Your best friend bets he can’t make you cum within 30 minutes. (M/F, slight edgeplay, slight overstim)

“No way.”

James smirks as you make a disbelieving face at him, the two of you sprawled on the mattress of his bed. “No way?”

“No way,” you repeat, snickering. “You’re so full of shit.”

“Really?” He elbows you, and there’s a faint blush on his face but it’s overpowered by the teasing look in his gaze. Your best friend feigns offense. “You don’t think I could do it?”

“No,” you drawl. “Thirty minutes? No fucking way.”

“I think you’re biased because you’ve never been with anyone good enough,” James snarks. He peers at you through loose curls and skewed glasses, and your heart skips a beat. “Your last hookup was… what, that weird stoner? He doesn’t even look like he could turn you on, let alone get you there in thirty minutes.”

You blush at how explicit the conversation’s become, but you’re not about to back down now. You keep eye contact with him as you challenge, “Sure, whatever, like you’re much better.”

“Oh, but I am,” James murmurs, and he doesn’t look away.

You barely refrain from making an embarrassing sound, but James seems to catch how flustered you are anyway. Smirking, he sits up straighter. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Fuck off,” you mutter. “Just because you’re a flirt doesn’t mean you’re good with girls. You probably can’t even tell when they’re faking it.”

“Really,” he says, and it’s a fucking *challenge*, you can tell, because he’s got that glint in his eye that only comes out before a game or a risky prank and *oh god.* “I’d be willing to bet a week’s worth of math homework on that.”

“James, you’re fucking terrible at math.”

“English, then.” He flicks your ear, and a familiar dynamic returns between you two. “Brat.”

“Jerk,” you mumble. But James is pretty spectacular at Literature, one of your worst subjects. Plus… Fuck, how could you turn that challenge down? James could’ve wagered a piece of pocket lint and you would’ve taken it.

“Fine,” you say, and James’ eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and delight.

“You’re agreeing?” he asks incredulously.

“I can’t wait for you to fail so I can lord it over you for eternity,” you tease, trying to ignore how excited you were over the idea. Over James, his teasing glances and smirks and his lips and his fingers and everything, because damned if you haven’t been fantasizing about James ever since you met him. “I’ll wager a week of math homework.”

“I don’t need a wager from you,” James dismisses, almost bouncing with excitement. “Fucking hell, I didn’t think you’d agree, is this a dream?”

“Someone’s excited.” You raise an eyebrow. “So eager to lose?”

“Oh, you’re going to regret your words,” he warns. “Mark my words.”

You laugh, but there’s something in his tone that sounds sincere. And maybe, just maybe, it turns you on. Just maybe.

“What are you waiting for, the—”

And then James is kissing you, his soft lips pressing against yours, and his fingers fist your hair and he’s tugging, kissing you with such a ferocity you’d think he was starving for it.

Because he is.

“You’re sure you want this?” he whispers in your ear, along with an almost tender murmur of your name.

“You have no fucking clue,” you giggle, and that’s more than enough confirmation for James as he tugs at your tie, undoing the buttons of your blouse enough to reveal your bra.

“Can I…”

You pull him back up to kiss him gently and murmur, “Clock’s ticking. Whatever you want to do to me, you have my full permission.”

Because, you know, he’s going to need all the help he can get to get you to come in thirty minutes. Obviously. Not because you’ve been craving his touch for *so goddamn long.*

“So eager,” James murmurs, almost laughingly, and he trails a hand down your unbuttoned shirt. In one bold movement, he pushes your bra up and exposes your breasts to the chill air of the room, and you let out a breathy gasp.

James stares at you for a few seconds, taking it in. Then he reaches out, flicks a nipple, and laughs at the small sound of protest you make. “You’re so fucking pretty. I knew you’d be. Thought about it for s’long, but the real thing doesn’t compare at all.”

*He thought about it?*

And then James leans down to take a nipple into his mouth, teasing it gently with the edge of his teeth and soothing it with his tongue, and you whine softly. You never knew how fucking sensitive you were there.

“Your sounds, too,” he muses. “I’ve never imagined them to be so pretty.”

You’re on the edge of making a sarcastic quip back but then he backs up and pushes your skirt up and *oh*.

“Oh,” James says, mirroring your thoughts. But his voice is fused with amusement, satisfaction—with *hunger*. He traces a light, faint line up your thigh and at the edge of your panties, and then, oh so lightly, he presses down on where it fucking *aches*.

“You’re so wet already, darling,” he teases, and he presses down more and you gasp with how good even that slightest bit of stimulation feels. “Where are your little taunts now, hm?”

*I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know* is the only thing flashing in your mind. And is it pathetic that you’ve become such a mess with, what, three light touches and a few kisses?

Absolutely.

Does it bother you?

*Not at all.*

“James,” you grit out, “if you don’t touch me right now, I swear—”

“Oh, there you are,” he says, nonchalantly, casually, as if he isn’t currently leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss through your soaked panties, as if he isn’t the first person ever to turn you on so much, as if he isn’t your best friend who you want so fucking badly to ruin you.

You buck your hips up to meet his touch and he pulls away, and you let out a petulant *”James.”*

He says your name back to you in the same tone, mockingly. “Stay still now, pet. Be good.”

*Be good.*

You shudder at his words and you pray he doesn’t notice, but *of course* he does.

“You like that?” A smile plays on James’ lips. “Hm.”

He glances at the clock that hangs above his bed and hums thoughtfully. “Only eight minutes in, and you’re already such a mess. I’m starting to think I might win this bet, after all.”

“Stop fucking monologuing,” you plead.

“So impatient,” James tsks, but he obliges and finally, finally, pulls your panties off your legs. He tosses the soaked fabric aside and taps your lips with his index finger. “Open.”

You part your mouth and close your lips around his fingers, swirling your tongue around them and making eye contact with James the entire way. He knows what you’re insinuating. He fucking knows.

“Fucking *tease*,” he mutters, and you wink at him.

When he’s satisfied that his fingers are wet enough, James pulls them out of your mouth, and both your gazes are a bit glazed over with desire. He has the upper hand, though, because when he glances at you and smirks and sinks a finger into your tight cunt something in you *breaks* and you let out a broken gasp.

“You’re so responsive,” James murmurs, fucking you slowly with one finger. “I haven’t even really done anything yet.”

He circles your clit with his free hand, drawing deep, slow circles around your most sensitive part, and you buck your hips imperceptibly with every little touch.

“Faster,” you whisper.

“What was that?” And he *slows down,* the bastard.

But really, what have you got to lose by a bit of begging?

“Go *faster*,” you plead.

“Ask nicely,” James teases. It’s a bit of a test, too—a *Do you like this? Is this alright?*

“Please,” you breathe. *Yes, it’s okay, please make me feel good, James—*

James smiles, slow and pretty. “All you had to do was ask.”

And he starts pumping his finger in faster, leaning down to work your clit with his tongue as he finger-fucks you, and somewhere along the line he decides you’re loose enough and he slips a second finger in and you gasp at the burn, at how *good* it feels—

His tongue is magic, you decide, because there’s no conceivable way he could be making you feel that good on his own. No fucking way.

“James,” you whisper, because you’re getting close somehow, already, and you’re well aware of how much of a hypocrite you are but you don’t care. “James, oh, *don’t stop.”*

But he does, lifting his head up from where his tongue has been working magic and giving you a smirk, his lips covered in slick. “Oh, desperate, are we? Getting close, pet?”

“Maybe,” you say reluctantly.

“Maybe?” James raises an eyebrow. He flicks his gaze toward the clock. “Eight minutes left. If you’re only maybe getting close, then perhaps I should forfeit, hm?”

And to your horror, he actually starts drawing his fingers out, and you panic. “No! No, no, no, James, I’m close, *please*, don’t stop.”

And he laughs, flicking your clit lightly and enjoying how you squirm. “Brat,” he says again.

But then he starts fucking you again, his fingers working you, and when he leans down and presses a final, languid kiss onto your sensitive clit, you whimper out a strangled version of his name and you come, swift and bright and intense.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper, because it feels *so good* and you’re riding a high you’ve never felt before. No one’s ever made you feel this good—not even close. “Holy shit.”

But then you come down from the high and you realize that James *isn’t stopping.*

“Ja—ah, fuck,” you gasp, as your clit starts to protest from overstimulation. “Please, god, oh—”

He lifts his head up but his fingers don’t stop working you as he locks gazes with you, all innocent and doe-like. “What’s the matter?”

“Too much,” you pant. “It’s—too much.”

“Is it?” To emphasize, he thumbs your clit, and you gasp.

“I—”

“There’s five minutes left on the clock, pet,” James says, and he watches as realization dawns on your face—the unspoken price of losing the bet. “C’mon now, love, you can take it, can’t you?”

And you know you could say no. You could push him away, tell him to stop, and he would do it.

*But you don’t want to.*

You want to be good for him.

And so you nod your head and he grins so wide, so delightedly, that in that moment you would’ve let him do whatever the hell he wanted to you.

“Good girl,” he praises you, and your cunt clenches around his fingers in arousal.

James speeds up again, fucking you roughly, and you whimper as your sensitive, *too sensitive* cunt takes the abuse. You let out a desperate whine, squirming at every little touch as you let James utterly, thoroughly, take you apart.

“Fuck, fuck, oh god, it’s—” You squeeze your eyes shut and moan as waves of pleasure start to overtake you, melting away your earlier discomfort into something sharp and desperate and familiar. “James, I’m going to—”

“Come for me, love,” James murmurs, and you do, coming for the second time with a loud gasp and his name on your lips like a mantra, right as the clock hits thirty minutes exactly. “That’s it, that’s it, so fucking pretty, pet, you’re so good for me.”

You come down from your high slowly, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving with every breath. You wonder what you look like—fucked out and blissed and ruined, no doubt.

You hear someone say your name. Again. And another time.

Opening your eyes, you see James hovering anxiously above you, murmuring your name worriedly. “Are you alright?”

It takes you a moment to find the right words. “I think,” you say, slowly, “it’s fair to say you won this bet.”

He cracks a mischievous grin, and a soft touch at your chest alerts you to how he’s buttoning up your shirt, oh-so-gently. “You think so?”

A wet rag sponges at your thighs and in-between your legs. It’s soothing, comforting, and you sigh contentedly. But a realization hits.

“You didn’t get off,” you say, almost accusingly. You glance down, and sure enough, James is visibly hard. You try not to think about how much that alone turns you on.

“Don’t worry about me, love.”

“But—”

“Shh.” James leans over and presses a soft kiss to your forehead. He gets into bed next to you, snuggling up close. “Next time, yeah? You can make it up to me next time.”

*Next time.* You could almost cheer.

“Alright,” you say, leaning against his shoulder. He’s all too happy to let you do so. “Next time it is.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/rkmedo/your_best_friend_bets_he_cant_make_you_cum_within