My friend, Samantha, finishes the job [MF]

About four months ago, I was spending a little alone time with myself. Natural, semi-daily habits we’ve all come to know and enjoy. What made this Friday afternoon so unique was I had a little help — one might say had a helping hand — in finishing from my good friend Samantha.

Samantha and I have been — and continue to be, even after the activity — friends for about three years. I’m a senior in college, she’s a junior. Samantha, Sam for short, has been among the six of us who have been friends since day one of college. We’ve gone to parties, classes, Spring Breaks, all that stuff together as a group.

There was a brief time when I had feelings for her, she rejected me and we got past it. That was probably three years ago, too. But other than that, we’ve been great friends ever since introduction.

Sam is a wildly energetic woman, with minimal acknowledgement for her surroundings. She flails when she dances, drinks too much on a Saturday night and sleeps too long on a Sunday morning — if that was even a thing.

She’s about 5’9, 180 pounds. She’s not out of shape by any means, but isn’t fit either. She wears casual clothes, all the time. A nice pair of snug jeans that accentuate her rather large rear; a tight-fitting tank under a denim long sleeve was always a go-to for her, or some other kind of graphic T.

She sported nothing smaller than a C Cup. I once asked her and she blurted out “Double Ds!” as a joke, never giving me a real estimate. And from what I learned, she keeps is shaven down under.

On Fridays, I come home earlier than my other two roommates. I’ve got about three hours to myself before James comes back, then Reese trickles in about 15 minutes later. That’s usually the best time I’ve got to have a little fun.

We’ve also got a fairly wide “open door” policy at our apartment. We know the four or five others who don’t need to knock and when they usually come over. But, as I learned, there’s always an exception.

That particular Friday, I got back, stripped down into nothing and hopped under the covers. With the fear of anyone I knew was coming home, coming home early, I plugged the earbuds in for sound to the videos I was browsing. It didn’t take long before the covers had me warmed up, but my hand was warming everything else up faster.

I was maybe 15-20 minutes in some casual browsing when the door flung open. There was zero chance I could have come up with an on-the-fly excuse for what I was doing.

Sam screamed. I barked. And we both stared for what seemed like a minute, but was merely a couple of seconds. And then, laughter.

I flung my head back onto my pillow, pulling the covers up to my neck belting. She had slammed her back against the wall and slid down into a squatting position laughing even harder.

“What in the actual fuck?!” she exclaimed at me, like I was the bad guy. “Why wouldn’t you, yano, lock the door or something?” She could barely get a breath in while laughing at my embarrassment.

“Didn’t think I’d have to, knowing I had the place to myself for the next few hours!” I joked back. “It is MY room and MY apartment after all.”

We laughed, and stared and laughed some more. I was covering my errection even though it was well hidden under the covers. On this particular day, I noticed Sam went the extra Friday mile: Additional makeup around her eyes, long, straightened hair down past her shoulders; black painted-on jeans and fuzzy wool socks. And the unmistakable “Coke” shirt she wore, a vintage red T she loved because it was “sooooooo soft.”

“So, what do you got under there?” she asked, hopping up and then kneeling at the foot of my bed. I retreated, an inch, maybe two, and nervously laughed.

“Only your wiiiiildest dream,” I joked, giving her the ‘you know full well’ kind of look. And then, for the first time all day, silence. She looked down at her phone, then tossed her handbag onto my desk chair.

“Well, maybe I should take a look?” she said.

I was stunned. I must have had a shocked or some other kind of face, because she just laughed and pulled the covers down to my waist, waiting for me to give the OK to go the extra couple inches.

“I….can’t tell if this is some kind of joke or –” I said as she climbed in with me. Her skin, her pants, everything was still cold from the winter outside. But it was 95 inside my room.

“Nothing. This is nothing but some Friday fun. I just….I want to help. If you’re OK with that and you know, understand I’m not into into you. Like that. Yano what I mean?” She stammered a bit as she was lying next to me. My heart was racing. Her hand was ice cold but it was running down my chest to my stomach and in no time, it’d be wrapped around the warmest part of my body.

“Yeah. No. I know what you mean. I just don’t know why,” I said. And then, she kissed me. On my cheek, then my neck as she slid down the covers next to me, propping herself up with her left elbow, and running her right hand along my balls. Then, back up the shaft, and repeat.

“No reason. Just, fun, remember?” she whispered in my ear. I felt a release of blood rushing through my face, then into my neck as her grip got tighter and the wheels began to churn.

“Can… can I touch you too?” I asked in between reaffirming breaths. A soft “mhmm” followed as she repositioned the front of her pants toward me.

Reaching around her stroking, I unbuttoned her jeans and slid my left hand in onto her hood. It was prickly, shaven yesterday or even this morning. And it was warm and moist. I began rubbing her clit as she stroked faster. It was uncomfortable, the tanglement of our arms, and we both knew it and recognized it.

“Here, scoot over,” she said, letting me go and trying to slide under me. I moved, then straddled her, my chest almost touching her nose. “Is this how they were doing it in the video?” she asked, giving a light laugh. I said nothing, but massaged her harder as she began to buck about underneath me.

She was doing a fantastic job and I couldn’t resist kissing her in the same reaffirming ways. I got her cheek and her neck, a lot of her forehead and then once on the lips before she pulled away.

She wiggled about and removed my hand from her pants. She latched on to my hip with one hand and began aggressively stroking the other.

As I began to turn the final corner, she saw me coming in hot. “On my belly,” she said, lifting up that soft shirt. She was right, it was soft and was sprinkled with precum drops my tip had rubbed up against. He belly was round, not fat or pudgy, just barely protruding from the rest of her body.

I got up on my knees sort of and begged like a six year old. The strokes got faster and harder until warm strings of cum peppered her chest, stomach and eventually globbing out onto her hands. Her shirt was unwearable, with three large dark streaks running from her right nipple down around the rolled up part.

I bucked and kicked as she continued stroking along even after I had finished. And then, laughter.

We haven’t spoken about that afternoon or done anything remotely like it again. I doubt we will, but it’s a memory I’ll cherish. Hopefully you enjoyed!

If you have any questions or want other details, please PM or comment!

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/8b2pg3/my_friend_samantha_finishes_the_job_mf

5 comments on “My friend, Samantha, finishes the job [MF]

  1. If she’s 5’9” 180 she’s definitely out of shape. I think you’re probably just overestimating her weight or underselling her body shape.

  2. Love the story. Remember a similar one-off situation back in college once. You will keep dialing that one back up in your memory for decades.

  3. I like this story. I’m surprised an FWB situation can’t be had but they avoided kissing is definitely a sign.

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