I moan Sara-Bear

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Note to readers. From this point on this thread is about the MC getting denied/ getting enjoyment out of being denied. That doesn't mean the MC isn't going to get to have sex himself. It just means that it will be less often than the other options. If that is not for you please choice the other option

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The admission sent me right up to over the edge, and I moan “Fuck sara-bear. I am cumming.” I don’t know why I said that. I she told me to never call her a nickname, but I guess I figured that just what you said when you were about ready to cum after listening to Wiley say all those times.

She instantly puts her hand on my stomach and screams “Stop. stop! stop!”

In a panic I stopped thrusting, stopping me right before I came “What… why… What did I do wrong?”

“You know what you did, so please just get off of me.”

Not wanting to upset her anymore I rolled off of her, to my surprise, the moment she was free she throws of a short red cotton nightgown and walks towards the door. Causing me to ask

“Wait Sarah where are you going?”

She whimpers as her ass unintentionally flashes under her gown “I don’t know, I just need some space.”

I hear her pacing around outside in the hall until I hear Wiley shrill voice say “Sara-bear. is everything ok.”

Sarah “Yes… No… I don’t know…”

Wiley ask “Is it about what you are Liam where just doing…”

Sarah “Oh you heard.”

Wiley groaned “Yeah… I was about ready to sneak out right before it stopped… Unlike Liam I am not into that stuff.”

Sarah “Sorry…”

Wiley “So what wrong.”

Sarah “He called me sara-bear in the middle of it completely ruining it for me.” It hurt that fact that she could talk opening out it with Wiley but could talk about it with me.

I must have groaned or cough uncomfortable load enough for them to hear me because Wiley whispers “I think we should talk about this in my room.”

I know that they are whispering back and forth in the guest bedroom about me. I know if I press my ear to the wall I could listen in. I both do and don’t want to hear them. So, I lay down on the bed indecision, listening to the silence of the house.

I lay there for forty-five minutes listening to nothing until I hear a creak, then a second, and a third. Then what sounds like a moan.

Then as if to confirm it was a moan, I female version of it followed.

Shit they are having sex. She left me with blue ball to go fuck him. I that moment I was both very angry and so turned on that my dick felt like it wanted to break out of its skin.

The sounds of their fucking get louder and louder until I can clearly hear everything that was happening.

Within minutes, Sarah’s moans were ricocheting off the bare sheetrock, higher and wilder and so much more **** than anything I’d ever wrung out of her. Wiley’s voice chased hers down the hallway, a deep, keening sound I never would have expected from him—fragile, uncool Wiley, whose voice always cracked when he made a joke.

I lay flat on my back and let the sounds fill up the bedroom. This was a new kind of ****, but also something else: a gnawing, urgent curiosity I couldn’t control. My hand found its way beneath the sheet almost automatically, like I was responding to some primitive ritual. It felt wrong and right at the same time, my body rebelling against my better judgment even as I knew I’d hate myself for it later.

The noises from Wiley’s room were almost cinematic, like overhearing your favorite actors in the throes of something unscripted. I could hear the mattress springs creak, the staccato of headboard on wall, the rhythmic slap of skin. There was a brief, muttered exchange—the low hush of Wiley’s voice against Sarah’s hair, her sharp intake of breath when he did something she liked.

I could hear every hitch in Sarah’s breath, every soft gasp that Wiley pulled from her. I could practically feel their bodies through the drywall, two people colliding, not even trying to muffle the chaos of it to hide it from me. It was like living inside a living, panting creature—one that fed on humiliation and desire in equal measure. I lay there, paralyzed, my hand still clamped around myself, listening as the rhythm of their fucking built and built until it was the only thing in my head. Every detail of it burned itself onto the projection screen behind my eyes, and I lay there, pulse throbbing, letting jealousy and arousal braid themselves together until I could hardly tell one from the other.

A crack in my composure: Sarah’s voice, strangled and wild, "Fuck, fuck, oh fuck, Wiley—" She screamed his name like she wanted the world to end with his syllables. The sound was raw, sharper than any memory I’d ever had of her. It was the kind of sound you made when you were perfectly, absolutely alive—and had nothing left to lose. oms. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it, at how pathetic I must have looked, jerking off my blue balls in the dark while my girlfriend got her brains fucked out by a guy I’d spent most of my life trying to forget.

Wiley’s voice followed, brash and exultant, "Fuck, Sara-bear... your tits look so fucking great!" There was a thump, a peal of laughter from Sarah, and the unmistakable rustle of fabric hitting the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined her in that red cotton nightgown, now balled up or maybe flung somewhere under the bed in a gesture of pure abandon. My girlfriend, naked and beautiful, the way she was for me a few moments before if not better.

Nothing could have prepared me for how much it hurt. Or how much it turned me on. There was a sick, hot pleasure in being **** to listen, in being denied, in picturing Sarah—my Sarah—letting someone else see everything I thought belonged to me. If this was some kind of cosmic joke, I guess I deserved it; I’d spent years making sure she knew she was mine, and now all I could do was picture Wiley’s hands on her hips, his mouth doing things I’d never even thought to try.

I tried, for a moment, to imagine something else. Sarah on our first date, in that weird little coffee shop she liked, challenging me to eat three scones in one sitting. Her forehead crinkled in mock concern as I stuffed my face, her laughter making everyone else in the place stare. Or the way she’d looked the night we’d climbed to the roof of her freshman dorm, both of us half drunk on cheap beer and adrenaline, the city lights sharp behind her. But each time I reached for those memories, the present crashed down on me—Sarah’s voice, Wiley’s voice, the slap of skin, the creak of his bed.

Even now, my body refused to obey my brain. I was hard, ****, and totally, hopelessly defeated. I wanted to stop but couldn’t. I wanted to come but didn’t deserve to. Every pulse of pleasure was matched by a sour wave of shame, and by the time I finally gave in, it felt more like surrender than release. I watched as my seed shot up and landed, hot and wet, across my stomach. I didn’t even bother to clean it up right away. Instead, I just lay there, stunned, listening to the aftershocks of their pleasure echo down the hall.

I wanted to scream at the ceiling, to punch a hole in the wall between our rooms, to drag Sarah back. But I couldn’t because I knew for some sick reason in this moment, she want to fuck that gross smelly pig of a person, she wanted this and I so did I.

An hour later, I heard the unmistakable sound of the guest bathroom door opening. Soft, shuffling steps, and a faint click as the light was switched on. Sarah was in there, probably cleaning up, maybe staring at herself in the mirror and wondering whether to come back to bed with me or Wiley. I waited, hoping she’d at least peek in and say something, but the hall stayed empty. Eventually I heard the guest room door close again, and that was it.

I lay awake for the rest of the night, haunted by the ghost of their pleasure, by the memory of Sarah’s body arched in the half-light.