This isn't weird.

How To Help

 Just once, Millie had said.

But Ben didn't believe her for a second.

After she left for work, he went about his day in a blissful haze, distracted by vivid memories of her willing little body writhing underneath him, her soft pink lips wrapped around the base of his cock, her naked, glistening thighs, trembling with orgasm, spread wide just for him. All he could think about was how soon he could get those legs to open for him again.

Though he recognized that his judgment may have been somewhat skewed by his own unmanageable libido, Ben was damn near certain that Millie must be similarly consumed with thoughts of reenacting those memories as soon as possible. He imagined her at the bookstore, blithe and unfocused, lost in reverie, probably still wet. Was she feeling embarrassed, or perhaps smug, about walking around all day with his ejaculate still slowly trickling out of her?

By that evening, eight hours of nonstop sexual fantasy had him feeling a little reckless. On a wild impulse, he shot her a very straightforward text message: Come over and let me fuck you.

As soon as he hit send, panic hit him like a punch in the gut. What the fuck was he doing? The risk of scaring her off completely with that kind of forwardness was astronomical. Scrambling for a way to soften his tone, he sent a follow-up message: Also, I have ice cream!

Ugh. Very smooth, Ben.

The message was marked as read within a few seconds, and he waited anxiously for signs of a reply. There was no indication that she was typing. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She was never going to speak to him again—

The doorbell rang. His heart nearly stopped. It couldn't be her. It had barely been two minutes; she would have to have already been downstairs when he texted her. He rushed to the door, pulled it open, and holy shit, there she was.

In a skirt.

A short skirt.

They stared at each other, both looking equally bewildered, then he pulled her in, slammed the door shut, and pushed her up against it. There was no time to undress. She tore open the front of his jeans while he forced up her skirt; in a matter of seconds, he found his way inside her. Later, when he was toweling the cum from her thighs, Millie said with a smile, "I was told there would be ice cream."

"Yes, I suppose you've earned it," Ben agreed.

"Is it chocolate?" she asked.

He looked offended. "Obviously it's chocolate!" he scoffed, then stumbled back as she abruptly gave into the impulse to assault him with a barrage of gleeful kisses. Sex and icecream and kisses—for a moment, it all felt entirely perfect. Surely this was the moment at which his life had peaked. But he knew in the back of his mind that this wasn't real, at least not in the way he wanted it to be. Still, that was no reason not to enjoy himself in the present.

They ate in his bed, then played a round of Mario Kart—or rather, he made her play a round in single player mode while he fucked her from behind, a fantasy he had carried since that first night in her apartment. She played terribly. They explicitly avoided discussing anything about what they were doing, even when his gentlemanly offer to walk her to her car resulted in an extended and particularly vigorous make-out session in the elevator.

The next morning found Ben no less obsessed with the question of when their next encounter would be. No matter the answer, it wasn't soon enough. He couldn't stand to wait through her entire work day. Emboldened by the success of last night's blunt proposition, he gave into the temptation to take it a step further.