Susie's Fight with Bf

So I'll just keep this short and sweet. The other night, BF got jealous. He got jealous of my fantasies. He wanted to know who I thought about while we fucked. Is that too indelicate? Do lovers fuck or do they make love? Will he be hurt if he reads this? (Bunny, I love you, when we fuck it's always love-making.) Anyway, answering that would be the LOTR of confessions. I mean, does he really want to go on that hero's journey? I don't want to break him.

Boys are so fragile.

But he won't drop it. Guys are like that. He really wants to know, and it's not in a --Share your hot fantasies with me-- sort of way. It's a --Should I be worried?-- sort of way. Why am I not enough for you?--sort of way. And then that scary Eye of Sauron place that all guys go--Is fantasy guy's cock bigger than my cock?

Right?

And he's asking me all these questions and it's like the questions are (can I just say ironically?) triggering all these new fantasies--Humil, Cuck, Virgin, m/F, F/m, MM/f, Impreg, Tentacle. I mean, I don't even know where Tentacle comes in but Tentacle always shows up?-- Oh my fucking god but BF won't shut the fuck up. So let me paint a picture. He's on his back. I'm riding him. I'm headed for female Nirvana where Mr Cock is--firmly--inside me and knows just what his job is. He's there for me. He's "all in", if you know what I mean, but BF isn't. BF Won't. Shut. Up. He's looking up at me with those self-absorbed little boy eyes and all of a sudden he's in the kitchen. I'm riding his best friend. His best friend is on his back on our bed. He's tied up. He's not moving. He's trying to, begging to, pleading, with his panicky eyes, to escape, but he can't. Oh, but he can't.

He's in next-level Kinbaku-bi, Shibari Japanese rope bondage with a dildo gag in his mouth (what are those even called? dildo-gag?) so he can't--fucking--talk. All he is is a cock, for me, sticking straight up--a real fucking cock for a girl to ride. I cock that's shockingly bigger than BF's (I love you, Bunny. Size doesn't matter.) And I'm slowly riding that fire hydrant like a hot August day in Queens. As my BF is in the kitchen railing at me. (Look, I don't know why. Just keep up. ) He says a man can be trusted, but women. Women are sneaky, craven, thirsty little cum-whores because that's evolution. A man would never betray another man like a woman. And--oh--every word is obscenely fingering me. I'm --so-- slowly riding his best friend's cock. So slow--up. So slow--down. I go to the very tippy-top of his cock, lips of my pussy, cunt, womb, uterus, belly, abdomen, I mean, all of woman-fucking-kind, just kissing the desperately sensitive tip of his helplessly exposed cock--that would never, ever, ever, ever betray his best friend.

"My best friend would never betray me," rants BF.

"The bond of friendship between men is unbreakable," rants BF.

"Honor is only between men," rants BF.

"Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel!" rants BF.

BF's loyalist and best friend ever is staring up at me with such desperation. He --so-- does not want to betray BF but the inside of a woman is such a craven, cleaving, soft, moist, warm, thirsty, inviting, desperate persuasion. It's moments like these when a girl realizes--don't we?--how vulnerable a cock is, That big tip is so soft, so sensitive and so exposed, and we know just where to put it.

It's time.

I lower myself, so slowly, so inevitably, so knowingly. The pre-twitching of his cock has already started. My pussy is calling to his cum. BF is still ranting in the kitchen even as his loyal, so dependable and unswerving best friend is about to rob that most sacred acre in a man's possession--a woman's womb. I've sunk to the root of his cock. The tip, that great big delicate knot and spade of nerves, is trapped inside me--in my middle, in my abdomen, and it's going nowhere. And, oh, I can feel it pressed against my cervix, getting harder and bigger and harder in that way that says it's too late to stop. He wants me to slide off--to lift myself off him. But how is this my problem? Doesn't he have any self control? He's looking at me. He's begging me. I straighten slowly. His cock straightens too--trapped. I lift up my tank top and show him my tits--as swollen as his cock.

Don't you want your progeny suckling their milk? And there it is. I see it. That little death. That instant when his body belongs to me--his cock, his cum, his genetic material--all of it my birthright. His eyes roll and he's spurting straight into my womb (yeah, I know how it really works but we're writing erotica here). I move my hips, like only a woman can, giving him my best sphinx-like smile (read smug), reminding him that each spurt is a betrayal--a deep, profound confession of manly weakness and betrayal. But it will be our little secret--mine all day long. Oh, and then my own weakness. I orgasm on his cum; but then what else would you expect from a female. We're made this way. (Biology is destiny kink. Okay? Don't judge me.) We just can't help it in that--Oops, I did it again--sort of way.

Then BF is looking up at me with that--WTF just happened--expression.

Were you fantasizing again?

Oh BF, I say, friendship is constant in all things save in the office and affairs of love.