The surprising consequences of being called a trophy girlfriend [FM]

I’m late for my flight. I’m sitting in my tub, pussy covered in shaving cream, trying to annihilate every trace of hair. The alarm on my phone goes off, which means my ass is supposed to be in an Uber right now, but I HAVE to finish. I want to be perfect for tonight.

He’s taking me to a gala. I bought the cheap flight, which means I have to go directly from airport to the event. As soon as the plane lands, I run to the bathroom to get ready. I put my dress and heels on and look weirdly out of place in the airport bathroom mirror.

My boyfriend looks good when he picks me up. He’s wearing a tux and his beard is short, hot Italian man summer length, just the way I like it. I tie his bowtie for him while watching a YouTube tutorial in the Uber on the way. We walk into the National Art Gallery with his hand on the small of my back. Most of the diplomatic community is here and I know he likes how people look at us when we walk into the room. He likes how we look together.

I never quite belong at these things. I’m young and hot, so no one expects much else out of me. When I talk, I’m more interesting than they think I’ll be. Which is another way of saying that I step over the bar they haven’t bothered to pick up off the floor. Then they look at me like *who is this chick?*

I’m in middle of this exact kind of thing when I see my boyfriend at the bar talking to a redhead. She turns. I know who she is. They dated for five years before he fell in love with his most recent ex. I think he broke up with redhead somewhere in the Middle East, or maybe North Africa. And now we’re all here.

*Fuck my life. She’s coming over here. I know this going to be some weird diplomatic territorial thing.*

She parts the group of people I’m talking to and fucking kisses me on the mouth. “I REALLY wanted to meet you! He’s told me so much about you.” My boyfriend is behind her so I’m not sure how much he sees.

This bitch is unhinged.

“You’re beautiful.” It’s not a compliment, it’s an accusation.

She’s calling me a trophy girlfriend. If she actually waited for me to open my mouth, she’d see I’m really more of a participation medal girlfriend. Too opinionated and brash. Not polished enough for gold, more dirty like bronze. My cheeks flush.

“No, really. You’re gorgeous. Like, trophy material.” There it is. She adds that coating of disbelief that women know how to use to hurt you. Think Regina George.

“You know…” I pause, then I smile before letting the next thing come out of my mouth.

“…that does seem to be the consensus tonight.”

Head on is really the only way to deal with a bully. Her mouth drops. *Fucking diplomats*. All bark, no bite. She awkwardly goes back toward the bar.

“Awww I think I scared her away.” I say to my boyfriend.

“You didn’t have to be such a bitch.”

“What? She was trying to embarrass me. She kissed me… on the mouth!”

“She was being nice!”

I don’t understand why the foreign service even bothers with men. They’re so fucking clueless.

“Oh my god. Wake up. She was basically calling me a trophy girlfriend.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes!!”

“So… you don’t want to be a trophy girlfriend… but you think everyone here thinks you’re hot?”

“Only the people with eyes.” *I don’t actually think this, but my brain has this problem of just… arguing. The responses just roll off my tongue.*

He looks at me and I know he’s deciding which path to go down. Diffuse and “enjoy” the rest of our evening among these boring fucks or… escalate and fuck me in one of the gallery rooms.

“I’ll show you what everyone thinks of you…” At least someone is up for some banter. This back and forth turns him on too. Makes it that much better when he claims me.

I know a part of him wants me to stand by his side, look at him with adoration. To defer to him like he’s smarter and knows better. But he’s not, and I can’t. I think that’s what makes the sex so good. It’s his way of making me submit.

He grabs my arm and brings me down the hallway. We turn into a bathroom that is too far for anyone to go to. Probably.

*Shit. He’s calling my bluff.*

“Someone could come in here…” I say.

“Who cares? They already know you’re a slut.” He’s letting me know how he’s going to fuck me. He presses me against the sink counter.

“*Your* slut?”

“Maybe.” He grabs my hair and pulls me up so my ear is right next to his mouth. “Maybe not.”

Sometimes he fucks me to humble me. Sometimes he fucks me to own me. Right now, we’re in the middle of that fucked up Venn diagram.

He puts my head down on the counter. For a second my face is held between the cold counter and his warm hand. He pulls my dress up. I hear him unzip his pants. I can see part of him in the mirror and I like seeing him pull his cock out. I like seeing him get ready to fuck me, position himself against my ass. I like seeing myself spread out in front of him, the anticipation growing and making me wet. I like seeing his my eyes meet mine in the mirror. He holds his cock with one hand and my ass with the other, bringing both closer until he’s inside me.

He moves slowly in and out. It’s pure fucking agony. I like it hard. I like it messy. I like it dirty. I hate when things are easy and clean.

And right now he’s fucking me very cleanly. This bathroom even smells astringent.

I want it harder. I whimper and whine and beg. I want it hard so I can come. Each slow stroke drives me crazy. I can really, really feel his cock inside me. And my body is twitching for more.

He answers my question without me asking it. “You’re not going to come. I want you to have to walk around horny after.”

He pushes me further against the counter so my face is right up against the glass. I stick my tongue out and lick it. My hair is covering part of my face and it looks like I’m making out with another chick. It fucking turns me on.

He’s all the way inside me and I gasp as my body shakes. He presses the side of my face against the glass and pushes it downward, making my ass arch back. My cheek is smushed, make up smeared, mouth open, inside of my top lip dragging against the glass. It feels so fucking good.

I can’t help it. I need it harder. One of my hands grabs my ass, and I push myself on and off his cock, using my hand and body together to ride him hard. His hands are on my waist, helping me. I look back at him directly for the first time, instead of in the mirror. My eyes narrow a little, and I let out a deep moan. He’s close. It’s intimate now, I’m looking at him softly and adoringly. I was only a whore in the reflection.

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” He says as he comes inside me. He pushes me so hard when he comes that my hand slams against the mirror to stop us from hitting it. We’re both panting.

“Welcome to the consensus.” I say as I push him off me. I look down and see my makeup, spit, and handprints all over the mirror. A slutty finger painting. I mean, we are in an art museum after all.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/t3lcsa/the_surprising_consequences_of_being_called_a