You Can't Touch

She’s got this wicked grin when she spills the anniversary surprise. Her friend’s here, stripped down and shining with lotion under the lights, tits bouncing while she dances for me, smiles for me, shows everything. Gorgeous. Cock-pulling gorgeous. I reach out and brush a thigh and my girl snaps, “No touching.” Her grin widens like she’s the cat who got the cream and the cream’s me. So I sit and watch while they put on a show—two wet cunts brushing each other, slick fingers sliding in and out, tongues swirling over stiff nipples, all for the guy who can’t join. Gets me hard enough my boxers won’t stretch any farther, dick pounding. They spot it, giggle, wave it at my girl with their eyes. When I finally bust hands-free, thick ropes launching like they paid admission, both of them dive low. Warm tongues go to work, lapping the cum off my stomach, cleaning each other’s lips with slow, teasing kisses, slurping up every sticky drop and humming like it tastes like sweet revenge. Her friend even winks at me while swallowing what’s left on her fingertips.