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Ope, here we go! Called it.
Troy taps his foot again, and if this was anyone else, I could handle the degradation of fucking his boot. Him being on my committee, it doesn’t sit right with me. Fuck, if I asked Axl for something like this, I’d at least suck him off first.
I set my feminism aside and crawl a few feet to him, hovering my pussy over his boot. I should reconsider my life choices that led me to this point; I’m about to dry hump a man’s shoe. But, I’ll try anything once.
“Sit,” he commands. The deep timbre of his voice has me wanting to follow his instructions, but there’s no way I’ll get off this way.
I want him to enjoy himself, but I want to get it over with so I can try something more my speed. I reluctantly sit, humping his leg like a dog. I know I’m doing this all wrong, I’m not sure if he’s into this or not, but I’m not so sure I am. Three stars for not enough pussy devouring.
I fake a couple of moans and grunts, avoiding looking up at him. I should’ve majored in theatre, or at least taken electives in my undergrad; it would’ve come in handy right about now.
“I bet you’re moist and ready to come for me. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” he asks, and I can feel his gaze on me, even if I refuse to look.
Fuck. Did he just say the ‘m’ word? Why is tonight different? We normally have a great time. It’s as if he is pulling out every red flag and waving it in my face.
My panties are unfortunatelynotsoaked, and I’m now wishing that the rogue bucket of lube I found came back to Calgary with me. This is as bad as reading a closed-door romance by accident—orgasms nowhere in sight. Why couldn’t he just tie me up or fuck me in public? Why did we have to jump right into the degradation?
While the friction feels good, I’m not going to come. I keep up my fake impending orgasm, reminiscent of Meg Ryan in “When Harry Met Sally.” Unlike Axl, Troy doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not into it. His erection is ready to break free from his slacks, so maybe there’s still hope I’ll come tonight.
“Guess you’ll need those wipes after all?”
Nope, not in the slightest.
Troy and I are supposed to be friends with benefits, but we’re really not friends, and I’m definitely not reaping the benefits. After tonight, I think I’ll need to pull the plug on whatever this is.
I stand and adjust the hem of my shirt, though I’m unsure why I feel the need to cover up. Troy takes my chin in his hand and brings my lips to his, roughly kissing me. He tastes like cheap whisky and…pussy?The taste reminds me of another fuckbuddy I had. He was super into going down on me but I had to end it when he said he could taste that I was ovulating.
Did he fuck someone before coming here? Was she ovulating? Is that actually a thing?
Maybe I shouldn't have ended it with the pussy devourer after all…
Neither Troy or I expressed interest in having an exclusive relationship, but this is fucked up. Maybe I’m imagining it?
“On the couch,” he growls into my mouth. I do as he commands and he sits across from me on the coffee table.
I watch intently as he slides his hands from my thighs, down my legs, to my feet. He rubs one for a moment and it actually feels good, better than the woman who does my monthly pedicures.
“I’ll be right back.” He abruptly stands and makes his way to my kitchen.
Opening the fridge, I assume he’ll grab a drink. Instead, he takes out the whipped cream. He returns to the coffee table, shaking the can. I’m not sure where his mouth has been, but the idea of him licking whipped cream off my pussy has me too turned on to care.
Troyprops my feet onto his thigh and…
Oh no… No, no, no. Nope. Absolutely not.
Faster than I can protest, he squirts a dollop on my toes. I tuck my leg back and yelp, “Troy!”
“What?” he asks, emotionless. The man just put whipped cream on my feet and he doesn’t see an issue with this. I’d be up for discussing it but you don’t just grab a woman’s feet and smear stuff on it without asking.
First the boot and now this? It’s too much.
“I think you should leave.”
Troy narrows his eyes, brows pinched and pulls back as if I slapped him. “What the fuck, Beth?”
“What do you mean, ‘what the fuck?’” I grab my favourite blanket and wipe the whipped cream off my foot. “You didn’t ask, you just went straight for the feet stuff.”
“Fuck you. It’s not weird.”
