My Girlfriend's Best Friend — pt.1

Taking an opportunity to cheat on my girlfriend with her hot best friend. Based on a true story.

The Friday evening air in Rob’s bedroom hung thick with the scent of weed, cheap vodka, and the faint, sweet perfume of Sophie’s shampoo. Rob and Logan had left for work hours before and left us all playing video games in Rob’s bedroom with their roommate Johnathan. The TV screen illuminated the darkened room with the grim, post-apocalyptic landscapes of The Last of Us.

“You’re gonna die again, Zach!” Sophie giggled, her voice a lilting tease that cut through the tense gameplay. She leaned forward from her spot next to me on Rob’s bed, her low-cut band shirt straining against the movement. I watched, my gaze lingering a moment too long, as the fabric stretched over the swell of her developing breasts. They were perfect—full, perky handfuls that seemed to defy gravity. Her nipples, hard little points, pressed visibly against the thin cotton. She never wore a bra, the tiny fourteen-year-old was known as a little slut. The thought sent a quiet, thrumming heat through my gut.

I’d been venting to her about Jessie, my girlfriend and Sophie’s best friend. About the fight we’d had earlier. About her texting her ex-boyfriend, Cody. The words had spilled out in a frustrated torrent, and Sophie had listened, her big, dark eyes fixed on me with a sympathy that felt… charged. The alcohol was in her system, making her tipsy, loosening her inhibitions. Her responses had grown flirty, playful leans that brought her closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her knee nudging my thigh.

It wasn’t unusual for Sophie and Jessie at fourteen to hang out here with us guys in our twenties. Sophie was old friends with Rob, who had been in love with her forever and always invited her around. I had met Jessie through Sophie via Rob, and we had started dating shortly after. Sophie had a reputation around town as being kind of a slut, though I had never dared to make a move on her for fear of damaging my relationship with Jessie. But today was different, I was feeling betrayed by Jessie after finding out she had been texting her ex, and the alcohol was lowering my inhibitions. Sophie was looking good. She was looking really good.

Now, as Zach cursed at the screen and Dan laughed, Sophie shifted again. She turned toward me, one leg curled up on the bed. “I’m so cold,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her eyes flicked to my face, then down to my chest, a sly smile playing on her lips.

I felt the comforter bunched under me. A reckless idea sparked. “You could get under the covers,” I said, my own voice lower than I intended. I pulled the blanket out from beneath my legs and lifted it toward her, an invitation.

She didn’t hesitate. She shifted closer, her body a warm line against mine, and slipped under the lifted edge. Then she nuzzled. Her head dipped, her cheek finding the hollow of my shoulder, and she pressed herself into my side. My arm, outstretched from holding the blanket, naturally curled around her. She was in my arms.

“Will you warm me up?” she asked softly, her breath a warm puff against my neck.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Yes. This was dangerous. She was Jessie’s best friend. She was fourteen. I was twenty-six. She was dating Logan. I was dating Jessie. Every rule screamed at me to stop. But the feel of her—the softness of her fourteen-year-old body, the floral scent of her hair—overwhelmed the warnings. My cock, traitorous and eager, hardened instantly, a thick, aching pressure against the confines of my shorts.

I nodded, a silent agreement. We repositioned, sliding down to lay side-by-side on the bed, turning so I was behind her. Spooning. The comforter settled over us like a secret tent. My front pressed against her back, my arm snug around her waist. Her body was a warm, yielding curve against mine.

From the couch, Johnathan glanced over. His eyebrows quirked up. Zach and Dan paused their gameplay, their eyes shifting to the bed. They knew. They knew we were both in relationships. They knew the complicated web of loyalties and desires that strung this group together.

Sophie caught their looks. “Pervs,” she declared, her voice carrying a defiant lightness. “We’re just cold. Nothing’s happening.” She nestled deeper into my embrace, her head tucking under my chin.

Johnathan snorted. “Sure. ‘Nothing’.” But he turned back to the game, and Zach and Dan followed suit, their attention returning to the digital survival horror. The screen’s glow became the only light, casting long shadows.

Under the blanket, the world narrowed to sensation. The heat of her. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing. The slight tremble that might have been a chill, or might have been something else. I ran my hands over her, starting cautiously. My palms smoothed over the fabric of her shirt, tracing the contours of her sides, the dip of her waist, the gentle slope of her hips. I avoided the obvious peaks of her breasts and the firm curve of her ass, though my cock, now rigid and insistently pressed between the cleft of her butt cheeks, made its presence known.

She responded. A subtle, almost imperceptible wiggle. Her butt, firm and round, shifted against my groin. The pressure was exquisite—the heat of her through her shorts, the slight friction of the fabric. She pushed herself back into me, a slow, grinding pressure that made my breath catch.

Her hands found mine. She didn’t grip them; instead, her fingers trailed over the back of my hand, my wrist, my forearm. A gentle, exploratory touch. It was permission. It was encouragement.

I let my hand drift higher, up her side, until my fingers brushed just under the curve of her breast. Not cupping it, just resting against the lower swell, my thumb a ghost against the sensitive underside. The contact was electric. She let out a soft, shuddering sigh—a moan so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the game’s soundtrack.

Her hand closed over mine. Not to stop me. To guide. She pressed my palm upward, until my hand fully covered her breast. The feel of it was incredible. The warm, soft flesh filled my hand, the nipple a hard bead against my palm through the shirt. I squeezed, gently at first, then with more conviction. Her breath hitched. Another soft moan escaped her lips, swallowed by the pillow.

My other hand joined the exploration, reaching around her to find her other breast. Now I held both, my hands claiming the perfect, fourteen-year-old mounds. I massaged them, my fingers kneading the softness, my thumbs finding her nipples and circling them, applying a gentle, pinching pressure.

She cooed. A tiny, helpless sound. Her body arched slightly, pressing her breasts more firmly into my hands. Her butt ground back against my cock with a new, deliberate rhythm. The guys were oblivious, their shouts and laughter focused on the game. But under this blanket, a separate, secret universe was unfolding.

The fabric of her shirt was a barrier. I wanted to feel her skin. My hands slid down, under the hem of her shirt, and climbed back up her torso. There was no resistance. No protest. Her stomach was smooth, warm. My palms climbed higher, until they found her breasts again, this time bare.

The feeling was transformative. Her skin was silken, heated. Her breasts were fuller without the constraint of fabric, a beautiful weight in my hands. Her nipples were harder, little pebbles of sensitive flesh. I cupped them, my fingers exploring every contour. She pressed herself into my touch, her back arching more, her head tilting back to rest against my shoulder.

“Your hands are so warm,” she whispered, her voice a breathy murmur against my ear.

I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight. I just squeezed, my fingers working her flesh, pinching her nipples, rolling them between my thumb and forefinger. She squirmed, a more pronounced motion now. Her hips rocked, her butt grinding a slow, sensual circle against my trapped cock. The fabric of my shorts was a frustrating barrier, but the heat and pressure were driving me toward a frenzy.

Her moans grew louder. Less controlled. A gasp escaped as I plucked at her nipple particularly firmly. I froze, worried the sound would pierce the bubble of our secrecy. But the guys were engrossed in a tense combat sequence on the screen, their own voices raised.

I pulled my hands away, sliding them out from under the blanket. I needed a moment. I needed to think. But the ache in my cock and the memory of her bare skin under my palms were overwhelming. I reached for my vape on the bedside table, took a quick hit, the cool vapor a stark contrast to the feverish heat under the covers.

Sophie pouted. Her lips, so close to my face, formed a perfect, disappointed little curve. “Why’d you stop?” she breathed.

I exhaled the vapor, turned my face to her. Our eyes locked. Her gaze was dark, hungry, unmistakably slutty. “What do you want?” I whispered, the words barely audible.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she took my hand in hers. She manipulated my fingers, closing my pinky, ring, and thumb into my palm, leaving only my index and middle fingers pointed straight out. Then, with her other hand, she made a circle with her index finger and thumb. She moved that circle, slowly, up and down my two outstretched fingers.

The meaning was clear. She wanted me to finger her. Or she wanted me to fuck her. I couldn’t be sure of which, or if she meant both. The gesture was obscene, thrilling. What a little slut, I thought, the idea sending a jolt of pure adrenaline through me. She had always flirted, but this was a direct, physical proposition.

There was no way we could fuck here. Not with the guys three feet away. But fingering… under the blanket… that was possible. The taboo of it—fingering my girlfriend’s best friend, a slutty little fourteen-year-old girl, in a room full of our friends—was intoxicating.

“I got you,” I whispered back, my voice husky with desire.

My hand moved. It slid down her front, over the soft plane of her stomach, descending into the waistband of her spandex shorts. I slid my fingers over the thin fabric of her panties. I pressed my fingertips into her mound. The heat there was intense. A damp warmth radiated through the cotton. She gasped, a sharp little intake of breath.

Even through the fabric, I could feel the shape of her. Her mound was smooth, hairless. The little bud of her clit was engorged, a firm bump pressing into my fingertips. And the fabric itself was wet. Soaked. Her fourteen-year-old pussy was leaking juices, a slickness that promised an easy, wet exploration.

I rubbed. Small, slow circles over her swollen clit. My other hand went back up under her shirt, reclaiming her bare breast. I groped her, my fingers kneading, my palm hot against her nipple. She moaned, a soft, continuous sound now. Her legs shifted under the blanket. She opened them wider, giving me better access.

The invitation was clear. I kept rubbing, the circles widening, covering her entire damp mound. She wasn’t squirming wildly now; instead, her body had taken on a tense, anticipatory stillness. She was waiting. She was ready.

She got impatient. Her hand shot down, under the blanket, and grabbed my wrist. She pushed my hand, firmly, into her panties. The cotton was a damp, warm barrier for a moment, then my fingers breached it, slipping underneath to find her bare, drenched skin.

The feeling was incredible. Her skin was impossibly smooth, hairless. The heat was a living, pulsing thing. And she was soaked. Her nectar was a slick, abundant ooze that coated my fingers instantly. I let my fingers drift lazily through her folds, exploring the soft, wet landscape of her fourteen-year-old pussy. Her juices collected on my fingertips, warm and silky.

I found her clit. It was a swollen, eager little peak. I pressed my index finger against it, rubbing small, firm circles. She turned her head and bit my arm. Not hard. A gentle, desperate clamp of her teeth against my skin to stifle a louder moan. Her body trembled.

My fingers wandered lower, to the source of the wetness. Her hole. It was a hot, tight little opening, dripping her juices. I pressed one finger against it, and her body opened. There was hardly any resistance. She was so wet, so ready. My finger slipped inside, sliding deep into her tight, fourteen-year-old vagina.

She was tight. But the wetness made the penetration smooth, easy. I fingered her softly, one finger plunging and withdrawing in a slow rhythm. Her bite on my arm tightened. Her hands gripped my biceps, her fingers digging into my muscles as she fought to stay quiet.

After a minute, I added a second finger. She gasped again. I felt her inner muscles stretch, accommodating the new intrusion. Her pussy was a warm, wet, clinging sheath around my fingers. I finger-fucked her with two fingers now, a deeper, more filling motion. She squirmed again, her hips rocking subtly against my hand.

I tried a third finger, but she was so tight, and I worried the extra stretch would make her cry out. I stayed with two, pumping them into her, my thumb still rubbing circles on her clit. Her breaths came in ragged, quiet pants. Her body was a coiled spring of tension under my touch.

She was nearing her peak. I could feel it in the way her inner muscles began to flutter, in the way her juices flowed even more copiously, in the desperate, silent grinding of her hips. I increased the pace, finger-fucking her with a passionate, determined rhythm. The taboo thrill was exhilarating. My cock was throbbing, aching, still pressed firmly between her butt cheeks. I wanted to be inside her. I wanted to fuck her. But this was enough. This was everything.

She turned her head, her bite releasing my arm. Her beautiful, fourteen-year-old face was inches from mine. Her eyes were wide, dark pools of need. “I’m gonna cum,” she whispered, the words a broken, desperate plea.

I didn’t stop. I kept fingering her soaked, tight little pussy, my thumb now focused entirely on her clit, rubbing hard, fast circles. She let out a low, guttural moan—a sound that was almost a sob. I felt her body tremble, a violent, convulsive shivering that started in her core and radiated outward. Her inner muscles clenched around my fingers, a series of rapid, gripping spasms.

Then I felt the gush. A hot, sudden flood of liquid around my fingers. She squirted. Her juices, already abundant, erupted in a warm rush that soaked through her panties and shorts. Her legs shook wildly under the blanket. Her head fell back against my shoulder, her mouth open in a silent scream of release. The orgasm ripped through her, leaving her body limp, trembling, breathing heavily.

I slowly slid my fingers out from her hole, but kept my hand on her, my palm resting on her wet mound, my thumb gently stroking her oversensitive clit. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in rapid waves against my other hand, which still cupped her breast.

She turned her head, her eyes finding mine. The look she gave me was breathtaking—a mixture of lust, satisfaction, and a sly, fourteen-year-old triumph. She beamed at me, a dazzling, wicked smile.

I leaned close, my lips near her ear. “Is that what you wanted?” I whispered, my voice a seductive, knowing murmur.

She smiled slyly back. Then she whispered into my ear, her voice a husky, post-orgasm purr. “What I really want… is for you to fuck me…” Her words trailed off, and she finished them with a gentle, soft kiss on my cheek.

Then her hand moved. It reached behind her, under the blanket, and found my cock. She squeezed it through my shorts, her fingers applying a firm, teasing pressure. I let out a soft groan at the touch.

I pulled her body closer to mine, squeezing her against me. “Patience, you little slut,” I whispered back, the words a playful, derogatory promise.

She giggled. The sound was loud, clear, and happy. It cut through the room’s ambient noise.

From the couch, Johnathan looked over again. “Okay, yeah right, nothing’s happening over there guys,” he said sarcastically.

Everybody laughed—Zach, Dan, even Sophie and I, though my laugh was tense, nervous.
Sophie grinned at him. “Shut up, Johnny.”

Johnathan stood up, stretching. “I’m out. Gotta head to Sarah’s.” His girlfriend. Zach and Dan also rose, the game paused, controllers dropped.

As they gathered their things, Johnathan walked toward the door. He paused, looked back at the bed. “Just don’t fuck in Rob’s bed, okay, lovebirds?”

Sophie reached over, grabbed a throw pillow from the couch, and hurled it at him. “OMG! Shut up Johnny!” she giggled playfully.

Johnathan dodged it, laughing, and the three of them left, the door closing behind them with a final, solid click.

The room was silent. The TV screen was now idle, the game on pause, casting a dull, blue glow. The only sounds were our breathing. Sophie’s, still slightly ragged from her orgasm. Mine, shallow and anticipatory.

I turned to look at her. She turned to look at me. Our faces were inches apart on the pillow. Her eyes were dark, sparkling with mischief and unspent desire. Her lips, slightly parted, were a perfect, inviting curve.

We didn’t speak. There was no need. The distance between us collapsed. Our mouths met.

The kiss was not tentative. It was immediate, passionate, hungry. Her lips were soft, warm, and they opened to me instantly. My tongue found hers, and they danced together—a slick, exploratory tangling. The taste of her was sweet, mixed with the faint bitterness of vodka. Her hands came up, one cupping my cheek, the other tangling in my hair. My arms wrapped around her fully, pulling her tight against my body.

Under the blanket, our legs intertwined. Her thigh slid between mine. My cock, still painfully hard, pressed against her hip. Her body was a warm, pliant weight against me. We kissed deeply, desperately, as if making up for all the hidden touches, all the secret whispers. Her moans, now free and unguarded, filled the quiet room. My hands roamed her back, her sides, her breasts again. She arched into my touch, her kisses growing more fervent.

We were alone. Finally, truly alone. Rob wouldn’t be home from work for probably an hour. The world outside this room, the complications of relationships and friendships, faded into a distant hum. Here, in the dark, under the blanket, there was only heat, only desire, only the soft, eager body of this adorable fourteen-year-old girl who wanted me to fuck her.

And I wanted to. More than anything.

~~~

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