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Biting her lip, she turns to me, and I can see the tears in her eyes even from here. The sight is as beautiful as I had hoped.
“I really, really need to pee,” she whispers.
I frown at her squirming and nod to the middle stall. “So pee.”
All movement from her stops, including her breathing. Her whole body freezes.
I watch transfixed as her mind and body fight. She doesn’t know it yet, but it doesn’t matter which one wins.
Nothing can stop what’s coming.
She seems to sense this, or maybe she really just can’t hold it anymore, but with tentative steps that turn more and more determined, she walks into the middle stall.
My eyes drift to the mirrors above the sink, opposite the stalls, giving me a perfect view to see her lose some of the bravado.
“Hey, mister?” she calls. “Sir?” She tries again when I don’t respond.
“Daniel,” I tell her, “but I think we’ll keep the sir.” I smirk at her through the mirror.
“Could you turn around?” she asks. Clearing her throat, she tries again in a sterner voice. “Don’t watch, okay?” Again, I remain silent, so she adds in a small voice, “Please, sir.”
And those words do something to me that I never thought I would feel, that I could feel.
I turn away to the left, leaning my shoulder against the door. Not because she asked me—I’ll watch her whether she likes it or not—I turn because I don’t want her to see me.
I can hear her fiddling with her pants and lift my head.
The smirk that takes over my face is feral. There’s another mirror.
It’s small, and it sits above a lone sink in the space between the wall I lean on and the stalls. But I don’t need it to be big, I just need it to be exactly where it is.
It’s perfect. I can see the room, including the other mirrors behind me directly in front of the stalls.
I take everything in; the way she anxiously bites her lip, the way she has to shimmy her hips because her jeans cling to her body, the way her pussy looks with the patch of soft brown hair above it, the way her thighs tense when she squats over the toilet seat while her face scrunches in disgust of having to use that stall.
I can’t get enough of any of it.
I watch her captivated.
“Can you say something? I don’t want you to hear me pee.” Silence is the only answer she receives. “Daniel?” Again, I don’t answer, and instead watch as a frown takes over her pretty face. “Are you still there? Sir?” She whispers the last word like she’s afraid of what will happen when she uses it.
“Hmm,” I grunt, wanting to show her that the use of the title pleases me.
Understanding that she isn’t going to get what she wants, she starts to hum. The sound does nothing to cover the noise of her urination, and she knows it.
A blush spreads over her cheeks, disappearing down into her yellow sweater. My fingers twitch with the need to strip it off her and see how far down the blush goes.
So focused on her skin, I miss as she wipes between her legs. Expecting her to pull her pants up and exit the stall, I watch in surprise and fascination as my girl straightens, reaches out and takes more tissue paper.
Wadding it up, she grasps hold of her panties and dabs at the inside.
Confused, my head tilts as I watch until it clicks, and my whole body straightens.
Her panties are wet!
“Did you pee?” I snap, my tone harsh.
I need to know. Because if she didn’t, I want it acknowledged aloud that her pussy wept for me. That she craves my dick as much as I crave burying it inside her.
