesitating, my breathing shallow as I wait for his reaction.

“Wait,” he says. “Not with your fingers.”

He places something in my hand — rubber, unfamiliar, its surface uneven beneath my touch. I turn it slightly, confused, unsettled, my nerves buzzing with uncertainty.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Put it inside yourself. Don’t ask questions.”

The command is quiet but absolute. There’s no room in it for hesitation, and the certainty of it sends a jolt through me. I swallow, my hands unsteady, aware of how closely he’s watching.

I place it at the entrance of myself and start working it in. I’m so wet it’s almost easy, but it’s thick. I start sliding it in and out, pointing my legs straight. I need to cum.

The shed feels suddenly too small, every sound amplified. My breathing is loud in my ears, uneven, and I struggle to keep it under control.

The sensation around me is exquisite. The workbench creaks.

The noise makes my stomach flip. I freeze for half a second, listening, then realise nothing else has changed — no voices, no footsteps — just the quiet pressure of the space around us.

I push further. It feels so good.

He keeps moving, circling me slowly, deliberately. I can sense him even when I can’t see him clearly, the awareness of his presence pressing in from every side.

He keeps walking around me; his light is on now.

The beam shifts as he moves, catching on the walls, on the floor, briefly on me. Being illuminated like that makes my skin prickle, heightening everything — the exposure, the vulnerability, the waiting.

I start to build.

The feeling grows steadily, tightening and rising, my focus narrowing until it’s hard to think past the next breath.

That’s when he bends down, close enough that I feel the change in the air, and tells me what the thing I’m using actually is my dogs toy i found it outside. That's how dirty you are!

My name is Amelia. I have started writing again these my fantasies. I feel that some might come true one day. The life its based on is mine. If you want me to continue I will.

Thank you anyone who takes the time to read.