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

*Repost ‘cos I thought this would be a good one for this month’s contest :)*

My boyfriend looks good when he picks me up. He’s wearing a tux and his beard is short, the way I like it. We’re going to this foreign service gala at the National Gallery of Art. He puts his hand is on the small of my back when we walk inside. I know he likes how we look together.

I never quite fit in at these things. I’m usually the youngest person in the room and I always feel like I have to prove that I’m not just a pretty face. I try to be gracious and funny, and hold back my actual personality.

I’m in middle of this exact kind of thing when I see my boyfriend at the bar talking to a redhead. She turns and I recognize her. They dated for five years before he broke up with her somewhere in the Middle East, or maybe North Africa.

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

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.”

Wtf.

“You’re beautiful.” She says it like an accusation. I know what she’s actually saying. That I’m *only* beautiful. It annoys me she’s pegged my insecurity so easily.

“No, really. You’re gorgeous. Like, a trophy girlfriend.” There it is.

I don’t miss a beat. “You know… that does seem to be the consensus tonight, doesn’t it?” I look around the room insinuating that everyone is thinking what she’s saying.

She doesn’t really know what to say to that. I know she was expecting me to be embarrassed. She stutters, says some simp shit to my boyfriend and then makes an excuse to go back to the bar.

“You didn’t have to be rude,” my boyfriend says to me.

“She was trying to embarrass me!”

“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 called me a trophy girlfriend.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes!!”

“You’re really more of a participation medal girlfriend anyway,” he jokes.

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. That’s why I’m not actually a trophy girlfriend… but that’s what makes the sex so good. It the only time I submit to him.

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

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

*Shit. Wasn’t sure he’d actually go for it.*

“Someone could come in here…” I say.

“Who cares? Apparently, everyone is already thinking about it.” He presses me against the sink counter. “Hmm, you slut.” He kisses up my neck and around my ear.

“*Your* slut?”

“Maybe.” He grabs my hair and pulls me 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 neatly. This bathroom even smells astringent.

I know he’s fucking me like this because he doesn’t want anything to get on our clothes, but I don’t care. 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. My body twists in his grasp, I want it so bad.

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 feels intimate now, like I was only a whore in the reflection and now I’m me.

“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 catch my breath. I look down and see my makeup, spit, and handprints all over the mirror. A slutty finger painting.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/wjcl4n/the_surprising_consequences_of_being_called_a