guys are bad at catching hints, and she’s tired of being subtle [MF] [young love]

Brooklyn eyes herself in her bedroom mirror, making sure her nipples poke through the thin pink t-shirt, that her red hair spills just-so down over her shoulders. She bites her lip and meditates on the basic white panties she has on. She decides to remove them. She replaces them with tight gray shorts, pulling them up taut, and is pleased to see how they hug her legs and cling to the shape of her puffy pussy, letting its outline show through.

She sucks in a breath, her heat rising at the thought of what she’s about to do, and exhales slowly, cools herself off. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?” she says to the mirror. The pretty girl there glows and smiles back.

“Perfect,” they say in unison.

She leaves her room, tiptoes down the dark hallway, heads towards the flickering lights.

“You guys are still up?” she says, knowing perfectly well that they were.

“Yeah,” says Sam, her brother, “So?” He’s distracted, eyes fixed to the screen where a bright blue video game sportscar zips through a loose interpretation of Tokyo.

“Hey, Chris,” Brooklyn says, hovering behind the couch. She feigns interest in their game.

“Hey,” says her brother’s friend, not looking up.

Brooklyn lingers a moment. Sam is on the floor, leaning back against the coffee table. Chris is on the couch behind him. He glances up at her, expression blank, a quick look before his attention returns to the screen.

She goes to the kitchen, fills a glass with water, and returns to the living room, not wanting to appear over-eager. She takes a seat on the couch, on the far side opposite Chris, catlike in how she curls her legs to her chest.

Chris’s car crashes into a wall, and he sighs.

“Can I try next?” she asks.

Sam frowns. “Really? Why?”

“Why not?” she shrugs.

Chris gives her a sidelong squint. “Sure.” He hands her the controller.

Brooklyn plays a round, does terribly. “Guess it’s not my game,” she says, leaning across the couch, handing the controller back, brushing her hand against Chris’s, like it was an innocence accident.

“You don’t have a game,” Sam says.

She ignores him, catches another peek from Chris. She smiles, her plan is working.

She turns her body towards Chris, watching the TV over her shoulder. “How late you staying?” she says.

“Dunno,” Chris shrugs, “Sammy, cool if I crash here again?” Waist down, he’s tucked himself beneath a blanket, already halfway there.

“Sure, whatever.” Sam’s eyes are glued to the screen.

“Guess pretty late,” Chris says.

The race ends, and Sam turns to look at his sister. “What’s it to you? What’re you even doing here?”

She rolls her eyes. “I was going to watch a show, but…” she gestures at the screen.

“I told you Chris was coming over,” Sam whines, “And that we were going to be using the TV.”

“Yes, obviously.”

The next race begins, and Sam turns back.

Brooklyn stretches out, laying down across the couch, deliberately putting her feet at Chris’s side, pretending to be fascinated by what’s on screen. Slowly, over the course of the next minute, she wiggles a foot under Chris’s blanket, rests her heel against his crotch.

She feels him tense, then relax. He glances at her, eyes wide, catches her smile. She twists her foot, nestling it into him, against his dick. It throbs, pulses against her heel. She knows she’s found his sweet spot, works it more.

Soon, she has him hard, and she bats at his erection with her toes.

Chris gasps, grabs her ankle, his grip powerfully strong, but he hesitates. He neither pulls her onto him nor pushes her away. Instead, he lets her go.

Brooklyn bites her lip, sits up, makes a show of yawning. She stretches her arms out, arches her back, grins at Chris as he watches. “Let’s fuck,” she mouths silently. His brow furrows. “I’m pretty tired,” she says, “Think I’m going to go turn in now.”

Sam shakes his head. “What are you even still doing here?”

She sighs. “Sam, you’re an asshole. Sweet dreams, Chris.”

“Night,” Chris says, staring at her as she stands up and stretches again, staring as she walks around the couch, staring as she makes her way down the hall. She reaches her bedroom door, glances back, sees him still staring. She blows him a kiss then slips inside.

She turns her lights off, but keeps her door cracked. It only takes a few minutes before Chris’s muffled words echo down the hallway, “I don’t know man, I’m pretty tired, too.”

“Dude, what? You never sleep.” That was Sam.

Chris holds his ground, “It’s been a long day, dude.”

“Whatever.”

Brooklyn climbs onto her bed in the darkness, alert and attuned to the noises of the house. She hears Sam’s clumsy, loud footsteps come down the hall, visit the restroom, stomp into his bedroom. Then Chris’s gentler stride follows. She listens attentively as the sink turns off, poised to find out whether her plan has worked.

Chris’s footfalls grow softer, and she strains to hear, but loses track.

And then, just when she’s about to give up hope, from her doorway she hears Chris whisper, “Can I come in?”

She jumps, startled.

“Sorry,” he whispers, “I’ll go, I didn’t mean–”

“No!” she says, voice hushed, “Yes! Come in, now. Close the door behind you. You’re so quiet. I didn’t even hear the door open, is all.” She flips a nightlight on, dim, barely sufficient to see by, but it’s enough.

“Oh, I, uhh–” He’s like a deer in headlights, staring at Brooklyn.

She’s laying out on her bed, on her side, striking her most inviting pose. “Get the fuck over here.”

He shakes his head as if in disbelief, then lays down next to her, stiff and awkward.

“Am I coming on too strong?” she says, rubbing his chest.

“No!” he protests, “I, um, I just don’t understand–”

“You boys, you’re so bad at catching hints. I’m tired of being subtle.” Her hand slips down his chest, grabs his crotch through his jeans. “Take these off.”

“Ok, but, can I, like, ask a question?”

She laughs as he undresses. “What?”

“I thought you hated me.”

Brooklyn pulls his shirt up. It gets stuck on his shoulders, and she has to yank it free. “Why do you say that?”

“Um, because,” he starts, “Back in high school, you called me a loser and told me to get fucked.”

“Huh,” she grins, runs her finger over his muscles, “That does sound like me. I mean, I probably said that, back when you were just my little brother’s annoying friend. But that was, like, a long time ago. He’s still annoying. You got cool.”

Chris scoffs. “Thanks.”

“And you also had that stuck up girl always hanging around. What her name? Katy or something?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

Brooklyn laughs. “So, are we just hanging out, or are you going to kiss me?”

He rolls onto his side, presses his lips against hers. She moans in delight as his tongue slips between her teeth, his arm slides around her shoulders. He pulls her into him, keeps rolling until he’s on top of her, his weight pressing her down into her own bed.

“Fuck,” she groans, heat blooming inside her, “Touch me.” She spreads her knees wide, making it explicit that he is welcome between her thighs. He reaches down, rubbing her pussy through her shorts. She returns the favor, gripping his growing erection. Her hands scramble at his shorts, vainly shoving his waistband down. “Get these fucking clothes out of the way…”

Chris props himself up, holding his face over her, grinning. “Wait.”

“I’m tired of waiting,” she says, “I’ve been waiting forever.”

“I want to go down on you first.”

“Oh!” her eyes open in surprise, “Well why didn’t you say. Today’s my lucky fucking day.”

He climbs off the bed, holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

“I intend to,” she grins, taking his hand, standing up. “Where are we going?”

“Beanbag chair,” he tilts his head.

She laughs. “I knew there was a reason I kept that damn thing all these years.”

She stands by the beat-up old blue beanbag chair while Chris kneels in front of her. His gaze locked on her, he strokes her thigh, then tugs her shorts down. He steals a glance at her pussy — shaved, wet, plump, needy — and mutters, “Fuck yes.”

He plucks at her sex, teasing her legs, her lips, before leaning in with his tongue and gently sliding it up through her heat. It brushes her clit with the faintest touch, and she moans loudly, “Oh… fuck…”

“Shhh!” he admonishes, guiding her back onto the low beanbag chair.

“Fuck it,” she says, relaxing into the old plastic, letting it mold to her shape. She spreads her legs wide, wide as she can, and runs her hand over her pussy, sliding a finger inside herself, showing off for Chris. “Let them hear.”

Chris stares as she strokes herself, the cutest look of awe and veneration on his face. She works her hand into a rhythm, feeding off his excitement at witnessing her masturbate. “You can take over,” she says, “In a few minutes.”

He watches, pure reverence, as she pinches her nipple through her shirt, bites her lip. Her fingers pump in and out of her, dripping with sex, while her thumb massages her clit. She moans, really getting herself off, plied by having such a rapt audience.

She decides that if this is what he wants, she’ll keep going, that it would be incredibly hot to make herself orgasm under his scrutiny. So she’s almost a little disappointed when he pulls her hand away. But then his tongue slides through her pussy, and all frustrations are immediately forgotten.

Chris’s tongue is soft and powerful and silky smooth in its caress of her clit, and she moans loudly as her eyes roll back in her head. He laps and licks, kissing and teasing her thighs, sliding up her lips, drinking her in from top to bottom and back again, and she’s in heaven. Her hand finds his head, and she pushes her fingers through his scalp, pulling him onto her, letting him feel her need. He responds in kind, focusing his attention on her clit, pushing it this way and that as his tongue slides past it, around it, against it.

She moans, “Oh fuck yes…” and looks down, sees him looking up at her. They lock eyes, and her jaw hangs slack. She groans and quick breaths escape from her mouth. “Fucking hell, you’re–”

But her words get cut off and she clenches her teeth and tenses up. Her legs quiver as she shoves his face into her. His tongue flicks her clit at a furious tempo, and the pleasure hits like a avalanche — absolute and overwhelming. Tears well in her eyes as she welcomes in the bliss.

When Brooklyn blinks herself back to awareness, her eyes widen in shock at the influx of a new pleasure. She looks up, sees Chris, his face near hers, straining. She looks down, watches as his hips meet hers. She doesn’t understand at first, is still too dazed from the orgasm. But his hips pull back, rush into hers again, and again she is washed through with pleasure.

And then, finally, it clicks — Chris is fucking her. His cock is inside of her. “Fuck me,” she groans. She rejoices, then the pleasure explodes in her again, and her eyelids flutter as she moans.

His face is screwed up in pleasure, and Brooklyn wants him more. She grabs his head, pulls his lips to hers, and makes out with him while they fuck.

But they heave to breath, and so they break the kiss, foreheads pressed together. Chris pumps his hips, panting.

“You’re so fucking deep,” she moans, “Cum inside me.”

He grins, “I’m just getting warmed up,” and he slams his hips into her even harder.

“Ohhnnnggg…” she moans, on the edge of delirium.

He moves his hands to her arms, pinning them in place on the beanbag, tight against her sides. She wasn’t doing much with them, but even still, his simple act of potency is all it takes to surge bliss into her, and she climaxes again, her pussy spasming as Chris drives himself into her over and over.

His rhythm is unflinching, a drumbeat of ecstasy resonating inside of her. The pleasure crescendos, but it doesn’t diminish, it just builds and builds to impossible heights. Brooklyn can’t tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. She’s a ragdoll, Chris’s blue eyes piercing her whenever she surfaces, his expression of determined need a virile intoxicant.

When he cums, he grunts and jerks, his hips bucking into hers. His seed fills her and fulfills her, and an immense peace washes through as he collapses onto her, his weight pressing down, a reassuring heat. They kiss, this time a slower, less frantic exchange, saying nothing. The insistency of his body on hers comforts her, makes her feel secure, and she doesn’t want it to end.

But of course it must, and Chris pulls himself off, saying, “That was great, like, really, really great. But I need to get back to the couch.”

“No you don’t,” she says, watching him pull his shorts back on, “You should stay. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“What do you mean?”

She giggles. “More sex, you idiot.”

“Oh.”

It’s early in the morning. Brooklyn stirs, slips out of her pajamas, gets back into bed naked. She strokes Chris’s shoulders, admires his chest. Then her hand drifts down, slides under his waistband and finds his dick. He’s limp, but she knows how to fix that. She tugs gently, rubbing his cock hard.

He gasps awake, blinks, realizes what’s happening and grins. He shoves his shorts off and leans back, watching as Brooklyn yanks on him.

“Remember a year ago,” she says, “When I had to practically jack you off to get you to notice me.”

He laughs. “How could I forget that? That next morning — Sam was pretty pissed, but your parents just kept cracking up.” He gasps as Brooklyn rubs her thumb on his glans. “And for the record, I had already noticed you. I was just afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me?” she mocks an innocent expression, “What’s to be afraid of?” She squeezes his balls.

He groans, rolls his legs out, gives her easier access.

“I was just thinking,” she continues, “We’ve sure come a long way since that night. This whole place, it doesn’t even feel real.” She nods at the floor-to-ceiling window behind her, delivering a view of the city sprawled out beyond, the street a hundred meters below, neighboring towers jutting through the morning mist. The beat-up old blue beanbag chair rests in the corner.

“I know,” he says, “It’s like I’m leading someone else’s life, like I don’t deserve these things. This apartment. Big city. New job. Beautiful girlfriend.”

“Aww,” she blushes, “You definitely deserve this–” she grips his cock extra tight, “–just for rescuing me from another year living with my parents.”

His chest is heaving, the handjob is working its way into him. “Yeah, you’re a real damsel in distress.”

“Shut up,” she giggles, “I think you should finish on my tits.”

“Ok.”

Chris stands up and faces the window, and Brooklyn kneels in front of him, his cock in her fist. She strokes him, hard, pumping her thumb up and down his vein, staring him in the eye. Her back is arched, chest out, tits bouncing.

She rubs his glans on her nipple. “You’re going to fucking cum all over me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he groans.

“You’ve got a big fucking load in there that you’re going to spray on my tits.”

“On your face.”

“The whole city’s going to watch you paint your sexy-ass girlfriend white.”

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. And then the cum spurts from him, spraying out in thick ropes. The load flings wild as she jerks him off and squeezes his balls, spunk flying past her, all over her, dripping from her hair, face, chest, legs.

“Yes!” she cheers, pumping him with strong, steady strokes. With her other hand, she runs her fingers through his cum, rubs it into her nipple. Then she brings his dick to her other breast where she squeezes the last of his load out.

He takes a step back, falls onto the bed in a daze, while Brooklyn admires her handiwork, her boyfriend’s seed coating her.

“I love you,” he says.

She smiles, even though he can’t see it. “Love you, too.”

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vz3xub/guys_are_bad_at_catching_hints_and_shes_tired_of