♥︎Distractingly Familiar | Simon Riley♥︎

Simon had a problem.

It started innocently enough—or as innocently as a porn addiction could start. Late nights in barracks, alone in hotel rooms between ops, the blue glow of his phone screen and the muted moans of his favorite performer. She did everything. The filthy, degrading shit that made his thick cock throb and leak until he was gripping himself with both hands, working his uncut length until he painted his stomach white.

He'd watched her get pissed on. Watched her swallow load after load and then kiss her scene partner, snowballing cum between their mouths. Watched her take cock in her ass and then immediately wrap her lips around it, gagging and drooling like the perfect whore she was. Simon had jerked off to those videos hundreds of times, his eight inches of veiny meat rock-hard and weeping pre-cum that soaked through his boxers if he wasn't careful.

He'd even fucked his fist to her in a safehouse once—twice, actually—door locked, trousers around his ankles, phone propped against the wall while he rutted into his calloused palm like an animal. The wet slap of skin on skin, his heavy breathing, the fantasy of splitting her open on his beer-can-thick cock until she screamed.

Then {{user}} joined the team.

The first time Simon saw her, his brain short-circuited. Same face. Same hair. Same fucking everything. He'd convinced himself it was her—that his favorite porn star had somehow ended up in special operations, that he was living some kind of fucked-up fantasy.

Until three weeks ago.

They'd been on a stakeout together, shoulder to shoulder in a cramped surveillance van, when his phone buzzed with an upload notification. New video. He'd glanced at {{user}} beside him—very much present, very much clothed in tactical gear—and then at the thumbnail of his porn star getting railed on camera with a timestamp from two hours prior.

Different people.

It didn't matter.

His cock didn't care about logic. The moment {{user}} walked into a room, Simon's traitorous body responded like she was the woman from those videos. Eight inches of thick, uncut meat would swell and strain against his zipper, pre-cum leaking steadily until there was a visible wet patch on his crotch that he had to hide behind gear or furniture. He'd started wearing darker trousers. Started positioning himself carefully.

Started fantasizing.

God, the things he imagined doing to {{user}}. Filthy, degrading things that would get him court-martialed if anyone knew. He pictured her on her knees, mouth open, while he pissed on her face and tits. Pictured fucking her throat until she gagged, then cumming on her tongue and kissing her deep, tasting himself in her mouth. Pictured bending her over and taking her ass raw, then pulling out and shoving his cock between her lips—ass to mouth, just like in the videos—watching her suck him clean like a good little slut.

He wanted to use her. Wanted to treat her like a cheap piece of fuck meat, something to ruin and wreck and fill with cum until it leaked out of every hole.

But {{user}} had no idea.

She worked beside him, professional and competent, completely oblivious to the fact that Simon's cock was hard enough to pound nails every time she bent over to check equipment. Oblivious to the way his jaw clenched when she leaned close to read a map. Oblivious to the wet spot spreading in his trousers, the throb of his thick shaft, the way his hands curled into fists to keep from reaching for her.

Now, in the dim light of another safehouse, Simon sat on the edge of a cot and tried to think about anything except the fact that {{user}} was in the next room. The walls were thin. He could hear her moving around, the soft sounds of gear being set down, boots on concrete.

His cock was already thickening in his pants.

He pressed the heel of his palm against it, trying to will it down, but that only made it worse. His mind flooded with images—{{user}} on her knees, {{user}} bent over the table in the next room, {{user}} with his cum dripping down her chin.

Fuck.

He was leaking again. He could feel the warm wetness spreading, soaking through fabric. His breathing had gone rough and uneven, his massive cock straining painfully against his zipper. He needed to get himself under control before—

knock knock knock

Simon immediately turned to the door of the safehouse room he was occupying.

Two Weeks Later

The base was quiet at 2300 hours. Most of the team had cleared out for the night, leaving only the skeleton crew and the hum of fluorescent lights in the admin corridor. {{user}} carried a stack of After Action Reports in one hand, her boots echoing softly against the linoleum as she approached Simon's office.

The door was unlocked. The light was off, but the blue glow of a laptop screen illuminated the desk from within.

She pushed the door open, intending to drop the reports on his desk and leave. They needed his signature before 0700, and she wasn't about to chase him down in the morning for it. But as she set the stack down, her eyes caught on the laptop.

Still logged in. Still open.

OpSec 101.

She should've walked away. Should've just shut the damn thing and left. But the screen was facing her, and there—right there in the center of his desktop—was a folder.

Labeled with her callsign.

{{user}} froze.

Her hand hovered over the trackpad. This was a violation. She knew that. Knew she should close the laptop, walk out, pretend she'd never seen it. But her callsign. Why the hell would Simon have a folder with her callsign on it?

Write-ups? Disciplinary reports? Commendations?

That last one was a stretch.

She clicked it.

The folder opened, and her stomach dropped.

Photos. Videos. Dozens of them. Thumbnails filled the screen—explicit, graphic, unmistakable. A woman's face stared back at her from nearly every image, and it was her face. Or close enough that it made her skin crawl. The same eyes. The same hair. The same fucking everything.

Her hand moved on autopilot, clicking on one of the videos.

The media player opened, and the sound was muted, but the visuals were enough. The woman—the porn star who looked exactly like {{user}}—was on her knees, surrounded by men. A gangbang. Cum dripped from her pussy, her thighs, pooling beneath her as another man pushed inside her stretched, sloppy cunt. The camera zoomed in, showing every obscene detail—her gaping hole, the way her body took cock after cock, the way she moaned and arched like she was made for it.

{{user}}'s hand jerked back from the trackpad like it had burned her.

She closed the video.

Another one popped up in the preview pane. A blowbang this time. The porn star's mouth stretched wide around a thick cock, her eyes watering, mascara running, while hands gripped her hair and forced her deeper. In the background, other men waited their turn, stroking themselves. The next cut showed her ass—red, stretched, gaping obscenely for the camera. Her pussy was just as ruined, puffy and leaking, and the porn star looked directly into the lens with a slutty, satisfied grin.

{{user}} clicked away, her breath coming faster now, but her eyes caught on another file. A photo this time. A nude.

She opened it before she could stop herself.

The woman was posed on a bed, legs spread, fingers pulling her pussy open for the camera. The resemblance was so uncanny that for a moment—just a moment—{{user}} had to stop and wonder if it was one of her own photos. If somehow, impossibly, Simon had gotten his hands on something private. But no. The lighting was wrong. The angle was wrong. It wasn't her.

But it looked exactly like her.

She closed the photo. Closed the folder. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the laptop and forced it to shut down, the screen going black with a soft electronic whir.

{{user}} stepped back from the desk, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't look at the reports. Didn't look at anything. She just turned and walked out of the office, pulling the door shut behind her.

The Next Morning

Simon found her in the corridor outside the briefing room, coffee in hand, gear already prepped for the day. He approached with his usual measured stride, his expression unreadable behind the skull mask.

"Good work on those reports," he said, his voice low and gravelly. He nodded in her direction, his eyes lingering just a fraction too long. "Clean."

His trousers were dark, but if {{user}} had looked—if she'd let herself look—she would've seen the telltale strain at his crotch. The thick outline of his cock already swelling, already half-hard just from standing this close to her.

Simon had no idea.

No idea that she'd been in his office. No idea that she'd seen the folder. No idea that she knew exactly what he did in the dark, alone, with her face on his screen.

He just stood there, waiting for her response, his cock thickening in his pants, his mind already flooding with the same filthy images it always did when she was near.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in her expression. "Everything alright?"

That Night – 2347 Hours

Simon's quarters were dark except for the blue glow of his laptop screen. The door was locked, the blinds drawn, and the only sound was the wet, rhythmic slap of his fist working over his cock.

Eight inches. Thick as a beer can. Veiny and uncut, the foreskin sliding back and forth over the swollen head with every stroke. Pre-cum leaked from the slit in thick, obscene strings, dripping down over his knuckles and making the whole length slick and shiny in the dim light.

On the screen, the porn star—{{user}}—was on her back, legs spread wide, a massive cock pounding into her tight little pussy. Her face was twisted in pleasure, mouth open, eyes rolled back, and then she was squirting. A clear stream of liquid sprayed from her cunt, soaking the sheets beneath her, splashing against the man's abs as he fucked her through it.

"Fuck... yeah... that's it," Simon muttered, his voice rough and strained. His fist moved faster, his cock throbbing in his grip. "Good fucking girl. Make a mess on that cock."

He didn't see the porn star anymore. Hadn't for weeks. When he looked at the screen, all he saw was her. {{user}}. His teammate. The woman who stood next to him in briefings, who cleared rooms with him, who had no fucking idea what he did to her face every night.

The video ended, and he clicked to the next one without hesitation.

This time, the porn star was with another woman—a Latina with dark hair and full lips. They were on a bed together, naked, their bodies pressed close. The Latina went down first, her tongue sliding through the porn star's folds, licking and sucking at her clit while the porn star moaned and writhed beneath her.

Simon's cock jerked in his hand, another thick bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip.

"Fuck... look at you," he growled, his breath coming faster now. "Dirty little slut. You like that pussy on your face, don't you? You like getting your cunt eaten out like a whore."

The camera angle shifted, and now it was the porn star's turn. She buried her face between the Latina's thighs, her tongue working over the other woman's pussy with eager, sloppy strokes. The Latina's hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, grinding against her mouth.

Simon's fist was a blur now, his cock leaking so much pre-cum that it dripped onto his thigh, leaving a wet patch on his boxers where they were shoved down around his hips.

"That's it... fuck... {{user}}... you filthy fucking girl..."

He clicked to the next video.

This one was different. Darker.

The porn star was tied up—wrists bound behind her back, blindfolded and on her knees like she belonged there. Her body completely helpless and exposed. A man stood in front of her, his cock already hard and massive, and without warning, he shoved it into her mouth.

She gagged immediately, her eyes watering, but he didn't stop. He gripped the back of her head and forced himself deeper, his hips thrusting forward until his cock was buried in her throat. She choked, spit dripping down her chin, her body jerking against the restraints, but he just held her there, using her mouth like a fuck toy.

"Jesus Christ," Simon hissed, his hand moving frantically over his cock now. "Take it... take that fucking cock... that's right love, choke and gag on it. You were made for this... made to be used..."

The man on screen pulled back just long enough for the porn star to gasp for air before he shoved back in, harder this time, his balls slapping against her chin with every brutal thrust. Her throat bulged obscenely around his length, and the camera zoomed in, showing every degrading detail.

Simon's cock was throbbing now, his balls tight and aching, his whole body tensed and ready to explode.

Outside in the corridor, {{user}} was on patrol. Her boots moved quietly over the floor, her rifle slung across her chest, her eyes scanning the hallway out of habit more than necessity. The base was quiet. Secure.

She passed Simon's quarters.

And stopped.

Through the door—muffled, but unmistakable—she heard it.

Her name.

"—{{user}}... fuck... you filthy fucking girl... take it... take that cock like a good little slut—"

Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside, Simon had no idea. No idea she was standing just outside his door. No idea she could hear every filthy, degrading word that spilled from his lips as he stroked his cock to the image of a woman who looked exactly like her.

On the screen, the man shoved the porn star's head down again, holding her there, choking her on his cock without mercy.

And Simon groaned, low and guttural, his fist working faster, his mind completely lost in the fantasy of her.

Three Days Later – Hotel Room, 1830 Hours

The surveillance op was supposed to be routine. Two operators, one hotel room overlooking the target building across the street. Twelve-hour rotations. Eyes on the entrance, log every vehicle, every face. Simple.

Except nothing was simple when Simon was sharing a room with {{user}}.

The hotel was cheap—one queen bed, a desk shoved against the window where the surveillance equipment was set up, a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. They'd been here for two days already, and Simon had spent every waking moment in a state of semi-arousal that was starting to drive him insane.

Right now, {{user}} was at the desk, headphones on, eyes fixed on the monitor as she logged another vehicle into the system. Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, professional, focused, completely absorbed in the work.

Simon was on the bed behind her, sprawled out against the headboard in grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt. His legs were spread wide, one hand resting on his thigh, the other palming the thick bulge straining against the fabric of his sweats.

Eight inches. Thick as a beer can. The outline was obscene, impossible to miss if she turned around. The head pressed fat and swollen against the grey cotton, and a small wet patch was already forming where pre-cum leaked through.

He didn't bother hiding it.

“You’ve got a great arse. Just thought you should know." Simon said, his voice low and rough.

{{user}} continued typing.

Simon's hand moved slowly over his cock, stroking himself through the sweats, his fingers tracing the thick, veiny length. His balls hung heavy and low, visible through the thin fabric, and he shifted his hips slightly, making the whole obscene package more prominent.

"Bet you'd look fucking perfect on your knees," he continued, his tone casual, conversational, like he was talking about the weather. "Mouth open. Tongue out. Waiting for me to piss all over that pretty face."

He squeezed himself harder, his cock throbbing in response to his own words.

"Fuck... I'd make you drink it. Make you swallow every drop. Then I'd shove my cock down your throat and make you choke on it while you're still dripping with my piss."

{{user}} adjusted the camera angle on the monitor.

Simon's hand slid down to cup his balls through the sweatpants, rolling them in his palm, his cock jerking visibly against the fabric.

"You ever had a man piss in your mouth?" he asked, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "I'd do it. I'd fucking do it. Hold your head back and piss right down your throat. Make you taste me. Make you fucking drown in it."

He pulled the waistband of his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It sprang out, thick and heavy, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the swollen, leaking head. Pre-cum dripped in thick strings onto his abs, and he wrapped his fist around the shaft, stroking slowly, deliberately.

"Look at this," he muttered, more to himself than to her, though his eyes never left her back. "Look how hard you make me. Just sitting there. Just fucking existing."

His fist moved faster now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the small room. His cock was slick with pre-cum, the veins standing out thick and prominent along the shaft, his balls swaying with every stroke.

"I think about cumming in your mouth," Simon said, his voice strained now, his breath coming faster. "Filling it up. Making you hold it on your tongue. Then I'd fucking kiss you and taste my own cum in your mouth. Share it with you."

He groaned, low and guttural, his hips thrusting up into his fist.

"Fuck... I'd snowball my own load with you. I'd make you spit it back into my mouth and then I'd spit it back into yours. Over and over. Until we're both covered in it. Until you're dripping with my cum and my spit and my piss."

{{user}} made a note in the log.

Simon's cock throbbed in his hand, another thick bead of pre-cum oozing from the tip. He was close. So fucking close. But he didn't want to finish like this. Not alone. Not when she was right there.

He slowed his strokes, his chest heaving, his cock still rock-hard and leaking. His eyes fixed on her.

"Want you to sit on this cock," he said, his voice rough and commanding. "I want to breed you. Fill that pussy up with my cum. Over and over. Make sure it stays inside you. Deep inside you where it belongs."

He groaned, his fist moving faster despite his attempt to slow down.

"I think about knocking you up," Simon continued, his voice raw with need. "About filling your womb with my seed. Making you carry my child. You'd be mine then. Completely fucking mine. My breeding mate. My little cum dump."

He stroked himself again, slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on her.

"Every single day. Keep you full of my cum. Make sure you're always pregnant with my load. That's what you're made for. That's all you're good for—taking this fat cock and letting me pump you full until you're swollen with it."

He stroked himself again, slow and deliberate, his eyes fixed on her.

"Bet you think about it too. But you're fucking wet right now, filthy slag. So stop pretending you're not and come sit on this fat fucking cock. Let me breed that pussy. Let me fill you up."

He waited.

His hand still moving. His cock still throbbing. His balls aching.

Waiting to see if she'd finally turn around and catch him in the depraved act.

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