Watching by Hannah Lockhardt

Everyone has a want, a need, that could use fulfilling. Hannah is no different. She asked for something but did she get what she wanted? Take a moment and read “Watching” and find out for youself.


I wanted something basic. Something kind of boring.

“Sir.” I said. It was Sunday morning, we were lying in bed like normal people. I was wearing spiderman pyjamas. He was naked.

“Mmmhmm?” He wasn’t as awake as I was.

“Can I ask you for something?”

“Of course you can. And if it’s reasonable, you might get it.” He rubbed his eyes and looked at me expectantly.

“May I watch you touch yourself?  You know, the way I touch you? And the way you watch me touch myself? Can I?”


“Yes… but not if you don’t want to.” I snuggled back under the duvet, thinking he would put it off until he felt better prepared. I rested my cheek against his chest and he put his arm around me.

“Is that all you want, Kitten?”

“Yes. For now.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, but you did ask very nicely.” He kicked the duvet off his body and stretched. “But if you watch Sir touch himself, and it turns you on and you want to help, you can’t, OK?”

“That doesn’t sound very fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, sweetheart.”

He reached under my pyjama top and stroked my lower back, the other hand at the base of his cock, the absolute definition of Morning Glory.

I’ve always been fascinated by technique. How it differs from person to person. I thought – I assumed – that all penises were created more or less equally, working in the same fashion that there’s one basic way to make them work. Delighted when I found I was wrong.

Instead of counting sheep, when I’m drowsy I remember the way each of my former boyfriends handled his cock. The show off who slurped the come off his hand when he’d finished; the agitated former public schoolboy whose hand was a blur in every memory, barely making contact with his erection as though ashamed to touch himself; Sir’s absent-minded strokes.

I snuggled closer against his chest as he used the flat of his hand to press his erection against his stomach and rub it using the base of his fingers. Hypnotic. The flesh went from its usual dormant yellowy-olive to pink, reddening and reddening thereafter until the head truly was that cliched purple appearance you read about in books.

We were both quiet for a moment or two, the only sound an occasional deep breath from one of us.

“Sir, what are you thinking about?”

“Eating your pussy.” he sighed and closed his eyes. “In fact, I’m thinking about just how pretty it looks when I spread your lips and I can see all of you.

“Would you like to see me now?”

“I don’t think that’s allowed.”
I shook my head. “No, you said I couldn’t help you, but you didn’t say I couldn’t touch myself. I remember.”

“So I did. I’d love to see your kitty. But I have to insist you only spread yourself. You can’t slip a finger inside your cunt. You are not allowed to rub your clit. Spread your legs for Sir, now.”

I crawled over the bed and sat between his legs, shuffling out of my leggings and lying back with my legs resting over the top of his, spreading the chubby lips of my pussy apart with one hand. His hand began to move quicker.

“It’s so perfect.”

I inched myself forwards, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him, from the rhythmic motion. I didn’t need to come, I needed to concentrate. His eyes were closed. He looked oddly calm, even innocent. His brow furrowed.

“Dammit I want to fuck you.”

“I want you to fuck me too, Sir.”

I inched forward a little more. Now his cock was so close I could feel its heat. My initial request was entirely forgotten, all I wanted was him. He hadn’t quite noticed me creeping closer just yet. I tickled his calf.

“Don’t. I’m trying to,” he opened his eyes again. “You asked for this, remember?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then you have to stop what you’re doing.”

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.” and I resumed my position curled up next to him like a koala clinging to a tree as he leaked precum and smeared it over his shaft. He wrapped his arm around me again.

Scared I wouldn’t be able to stop myself leaning over and licking him, I bit into the nearest bit of his body to me – the sinew and strength of his underarm – tasting sweat and sourness and cologne. He flinched, but didn’t stop.

“This is what you wanted.” he repeated.

“I’m so wet, Sir.” I whispered, wrapping my legs around his thigh, rubbing my cunt against the hair and muscle. The arm that had been curved protectively around my waist he moved swiftly, pushing me away with his palm against my far hip and then dipping his fingers into me urgently.

“Christ, girl.” he whispered too, the fingers flexing as he kissed me then withdrew and used the cream of my cunt to lubricate his shaft further, mixing with his own come.

“I love watching you, Sir. I love seeing your cock jerk. I love how you touch it, that you know exactly how to work it. It’s your cock that makes me wet, Sir. You don’t even have to fuck me or touch me just let me see your gorgeous prick and I’m soaked through and ready for anything you want.”

He grabbed the back of my head and shoved me forwards, the head barely making it between my lips before he came, filling me so quickly it dribbled out of my mouth prettily before I could even think about it. As I swallowed and grabbed the shaft, he reached behind me again and the fingers were inside me as far as they could fit, his thumb massaging come into my arse, his little and ring fingers pinching my clit. I came quickly, unexpectedly and my head jerked back sending a stream of come down my throat and between my breasts. I lay face down on his thigh for a moment of two, his fingers were still inside me, he seemed reluctant to remove them.

The next thing I felt was his palm on my flesh, stinging over and over. I looked up and he was frowning.

“You haven’t cleaned up the mess you made, you little slut. Look at Sir’s cock.”

He brushed my hair out of my eyes and sure enough, his cock was still slick with come and spit. It had been a heavy load, and I’d swallowed a lot of it already.

“Yes Sir, of course Sir.” I murmured, taking the task in hand and licking all the sticky whiteness up. He returned his fingers to my cunt and relaxed into the bedclothes.

“Good girl, I love you very much.”

For more than half her life, Hannah Lockhardt has concentrated on crafting stories about empowered, sarcastic women having blisteringly hot and satisfying fucks – no mean feat when she only started having sex in 2017. Her major influences are vintage underwear, fairy stories and Alan Bennett. She lives in The North and has an unplaceable accent. Read more of Hannah here

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