My Bisexual Friend’s Dirty Game

Renata slept pressed against my back, and I’d been awake for some time, too afraid to move. Her tits rested against my shoulder blades, one heavy thigh crossed over mine, and her fingers were interlaced at the level of my navel. We were in her bed, in her room, after a long night at that women’s bar she’d dragged me to as if I were a trophy or an experiment.

She was sleeping in nothing but a black thong, one I’d caught a glimpse of the night before when she bent down to tie her boots. I was completely naked. I didn’t remember very clearly how I’d ended up in that situation. Only that at four in the morning she’d whispered that it was hot, that I should take everything off, and that she wasn’t going to look. And she hadn’t looked. She’d fallen asleep hugging me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I’d been chasing after her for two years. Renata had been my best friend since college, the one who’d patiently explained that she was bisexual but lately only dated women, that guys bored her. And I, fool that I was, kept waiting for the opportunity I’d promised myself I wouldn’t wait for.

It was getting light. The sunlight came in filtered through the half-raised blinds and crossed her face. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing slow, and one nipple pressed right into the top of my back. I could feel every beat of her heart against my skin. My cock had been rock-hard for hours, my morning erection aggravated by the certainty that if I moved an inch, it would all be over.

I fantasized for hours. I imagined turning over, climbing on top of her, ripping off her thong, and fucking her until I convinced her that men were useful too. But I didn’t dare. I preferred to lie still, breathing in the smell of her shampoo and sweat, my cock pointing at the ceiling and my guts growling with thirst.

She began to move around ten. A soft grunt, a stretch, and at last she opened her eyes right at the level of mine.

—Good morning —she said in a hoarse voice—. Did you sleep well?

I turned over slowly, careful not to pull completely away from her. She pressed herself against me and covered her breasts with her arm before I had time to look.

—Very well —I replied—. I’d stay here all day.

She smiled. She loosened the fingers she had resting on my stomach and ran her open palm through the hair on my chest.

—The truth is, you’re pretty soft —she remarked—. Almost as much as a chick. Your hair is soft; it doesn’t scratch.

She said it without malice, like some odd compliment. It annoyed me anyway. You don’t spend two years wanting to fuck someone just to have her tell you you’re soft.

—Well, thanks.

She chuckled under her breath, noticing the sarcasm.

—Don’t take offense. I’m going to the bathroom. I can’t hold it any longer.

She got up without covering herself, completely unashamed. I watched her cross the room in her thong, and the damp patch at the front made me wonder whether she’d prolonged the moment as much as I had. Her ass bounced slowly, her tits even more so, and her stomach was firm, with a line of blond hair running down from her navel. She closed the bathroom door, and I was left writhing on the bed.

I felt a strange pang in my chest. I imagined those friends of hers from the bar touching her the way I’d just touched her with my eyes. I imagined the face she made when one of them made her come. It took me a second to recognize the word.

Jealousy?

My bladder tugged at me. After holding it for so many hours, it wasn’t an inconvenience anymore: it was a stabbing pain climbing up my groin. I got up as best I could, my cock still hard and pointing at my navel, and stepped into the hall just as Renata opened the bathroom door.

We collided. She planted her palms on my chest to stop herself, while my hands went straight to her hips. We stayed like that for a few seconds, our eyes locked on each other. She blinked and pulled away slightly.

—You almost knocked me to the floor, you pervert —she said with a crooked little smile—. Did you want to watch me piss?

—No. I wanted to piss myself. I can’t hold it anymore.

She smiled again, now with that wicked look I’d seen the night before when she told some girl named Sabrina that I was her backup guy.

—Let’s do something —she said—. I’ll touch you, you touch me. But only as long as you can hold it without pissing yourself. If you piss, you lose.

I stared at her with my mouth open.

—Seriously?

—Very seriously. Rules: hands only, and until you piss yourself.

I didn’t think. I slid my hand inside the front of her thong, straight onto the wet patch. She let out a short gasp, bit her lip, and lowered her hand until she found my cock. She wrapped her fingers around it without squeezing yet.

—Let’s see how long you last —she whispered.

She started stroking it slowly, with very little practice but plenty of enthusiasm. It was obvious she hadn’t done it in a long time. My bladder was clenched like a fist and her hand was on my cock, and that combination was driving me crazy. A bolt of pain shot up from my lower abdomen, and I let out a soft moan. Renata smiled when she heard it. I put my free hand on her right tit without asking and pinched her nipple between my fingers. Another gasp escaped her, longer this time.

—Well, well, the soft one.

—Shut up.

I pushed her thong aside with two fingers and ran my index finger up and down her pussy. She was soaked, far wetter than the stain on her thong had suggested. I repeated the motion once, twice, three times, moving up to her clit and down to her entrance. Renata let her head fall against my shoulder and began to moan softly, one moan after another. Her breathing quickened, her mouth fell open, and she ran her tongue over her lips without stopping looking at me.

Her hand didn’t stop either. It moved slowly, very slowly, the exact way someone touches you when they want to torture you, not make you come. Every time I thought she was going to speed up, she eased off. She pulled my foreskin down to the base, squeezed my glans with her palm, and moved back up. My bladder was killing me. Another stab of pain made my knees buckle.

—Can’t hold it anymore? —she murmured against my ear.

—I can hold it —I lied.

I pushed one finger inside her. She was incredibly tight, much tighter than I’d expected from a woman who’d spent months sleeping with other women. I pushed in a second finger with some effort, and felt her whole stomach tense. She gave a muffled cry, and her hand stopped for a moment on my cock.

—Fuck… —she whispered.

I had them separated, one in her pussy, the other on her nipple. I didn’t kiss her. She wouldn’t let me. Every time I moved toward her mouth, she turned her face and ran her tongue over my cheek or jaw, but she wouldn’t let me reach her lips. As if kissing me meant crossing a line that everything else didn’t.

—Fuck my fingers faster —she ordered.

I thrust my two fingers in and out, searching for the rough spot up front, while I rubbed circles over her clit with my thumb. Renata stopped pretending. She began moaning loudly, shamelessly, as if she wanted to warn me that she was about to finish. The hand stroking my cock finally found a rhythm, squeezing, moving down and up with force. Another flash of pain tore through my bladder, and a hot trickle dampened my foreskin. Even I couldn’t tell whether it was mine or hers.

I was going to come. I was going to piss myself. I was going to do both at once.

—I’m coming, Renata, I’m coming —I moaned.

—Me too.

She convulsed first. Her pussy clenched around my fingers with a force I hadn’t expected, and she let out a scream that bounced off the hallway tiles. Her legs gave way. She had to grab me around the waist to keep from falling, and with that movement she drove me against my cock. She let out another cry, a different one, when the tip dug into her pubic bone through her soaked thong.

The wet rubbing, the hot skin, her scent. I came right there, unable to stop it, splashing her stomach, thong, and thigh. One long jet, then another, and another. Renata lowered her face and stared at my cock with her mouth open while I emptied my load all over her.

—Sorry, sorry, sorry —I kept repeating like an idiot.

She said nothing. She just stared at her stomach, her thong, the floor. She was still trembling. When she raised her face, she had a strange smile, half amused and half thrown off balance.

—Here, it’s a gift —she said. She pulled her thong down over her legs, bent to pick it up off the floor, and put it in my hand—. I’m going to take a shower. Look what you’ve done to me.

—Bu… but I need to piss.

She turned around, showed me her naked ass, and before slamming the bathroom door in my face, she tossed out:

—Piss at your place.

I stood stunned in the hallway, her soaked thong clenched in my fist and my cock still dripping. Was she kicking me out, or sending me home so I’d come back? I dressed in a hurry, slipped the thong into my pants pocket, and left.

***

I got home ten minutes later, running. I opened the door with my hands shaking and went straight to the bathroom. I pulled my pants down before reaching the toilet and let out a piss that lasted nearly a full minute. My cock had stayed half-hard. I smelled my hand and could still smell Renata on my fingers, that scent of a soaked pussy I’d memorized in the hallway.

I took the thong out of my pocket. It was warm, heavy, soaked with her and me. I brought it to my nose and breathed deeply. I got hard again, completely. I gripped myself with my right hand, the thong clenched in my left against my mouth and nose.

I started stroking slowly, imitating the rhythm she’d used on me a little earlier. I closed my eyes and imagined her in her shower, water running over her tits, her stomach, and her pussy freshly fucked with my fingers. I started to hear her. I had the bathroom window open, and hers must have been open too, because long, high-pitched moans reached me, exactly the same ones as before. She was masturbating too.

I sped up my hand. I heard her building on her own, her breathing coming in ragged gasps, the same moans I’d drawn from her in the hallway escaping her. Without thinking, I put the thong in my mouth. It tasted of salt, pussy, and me. I squeezed my balls with my free hand and moved the other up and down at full speed.

Renata let out a long, animal scream, and I imagined the face she was making, her mouth open, her eyes closed, her nipples hard beneath the water. I came into the toilet with a muffled moan, spat out the thong, and leaned against the wall, my cock in my hand and my breathing ragged.

My masturbation muse, I thought. And I laughed to myself.

Sunday passed without her calling me. I didn’t call her either. I stayed home, with the thong hanging from the back of my desk chair, smelling it every time I left the room and every time I came back. At eleven that night, I jerked off again, imagining she was doing the same thing in her bed, with two fingers inside her and my dried-up cum still on her skin. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn’t. I’d never know.