Photographed

Photographed by my Friend

by BurroGirl18 Pan

Chapter 11

u up? -D

After Bert had left, I'd thrown myself back on the bed, furious.

Furious and horny.

Not because of Bert. Well, yes, because of Bert, but not because of

Bert

.

Yes, I was furious because of Bert, don't get me wrong. He'd just cum on my tits - NOT something that friends do - and then disappeared like I was a farmer's daughter whose shotgun-wielding father had just appeared at the door.

But I was angry at myself, because I'd let it happen. When Bert told me to do something - especially while he was holding his camera - it was like I just...melted.

And so when he'd ordered me to jerk him off, I should have told him to leave. I should have told him that I was practically engaged and that I was

not

going to cheat on David, and that I needed him to leave right now because this was not appropriate.

But I'd just gotten so caught up in the moment.

I'd just gotten so caught up in his cock.

Bert's not an ugly dude. He's not about to win second place in a beauty contest, but he's not, like...a trogolodyte.

So what the

fuck

was someone as average-looking as him doing with a cock that magnificent?

I'd half convinced myself that it was just his skills with the camera. Like, I know I have nice boobs, but when Bert takes a photo of them, they look like they could be on a Victoria's Secret ad. He was so good at capturing their curves; they look plenty big in real life, but I swear, they look even bigger in the pictures he takes.

And so I'd told myself that his cock was the same way.

But in person, it had been just as spectacular. If not more so.

I had seen dicks before, of course. Not a lot, don't get me wrong, but David wasn't my first boyfriend. And I like dicks. I'm not a slut (despite what recent events might suggest), but I'm a healthy, heterosexual woman.

I like cock. I like how it looks, I like how it feels, I even like how it tastes. I have a normal straight woman relationship with dicks.

But Bert's...

Bert's dick made me weak at the knees. Like I said, I'd figured it was just the picture...but in person, it had the same effect. I'm not, like, cock-crazy or anything like that...but Bert's dick made me feel like I was.

I've never stared at a dick pick while I masturbated before, but ever since Bert had oh-so-kindly shared his cock shot with me? Yeah, I'd lost track of how many times I'd gotten off while looking at it.

I knew it was wrong. David's was the only cock that I should have cared about. He was literally on the other side of the planet with the army, one of the most noble things you can do...

and

I was completely, utterly, totally in love with him...

But when I got horny late at night, it was Bert's cock that I was thinking about, not my boyfriend's.

I know how wrong that is. I

know

. But I couldn't stop. It was easy to tell myself that it wasn't really cheating, looking at a picture. It wasn't even like I was attracted to Bert, I really wasn't.

Just his dick.

And so when I'd seen it in person, when it had been just as magnificent, just as

huge

in real life as in the photos...

Yeah. I was mad at Bert. But even more than that, I was mad at myself.

The evidence of what I'd done was all over me. I was literally plastered in Bert's cum. I couldn't even blame him for that - I was the one who'd jerked him off. I'd stroked my best friend's cock, aimed it at my tits and made him cum. Made him coat me in his thick, white seed, milked as much out of him as I possibly could.

And it had been amazing.

And so, yeah. I was mad at myself, and I was horny as hell, and that was a bad combination.

I needed to wash off. I needed to clean Bert's cum off my naked tits, and then get dressed, and then work out what to do next.

But instead, I reached for my phone.

Bert,

I started. My fingers were dancing across the screen, typing as fast as I could think.

What we did tonight was not acceptable. You should never have pulled your dick out, and you should never have made me stroke it. It was cheating. I have a boyfriend, and this is wrong.

I paused, closing my eyes at the memory of how good Bert's cock had felt in my hand. Hand

s

. Bert's dick was so big, I'd needed to wrap both hands around it to get him off.

I don't think we can see each other again. It's clear that you can't control yourself around me, and as much as I have valued our friendship, I can't be around someone who doesn't respect my relationship with David and how much it means to me. He's the love of my life and we're practically engaged.

I reread the message. Good. Firm boundaries. Annoyed but not unreasonable.

Please delete everything from tonight - and the previous sessions - and do not reach out again. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want you in my life. You have meant so much to me, but it's clear that you have ulterior motives, and cannot be trusted. Thank you for everything you have done, but if you cannot respect my wishes, I will be forced to tell David everything. Goodbye, Bert.

I reread it once more, and then, feeling satisfied, I pressed 'send' and breathed a sigh of relief.

Yes. Good. It had been hard, but...that was what needed to be done.

I loved Bert, he was my best friend. But he'd taken advantage of me, and that wasn't okay.

Laying back on my bed, I scrunched up my face, prepared to let the tears come. I'd just had an intense experience and ended a friendship as a result of it - if there was ever a time to cry, this was it.

But, to my surprise and annoyance, the tears didn't flow.

I wouldn't say I'm an "easy" crier, but...I mean, I do cry. It's good for you. Around that time of the month, or when things are really stressing me out, I'll go to my bed and cry it out. It releases serotonin, or dopamine, or whatever the chemical is. What I'm trying to say is: I have a super healthy relationship with crying.

So why weren't the tears coming now?

Staring up at the ceiling, I realized my hand had moved to my breast. Maybe that was it - I was still covered in another man's cum. Not my boyfriend, David (not that I'd ever let him cum on my chest). I was covered in the cum of someone I'd thought I could trust.

And I was laying there, trying to cry, my finger had started playing with it.

I'd never let David cum on my chest (or worse: face) - I thought it was demeaning. And it was. That was another reason to be mad at Bert, he'd demeaned me. For all these years he'd pretended to be my friend, but it was clear that he'd just seen me as a pair of tits.

A pair of tits for him to cum on.

Part of me knew that wasn't fair - I was the one who'd aimed his cock at my tits, not him - but I was too worked up to be fair. I glanced at my phone, laying beside me on the bed; no response. Good. I'd told him not to respond, so I would have been mad if he had.

I glanced at my phone again. Seriously, nothing?

I hadn't even noticed my other hand was playing with the drying cum on my tits as well. Cumming onto a woman was obviously demeaning, but it wasn't like I

hated

cum. Whenever I went down on David, I always swallowed. I wanted to be good at what I was doing, of course, but it was more than that.

I...I guess I sort of liked cum?

That was fine, I reminded myself. Again: I'm a straight woman. Healthy relationship with cum. So I liked cum, sue me. If heterosexual women aren't allowed to enjoy men's semen, what are we meant to like?

My hands were tracing patterns in it now. I'd never played with cum before, not like this. I kind of liked it. I liked the feel of it. I liked how warm and sticky it was. I liked the smell of it.

And I'd always liked the taste of it.

But it was time to clean it up. I wanted to get up, find a towel, and wipe all of Bert's disgusting cum off my tits. I wanted to get rid of the reminder of what we'd done. What

he'd

done.

But instead, I continued to lay in bed and rub the cum into my tits.

My mind was racing.

Maybe this was why I wasn't crying - I was too horny to cry. Maybe I needed to get off, clear my mind, and

then

I'd be able to cry. I'd practically been raped tonight - I'd never asked Bert to pull out his dick. I'd never asked him to cum on my chest.

I needed to cry, so I could get over it. But first, I needed to get off.

One hand continued smearing Bert's cum onto my chest, while the other slid between my legs. I was so wet.

"Oh, god," I sighed. I'd just jerked off the most beautiful cock I'd ever seen, and I hadn't even gotten off yet. It made total sense that I was horny. It was completely normal.

It had nothing to do with the thick load of cum coating my tits, or how sexy it had looked when Bert's cock had exploded in front of me, or how badly I wanted to feel his hot cum all over my face. Nothing at all.

"Fuck," I groaned as my fingers touched my clit. "Oh, fuck...fuck."

I couldn't stop. My finger began to move, rubbing my clit in tight, tight circles, just the way I liked it. I could have grabbed my vibrator - it was still within reach - but I wanted to use my fingers. I wanted to get myself off, the natural way.

I had to cum, I had to...I needed it so bad. I needed to forget that Bert had humiliated me, to forget about how dirty I'd felt when he'd ordered me to jerk him off.

To forget how hot it had been when I'd made him blow his load on my chest. About how good it had felt to do what he'd said, to obey his every command.

I needed to cum, and then I could cry.

"Oh, fuck!" I cried, my hand speeding up. I was so close. I needed to just turn my brain off. I needed to cum, to not care that I was rubbing my friend's cum into my tits, or that my boyfriend was completely oblivious to what we'd done, or that everything that had happened tonight had been captured on camera, and that it could be leaked onto the internet, that everyone could see what a little slut I'd been, what a little cheating slut I was...

With a long, loud moan, I came, my entire body tensing as the last few hours of frustration were all released at once, in one powerful, perfect, gorgeous wave of pure ecstasy.

"Oh!" I screamed, my hips rising up off the bed as I rode my climax to its natural conclusion.

My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath.

It felt good, to cum. Good and right and clean and...

I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of how cold the cum on my chest was. I really needed to clean it off.

It's funny; you'd think that cold cum would be really different to warm, straight-from the source cum. Like butter, y'know? When butter is cold, it coagulates. When it's warm, it's melt.

Not cum. Cum is just...cum.

My hands were on my tits again, playing with the now-cold, sticky mess. And, to my shock and horror, I realized I still wasn't crying.

"Oh, no," I murmured. I'd just masturbated, I'd made myself cum - that should have opened the floodgates.

Maybe I needed to clean up first. Maybe once I was no longer covered in my best friend's cum, I'd be able to cry.

But I didn't want to get up. I wanted to keep playing with the seed on my chest.

My hands were tracing patterns into the milky mess. I liked the feel of it. Maybe this was my way of coping with what had happened. Reclaiming the cum. Just because a bad thing had happened didn't mean that every part of it had to be bad. If I could enjoy part of it, maybe that was the healthiest way of coping?

I just didn't want to admit how much I liked the feeling of Bert's cum on my chest. When David came back, that would be a nice surprise for him. "I want you to shoot a load onto my tits, like you always wanted. I like that now."

Of course, maybe he'd wonder why. Maybe he'd start to ask what had changed, start to piece things together.

No, better not to risk making him suspicious. This would be the first - and last - time a guy came on my chest.

So if that was the case, I might as well enjoy it...

Moving one hand back between my legs, I started to rub myself, feeling my clit throb with one hand as my other hand stroked the sticky cum into my chest.

I stared at my phone as I played with myself. No reply from Bert. Good. I'd been very clear that I didn't want to hear from him.

Of course, sometimes phones didn't show you every message that comes in. Sometimes there was a weird glitch, and a message showed as read despite having never read it.

I licked my hand clean (like pizza, it turns out I even like the taste of

cold

cum) and unlocked my phone.

It wasn't until my wallpaper came into view that I realized what I'd just done. My tongue had so naturally cleaned my hand, so I could use my phone.

My stomach dropped with guilt. I'd swallowed Bert's cum without thinking about it. I shouldn't even be touching my best friend's cum, let alone consuming it.

I don't know why

that

was what made me so guilty, but it did. I had a boyfriend. I had to kiss him, with the mouth that had...that had...

With a shudder, I put it out of my mind and opened my messages app. No, definitely no reply. I couldn't tell if he'd read what I said yet...probably not, right? If he'd read them, he would definitely have responded.

Except I'd told him not to. I'd been very clear about that.

It was almost muscle memory that made me click the "media" button. A few scrolls later, and there it was. The picture of Bert's cock.

I tapped it without really meaning to, and suddenly it filled the screen. My fingers had never left my clit, and my other hand returned to my chest, to the thick coating of cum that I was slowly rubbing into breasts.

I could have taken a shower, or a bath, or just used a wet wipe or something. But instead, I was rubbing it into my skin. I could feel my nipples harden as I rubbed the thick, sticky mess into my chest. It was like my body was absorbing it. It was like Bert's cum, despite only landing on my chest, was entering me.

Bert's cock was staring at me, and it was so easy to remember how good it had felt in my hands just half an hour earlier. How hot his cum had felt as it sprayed against my tits, how I'd milked the rest out of him with my hands. How good it had felt to have it on my skin.

He hadn't taken any photos of my cum-coated skin, thank god. But it was easy to imagine how good they'd look if he had - I'd look like a true porn star, covered in cum, my eyes full of lust, my lips partly open, my tits glistening with sticky white.

I had a boyfriend. I knew this was wrong. Everything we'd done was so, so wrong.

But I was close. So close.

It was all too easy to imagine Bert looking at the photos of my tits, remembering what he'd done to me. Stroking that huge cock of his, imagining what it would be like to do it again. What would he do to me next time? Would he convince me to open my mouth, to take his cock between my lips, to suck it off, to swallow his load like a proper whore?

My finger was speeding up, my hips rising up off the bed, my entire body tightening with lust as I imagined it. He'd photograph the whole thing, call his camera the B.E.R.T. Model 2000 or something. He'd get so many photos of me with his cock in my mouth, his dick stretching my lips out, my eyes looking up at him, silently begging for his cum...

"Fuck!" I cried out, cumming, my entire body tightening as my fingers moved as quickly as possible, my body so turned on I thought I would explode. I felt my pussy tighten, my back arching as I screamed, as I came long and loud.

It was several minutes before I recovered, my body twitching and panting as I came down from my climax. It had felt so good, to cum like that, to imagine that Bert had taken photos of me.

I didn't

want

Bert to take photos of me, of course. I wanted to stop. My message had made that very clear. It had to stop.

But it was impossible to deny that it turned me on. Apparently it's quite common for rape victims to develop rape fantasies...maybe that was what was happening here. This was my way of processing Bert's betrayal, to fantasize about it.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it up eagerly.

Damn it. It was from David.

It was early in the morning where he was - maybe he'd had a bad dream or something. (He'd suffered from night terrors as a kid, and still sometimes had nightmares. He said that talking to me was the best thing for them...he could be so sweet sometimes. I loved him so much.)

I put the phone face-down in frustration. Damn it, why wasn't Bert replying?

Right. Because I'd told him not to.

Still

, though...

I reached out and grabbed my vibrator. A few moments later, it was buzzing between my legs as I imagined Bert insisting that he

had

to film me sucking his dick, that it was the only way to test a new lens. I scooped up more of his cum and brought it to my mouth, suddenly craving the taste. Needing to taste the forbidden seed.

"Nooo," I moaned softly, my hand moving the toy over my sensitive clit. "No, Bert, we can't...I have a boyfriend..."

Chapter 12

babe, you could be a porn star -d

hey i meant that in a respectful way -d

your so smart, i love everything about you -d

but those gifs were the hottest thing you've ever sent me -d

no. the hottest things ive ever SEEN -d

My boyfriend was right.

Even worse, Bert was right.

David was right: I could have been a porn star. I mean, no girl wants to think of herself like that, but...when Bert sent me the gifs he'd put together, it was undeniable. They could have been made by someone who did porn professionally.

The look of lust on my face, the way my tits shook as I moved...it was all perfect. My cheeks turned red as I stared at myself on the screen - I'm not into women, and even I was turned on by it.

Bert had managed to grab some clips of my lust-fueled monologue. I couldn't even remember what I'd been saying, but the way he'd cut them together, it didn't matter. I was kneeling on my bed, wearing nothing but a short skirt, my eyes glazed over with lust, my mouth moving as I ranted about David's cock entering me (or whatever I'd been talking about).

They were some of the hottest things I'd ever seen. I looked like a sex goddess. I've got the same amount of body insecurity as any other girl, but looking at this clips, it was impossible to deny: Bert had managed to make me look hot as hell.

So yeah, David was right. But Bert was right too: a video would have been too much. The gifs were perfect.

It was two days later when he finally replied to my message. That night, I'd ignored two more messages from David and gotten off god knows how many times before finally showering the last of Bert's emissions off and getting to sleep.

I still hadn't cried.

I'd cooled down a lot since that night, and when Bert's message finally came, it...well, it was perfect.

He explained that he completely respected my decision, and that I wouldn't hear from him again, that his door was always open if I ever wanted to reach out, and that he was deeply sorry and would do anything I wanted (including never contacting him again) to make it up to me.

And in a separate email, he'd included the gifs.

I'd told myself that I wasn't going to send anything to David, that this was it. But the bundle of gifs (about a dozen in total, all from that same lustful monologue, each of them perfect) came through, I knew that I had no choice.

I mean, if I didn't send them to David, then what had it been for? If I didn't send them to David, then I had no explanation for why I'd invited my best friend over, stripped down, and jerked him off.

God, I still couldn't believe that I'd done that.

This way, I could at least justify it: I'd done it all for my boyfriend. I'd done it all for David.