The End Zone

by L.J. Shen

lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.” I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because I know I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my needy pussy. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit and rubbing against it. “Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet. I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.