I’m panting like an obese pug while she teasingly plays with the bottom of her pants.
“Come here,” I beg.
She walks towards me, stops.
I’m almost 3 years into this hunt; friend zoned from square one with a high school hang-on boyfriend exploiting Victoria’s rampant insecurities that only her fatherless upbringing could have provided. I sat, and I listened. I was her literal shoulder to cry on. But now it was my turn to be the one expelling unwanted fluids on her all night. But even now, after her revolution of liberation (Read: She found out that he had cheated on her), this was a complete fucking struggle.
Rewinding a bit, I was, as I had always planned, her first call after the death of her relationship. I brought over a bottle of bourbon, a bag of candy, and my Netflix password. I was still totally her bitch.
But as the night went on, the tide started to turn. We got drunker, I tried harder than a Fail Friday submission, and, after three years of late night fantasies while pretending to enjoy her Bravo shows, here I sat, with my dream girl topless and stripping right in front of me.
“Vic, come here.”
She slinks over, slides her pants down, and for the first time in my life I truly believed in God. Her legs wrapped around my face as she rode me like Seabiscuit, except there was nothing horse-like about the thing between my legs that was about to explode.
“I’m going to make you cum so hard,” she squealed between moans as I happily obliged her apparent oral fixation. Her mud flaps began to quiver more dramatically than a slow motion video of Amy Schumer’s stomach mid-jog.
“My turn,” she said as she slid down my torso, biting her lip before stopping on her knees with her face perfectly between my legs. This was the moment I had waited 1000 days for, the pinnacle of my pathetic collegiate years spent more in my own mind than in anyone’s body.
She undid my pants, almost undoubtedly leaving her “Maybe he is huge” fantasy in a wake of expected disappointment. But she didn’t stop. She teased the tip with her tongue, cradling my balls in a showcase of her 5-year relationship level “comfort freak” skills off of which I was happy to leach.
“Put it all in.” She pulled away.
“I’ll do what I want,” she said. She dry jerks it for a bit, but is hot enough to quell the skin-ripping pain.
“I have something special for you.”
She stands me up, pulls my pants all the way down and assumes prime position. The main event — fucking finally. She grabbed the back of my ass, shoves the entire thing (not like it’s difficult) in, and violently bobs her head.
I closed my eyes in pure euphoria and then opened them back up to find her looking back at me. She had this devilish smile on her face and I knew something was off.
Suddenly, in one fell swoop, she flipped over from doggy style into missionary position while I was still inside of her. I didn’t even know that was possible. I was so in awe of her unnatural nimbleness that I was completely paralyzed. Then, while I was in my incapacitated state, she wrapped her legs around my back so tightly that I thought my kidneys were gonna shoot out my pooper. While she was carrying out this combination of thrusting and holding onto me for dear life, she said the 6 words that I knew meant I’d be out $40 come morning time.
“MMM give me that milk, baby.” That’s an actual quote.
With pulling out not an option, I inseminated my freaky best friend. Not ideal.
“Now, I want you to fuck me again,” she said. Apparently women think we instantly regenerate after sex, like respawns in Call of Duty.
“How about an episode of Housewives of Whatever first?”.
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