My Sexy Futa Bestie Preview
Cheyenne stares at the clock before her. This isn’t unusual. She finds she spends a large amount of her time staring at clocks, waiting for things to happen. Waiting for deliveries at work, waiting for the moment she can clock out of work, waiting for the day bills are due so she can avoid paying them until the very last possible moment, waiting for her favorite show, and waiting for her best friend Whitney whenever they’re supposed to meet up during the week.
The latter of these waiting games is always her favorite.
Today just so happens to be the day that this meet up will hopefully change the course of their friendship, because quite frankly Cheyenne is sick of being Whitney’s best friend when all she wants to do is suck the hell out of her futanari cock.
They’ve been friends since they were kids, and admittedly, Cheyenne has probably always been a little in love with Whitney. Who could resist those dark eyes, dark hair, and radiant smile that showed off the cute little gap between her two front teeth? A gap Whitney hated, but just adds to her charm? And that body — the lithe, toned muscles, beneath smooth skin marred only by tattoos and piercings that do not bely the shyness beneath. Just the thought of Whitney, the very memory of pine and leather scents that clings to her, leaves Cheyenne aching and wet.
She’d discovered her best friend’s secret when she’d gone over to Whitney’s one day, unannounced, to surprise her for her birthday. It had surprised Cheyenne when she followed the sounds of low groans and the lewd sounds of slapping skin. She hadn’t meant to snoop. It was partial curiosity because Whitney hadn’t mentioned a partner of any kind -let alone a sexual one- and partial jealousy because she’d wanted to be Whitney’s first. But she’d soon discovered that Whitney was alone and the slapping skin she’d heard had come from Whitney’s hand grasping the largest cock the blonde had ever seen.
It glistened, slick with lube and pre-cum that pearled even while Whitney stroked what had to be over nine inches of meaty thickness that made Cheyenne’s mouth watered. Whitney’s back was turned, providing Cheyenne the perfect opportunity to watch her friend masturbate furiously, passionately as her panting breaths penetrated the air.
“Fuck,” Whitney’d groaned as her hand blurred and her abdomen clenched. “Oh fuck, Cheyenne…”
Her name. Whitney had moaned her name. At first Cheyenne thought she was imagining it, but as Whitney arched, her breaths growing rapid and jagged, she said it again. Moaned it right before she came, creamy spurts of cum trickling down her fingers.
Cheyenne’s panties were so wet she didn’t know how her arousal hadn’t bled right through to display itself on the dark denim of her jeans, but she’d left quickly and quietly to fuck herself into oblivion.
And she’s just as aroused now.
It only grows worse as the second hand tick, tick, ticks, drawing the moment that Whitney will walk through her apartment door closer.
Cheyenne lies on the sofa while the television plays some show she lost interest in hours ago. It’s become mindless background noise as she spreads her thighs. Her lower lip is drawn between the white tiers of her teeth. She tells herself that she’ll wait and allow the anticipation to build, but her swelling clit throbs mercilessly.
There’s isn’t a stitch beneath her shirt to keep the slightly rough pads of her fingertips at bay as she slides them between toned thighs to dip into her heat. It’s scandalous, sure. But Cheyenne is bold. It’s why she and Whitney have always worked. She takes risks, Whitney doesn’t. She explores and drags Whitney along.
And she explores now.
Explores the slippery wetness of her cunt with a fervor and familiarity of one who’s always ready to fuck, ready to come, ready to drown all other thoughts in the intensity of bliss. She’s so wet her fingers grow slick instantly with the creamy sweetness of her arousal.
Her free hand slips further up to clutch the heavy weight of her right breast, manipulating the soft flesh with kneading massages as her lids flutter closed.
“Whitney,” she breathes, like a prayer. Like the mere syllables will somehow conjure her best friend…
And it does.