Lusting After Her Friend's Man

Brigitte checked the mirror one last time and liked what she saw. Twenty-eight, tall, blonde, and built to be looked at: long legs, a narrow waist, and a cute, rounded ass that the tight black dress was doing nothing to hide. Stockings clung to her thighs. Heels put her even higher. Sexy clothing, chosen on purpose. She had spent months wanting one man, and tonight the apartment was ready for him.

Andre was thirty-two, handsome in a way that made rooms go quiet, and he belonged to her friend Roxanne. Roxanne was twenty-nine, sharp, loud, and currently on a work trip until Sunday night. For months Brigitte had lusted after him. She had watched him fuck Roxanne through a half-open bedroom door at Roxanne's place, both of them too lost to notice her frozen in the hall—his hands locked on Roxanne's hips, his cock driving deep, his face gone rough with pleasure. The picture had lived under Brigitte's skin ever since. She wanted that mouth. She wanted that cock. She wanted to be taken apart, and she wanted to take him apart in return.

She called before she could talk herself out of it.

"Andre? It's Brigitte. Roxanne's gone for the weekend. Come over. I need to see you."

He arrived twenty minutes later, jacket open, dark hair a little messy, eyes already searching her face. She let him in and shut the door. The air went tight.

"You look—" He stopped and took her in: the dress, the heels, the stockings vanishing under the hem. "Jesus, Brigitte."

"I've wanted you for months," she said. No games yet. Just the truth. "I watched you with her. I couldn't stop thinking about your hands, your cock, the way you move when you're inside someone. I called you here because I want that. I want you. If you want me too, stay. If you don't, walk out and we never mention it."

His throat worked. He stepped close enough that she smelled cologne and the heat under it.

"I've wanted you too," he said. "Every time you walked into a room in something tight. I told myself it was wrong. I was lying." His hand hovered at her waist, waiting. "I'm staying."

The look that passed between them was electric.

She smiled and turned her back on him. The living room was dim, lamps low, the couch waiting. She walked to it in her heels, each step deliberate, and bent over the arm until the dress rode up and the curve of her ass filled his view. The stockings ended in dark bands high on her thighs. She reached back and slapped her own cheek. The crack made her gasp and made him swear.

"You like that?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. "I've been teasing myself with the thought of you for weeks. Tonight you get the real thing." Another slap, harder, her cute ass bouncing under her palm. "I want you to spank me until I can't sit still. I want your cock in my mouth until my eyes water. I want you to eat me and then fuck my ass in these stockings, and I want to climb on you and fuck you until you beg. Reciprocal, Andre. I fuck you. You fuck me. All weekend. Say yes."

"Yes," he said, already crossing the room. "God, yes."

His hands found her hips. She straightened into him and their mouths met, hungry and messy, teeth and tongue and a groan he couldn't swallow. She tugged his shirt up. He dragged her zipper down. The dress hit the floor. Underneath she wore black lingerie—a bra that framed her chest, panties that barely held the hard line of her cock, a garter belt locking the stockings in place. The heels stayed on.

"Fuck," he breathed, palms sliding over silk and warm skin. "You're stunning."

"I know." She kissed him deeper, then sank to her knees on the rug. Her fingers worked his belt, his pants, his boxers. His cock sprang free, thick and already wet at the tip. She wrapped a hand around the base the way she had practiced in her head for months and looked up, blonde hair falling over one eye. "This is how the weekend starts. You don't come until I say. You spank me when I ask. You tell me how bad you've wanted this."

"I've wanted your mouth," he said, voice rough. "Your ass. All of you. Don't stop."

She smiled against the head of his cock and took him in.

The weekend did not stay in the living room.

Friday night she sucked him deep on the rug while he stood over her, one hand in her hair, the other coming down on her cute ass in steady, stinging slaps. Each crack made her moan around him. She took him to the back of her throat, pulled off to breathe, and went down again, spit shining on her chin, eyes wet and bright. He praised her in a wrecked voice and she answered by swallowing him harder, one hand working what her mouth couldn't reach, the other braced on his thigh.

"Spank me," she gasped when she came up for air. "Harder. I want to feel it while I taste you."

He did. Her ass warmed under his palm, pink blooming across both cheeks, and she rewarded him by taking him all the way down until her nose pressed to his stomach. He cursed, hips twitching, and she pulled off with a wet sound before he could finish.

"Not yet," she said, wiping her mouth, teasing and mean and delighted. "On the couch. I want your tongue."

He sat. She climbed over him in lingerie, stockings, and heels, turned, and lowered her ass toward his face while her cock hung heavy between her thighs. He dragged the panties aside, spread her, and ate her like he had been starving—tongue circling her tight hole, then pushing in, wet and relentless, while his hands kneaded the cheeks he had just spanked. She rocked back onto his mouth and stroked herself, filthy encouragement spilling out of her.

"Right there. Deeper. God, Andre, your tongue—don't you dare stop. Make me open for your cock."

When she was slick and shaking he bent her over the couch arm, still in the garter and stockings, heels planted, and pressed the head of his cock to her hole. She reached back, held herself open, and nodded.

"Fuck me. Slow until I say, then don't be gentle."

He sank in inch by inch. The stretch burned sweet. She moaned into the cushion and pushed back until he was buried, balls flush to her, both of them breathing hard. Then she told him to move. He pounded her doggy-style, hands gripping her hips, the slap of skin loud in the quiet apartment. Her cute ass rippled with every thrust. He spanked her between strokes, left cheek, right cheek, and she begged for both—harder with his hand, deeper with his cock—until her voice broke and she came untouched in long pulses, cock jerking, cum striping the couch while he stayed buried and groaning.

They didn't sleep much.

Saturday she put on red lingerie and the same stockings, a different pair of heels, and rode him cowgirl on her bed until the headboard knocked the wall. She sank onto his cock and set a ruthless pace, blonde hair stuck to her throat, tits shifting in the bra she refused to take off. He held her waist, then her ass, and slapped her bouncing cheeks every time she dropped down. The sound cracked through the room. She laughed, breathless, and fucked him harder.

"Look at me," she ordered. "You wanted this ass. Take it. Slap it. Tell me whose it is right now."

"Yours," he panted, then caught himself, grinning through the haze. "Mine for the weekend. Fuck, Brigitte, ride me. Use me."

She did. She ground down, clenched, and stroked her own cock in time with the bounce until he was cursing and gripping the sheets. She leaned forward, kissed him filthy, and whispered exactly how she was going to drain him later. He spanked her again, open-palmed and hungry, and she came across his stomach with a broken cry, still full of him, still moving until he followed, pulsing deep inside her ass while she milked every throb.

They ate in the kitchen sometime after noon, half-dressed, unable to stop touching. She bent to get water from the fridge in nothing but stockings and heels and he was on her before the door shut. He bent her over the counter, kicked her feet wider, and pushed back into her still-slick hole. The angle was brutal and perfect. She braced on the cold stone and stroked her cock while he fucked her hard, one hand fisted in her hair, the other cracking across her ass in a steady rhythm that matched his hips.

"Yes—God—harder," she gasped. "Spank me and don't slow down. I want to feel you for days."

"You feel incredible," he growled against her shoulder. "Tight, hot, taking every inch. Stroke that cock. I want to watch you come while I fill you."

She did, fist flying, heels scraping the floor, ass pushed back to meet every thrust. The teasing was gone now, replaced by raw need and dirty encouragement from both of them—his voice in her ear, hers breaking on his name. He spanked her until the skin sang, pounded her until the counter edge bit her hips, and when she came she cried out and striped the cabinet, hole clenching so hard he lost it a second later. He buried himself and spilled deep, groaning into her neck, both of them shaking through it until the only sound was their breath.

They fucked in the shower after that, slow and slippery, her mouth on him again until he was hard, his fingers opening her, then her turned to the tile while he took her standing. They fucked on the rug, on the bed, against the hallway wall. She sucked him on her knees in the bedroom while he spanked her cute ass red. He ate her until she was begging, then let her roll him over and sink down again. Oral, anal, spanking, teasing that never quite stopped even when they were wrecked. She fucked him with her body and her mouth and her words. He fucked her until her voice went hoarse and her ass was warm and marked and glowing. Every time one of them got close, the other pulled them back or pushed them over, hungry and fully reciprocal, neither of them holding anything in reserve.

By Sunday night the apartment smelled like sex and skin. They had showered once more and failed to stay clean. Brigitte lay back on her bed in nothing but the stockings, heels finally kicked off, blonde hair a mess on the pillow, cock half-hard against her stomach, ass still tender and perfect. Andre knelt between her thighs, looked her in the eye, and pushed in slow.

This last time was deep and unhurried. Missionary, her legs around his waist, his cock sliding all the way in and holding there so they could both feel it. He braced on his forearms. She held his face. Their eyes stayed locked while he rocked into her, long strokes, no rush, the wet sound soft and obscene. Every few thrusts his hand slipped under her and spanked her ass, not hard now, just enough to make her clench and gasp his name. She stroked herself in the narrow space between their bodies and told him she could feel every inch, told him not to look away, told him she had wanted exactly this—his weight, his eyes, the slow claim of her hole—since the first time she watched him move.

"I'm close," he said, voice low, forehead against hers.

"Me too. Stay with me. Come inside me. I've got you."

He kissed her and kept moving, deep and steady, spanking her once more as she tightened around him. She came with a soft, broken sound, cum warm between them, and the clench pulled him over. He spilled inside her in long pulses, hips pressed flush, eyes open, both of them shaking through it until the pleasure ebbed into heat and weight.

They collapsed sweaty and satisfied, still joined for a moment, breath mingling. He eased out and gathered her in. She turned her face up. The kiss was long and tender, nothing like the hungry ones that had started the weekend, everything they hadn't said pressed into it.

"Incredible," he murmured against her mouth.

"All of it," she said. "Whenever she's away again, you come here. We keep this between us."

"Between us," he agreed, and kissed her once more, slow, while the afterglow held them both.