Prompt: My best friend jerked off her boyfriend in front of me last week, and I can’t stop thinking about him

“Thank you for being so cool about this,” Lauren said, as we loaded up the tray in the kitchen.

I laughed. “Boys are stupid,” I said. “They like all kinds of crazy stuff.”

“Yeah, well, if I thought I’d be asking you if you wouldn’t mind watching me jerk Trevor off right in front of you today… let’s just say I’d have brought you more than a six-pack of hard lemonade,” she said. She sighed, like the whole thing was such a goddamn hassle.

Lauren and Trevor had been together for three or four months. They met at a concert — Trevor’s the lead singer for an emo punk band but it wasn’t his concert — they fucked in a van behind the bar, and they haven’t separated since. She moved into his loft pretty much that night. And apparently, he’s had several very… close encounters… with exes and female fans and, uh, his landlady, all with her there. She had a habit of texting me the gory details — “how is he still hard after all that!?” — but never actually said if she joined in.

I hoped not. She had a tendency to fall pretty hard for good-looking guys, and Trevor was… well. She clearly worshiped him. On some level.

They’d come over to watch a rip of the new Star Wars movie — I still haven’t seen it — when Lauren took me into the kitchen and asked me if I wouldn’t mind “helping her out with Trevor.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, assuming it was breakup related. But instead of telling me she was tired of his bullshit, she turned red and looked between my feet.

“He’s… Well, he’s kind of an exhibitionist,” she sighed.

I snorted, fiddling with the popcorn thing. “You don’t say,” I said. Trevor liked to perform without a shirt, excited sweat running down between his muscles like rain over brick. He had an incrediblebody, even by Lauren’s standards for men — and Lauren was a nationally ranked cheerleader. And a bit of a whore.

“Well, he wants me to… I can’t even say it.”

Have a threesome with me? I’m embarrassed by how excited the thought made me. I’d been single for six weeks, mostly because of school, but partly because I’d bought a new showerhead. 20 Gallons a minute with ten different settings. It was pathetic, but there it was. I’d been spending my Friday nights getting very soapy clean with a showerhead that put my entire sex life up to that point to shame. But I was starting to get bored of my brushed chromium companion. He was big on stamina but small on creativity. And there are only so many times you can close your eyes and think about “that shirtless skater dude you saw on the bus this morning,” or whatever, before you start to feel like you might be on the wrong path in life.

“He wants me to jerk him off. On your couch. While you watch. From like… right next to him,” she said, not looking up. The side of her neck was the color of a fresh raspberry. Her cheeks looked like she’d patted them down with wine instead of foundation.

I was so surprised by this that I laughed. I was trying to get Flavicol into the popcorn thing without getting a spoon dirty, and I ended up dropping it onto the floor.

“That’s it?” I laughed. “You just want me to watch a handjob?” I was relieved and disappointed and… well. Kind of insulted too. I mean… I’m a hot, busty redhead. I deserved more than a role as unwitting voyeur. But she was so ashamed of herself that I couldn’t do anything but agree. I took her hand and squeezed it. “No problem, Lori,” I said.

She sighed with relief and pulled the carton up off the floor. She kicked the orange powder under the sink with her foot, which two years of beleaguered living had taught me was a sincere effort at cleaning, and gave me a hug. “You’re the best,” she said. “And hey, I know you’ve got a thing for scene guys. Plus, he comes like a shotgun.”

She rushed off to tell Trevor, presumably, that he was going to get jerked off in my face.

I gave up on popcorn. Instead, I drank one of the lemonades in three swallows.

Trevor was tall. Very tall. Six-foot-five in his converse — and he was always in converse. With gauged out ears and a swept-over fringe, he was pretty much a stereotype. Right down to the skinny jeans.

He put his arm around my shoulder and his low, lead singer voice thanked me in a whisper.

“I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks,” he said.


She pealed his jeans off — they were tighter than mine — to reveal unusually well-developed legs. He did a lot of jumping and skating and kicking, I guess, and his whole body was in perfect shape.

His manhood was easily the largest I’d ever seen.

Not the longest, which honor goes to a skinny black guy named Marcus I met in high school, and who turned out to be very flamboyantly gay despite nailing me in the ass at a party, but Trevor was definitely the thickest. If he tried to do me up the butt, he’d leave me looking like a goddamn catcher’s mitt.

It was, to use the cliché, as thick as a beer bottle. And it was just over hand-length, and curved, and uncut, and perfectly smooth and tanned. It was like the penis they’d put on a Ken doll, if they put penises on Ken dolls. Kind of perfect. And it was already iron hard. The slit at the tip was large enough to slide your pinkie into, and a clear, thin drop the size of a marble started to fall from the tip.

Between my legs, the tiny pink lips of my pussy clenched. I shiver of attraction went right up into my chest — and that was before he peeled off his shirt, and revealed just how heavy his guitar must really be.

He grinned the smile that says “yes, I am incredibly attractive, thank you for noticing,” with a row of pearlescent white teeth. The kind that look like they were grown in a lab, because for the most part they were. His electric blue eyes looked right through my skirt, and I felt him… stroking my pussy. With his mind.

I had a fleeting, humiliating flash of need to take a long, screaming shower.

He sat on my couch. Lauren, who had clearly done this before, sat and laced her leg through his. Her pussy was bare, her dress hiked up just a little. TREVOR was inked, permanently, on her inner thigh, with a black little heart. There was a pink and black clit piercing that I’d never seen before, and her pussy was very obviously… well ridden. His cheating — and that’s what it was, let’s face it — had obviously not deprived her of dick. Why she wasn’t wearing underwear… I don’t know. But she wasn’t. And he slipped a finger between her pussy lips, where she was very, very wet for reasons I didn’t want to think about, and brought a shimmer fingertip up to his cock, where he painted it with her pussy juice like a soldier marking his face before a battle.

And the whole time, he stared right down between my legs.

Scoop. Lick. Paint.


“Okay, babe,” he said, when she was shivering and probably on the edge of an orgasm. “Do me.”

She reached out, clutched his big member, and pumped.

He looked at me, smiling politely. You’d think he was just enjoying his lemonade, which he sipped every couple minutes.

It took ten minutes of hard pumping before his face turned red and he started playing with Lauren’s red, swollen pussy again. He dipped his bottle in it and sucked the rim off. He pulled — too roughly, I thought — on her clit piercing. He traced his own name on her thigh and smirked.

I wondered how many dozens of women had that exact same tattoo in that exact same spot.

He started breathing harder.

“Jesus Christ you’re hot, Amy,” he said, low, as his loving girlfriend pumped away at his cock. “I love redheads. I love how bitchy you are.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Gave him the finger. He chuckled and moaned.

“Your legs… you grew up raising horses, Lori said?”

Humiliated on Lauren’s behalf, I just nodded. I could feel heat on my chest, on my face.

“You actually broke two-ton beasts between those thighs, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Bareback,” I said. I don’t know I added this, except that it was true.

He threw his head back and groaned. “Goddamn, that’s sexy,” he said.

And then he reached out as if to take my hand. Like we were about to say grace over his big, fat dick.

I took his hand, I don’t know why. It was wet with my best friend’s pussy.

“Look down at it, Amy,” he said, very seriously. “Look at it.”

I looked. It was fucking gorgeous.

“I come a lot,” he said.

“Lori said you did,” I whispered.

“Get closer. I want some of my come to get in your gorgeous fucking face.”

To my surprise, even today, I did bend a little closer.

His hand tightened on mine.

And then he came.


What surprised me is that he was very, very loud. Grunting and bucking like a horse, actually. He sang a whole bar of his hands biggest hit, which was about tears falling everywhere. His cum actually splashed on the ceiling.

“Oh God yes,” Lauren said, as soon he started to come. “Yes… look at that big dick come… god… yes…” and so on.

He came in fifteen enormous knots that slid up and out of his dick, pure white, thick. Most of them came down on his perfectly ripped stomach. Some hit his face. Some hit her face.

And some, just like he wanted, splashed on my face, too. And I, possessed by some kind of dick-related insanity, licked my lips. And it was… come. Salty, and strong-tasting, and…

I reached down and drew a little circle in the huge puddle of cum on her perfect stomach.

I let out a YA heroine’s breath — that I didn’t know I was holding. And it shuddered as it came out. Relief. Pleasure. Excitement.

“That was… much better than I expected,” I said.

He gave me his shit-eatingest grin. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

He looked up. “Sorry about the ceiling. And your couch.” It looked like pancake batter. He wiped it off with both hands… right onto the floor by the coffee table. Good thing I have hardwood.

And then… he just got dressed. And watched the movie. Normally.

Every once and a while he would look over and smirk at me. And two or three times, I caught him starting at my legs, which are very long and powerful, and were bare in a pair of high shorts.

After the movie, he disappeared into the bathroom with Lauren and apparently got a blow job where he came “enough that I had to purge,” she texted, later.

And he hugged me when he left, and he smelled… very good.

That was it. That’s the whole story.

Except that after they left, I went to my bedroom and got my vibrator out and fucked myself into a screaming, sweating, red-faced ball in the fetal position over the course of something like ten hours.

And then I got into my shower and did it again with the showerhead.

And I excused myself from class the next day so I could masturbate in the bathroom because some guy passed wearing Trevor’s cologne.

And the next day, I skipped school because one of my bananas was extra thick and reminded me of the curve of his dick.


And that was a couple days ago. And I’m still thinking about it. And I’m an English major, so I wrote a story about it and now, now, if you’re sitting there with your prick in your hand, wishing you could be Trevor and live his life, which is a real life and by the way it is his real name, you are going to think up the best way to satisfy my… insane hunger for him… and his perfect dick… Well. You ARE.


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