#pervy!michael

However, his jealousy over you choosing someone other than him seeps through his work, stopping the devastating curl of his digits against the spongy spot that was having you see stars, pulling a whine from where you are on his lap.

“W-Why’d you stop?” His fingers stay still inside your cunt, how it aches for just a mere twitch from them. He hums into the side of your head, lips shy from the shell of your ear. “Am I making you feel good?”

Is he serious?

You nod nonetheless, anything to get him to start back up again. “Yes, yes, s-so fucking good..!”

And so he does, but a complete contrast from before. It’s slower now, deliberate. Pausing at the edge, not fully leaving you, only to linger, letting you feel the absence before pushing all the way back inside. Hand gripped to your hip, so you won’t dare to pick up the pace and try to grind down onto them.

“He doesn’t have you moaning like this, does he?” He muses, watching the way you screw up your face from the mention of your shitty boyfriend. Your cheeks by now should be reddening from humiliation, the way you’re seeking dire touches from your best friend rather than the man you’re dating, how he’s asking questions he already knows the answer to.

Michael just wants to hear you admit it. To admit who’s got you shaking like this, to admit that this is really happening, both of you not in a dream. That you’re giving him all the reign to touch you however you want, because you won’t find it better with anyone else but him.

You answer when his fingers halt again, not letting you ignore him. “No, he doesn’t.” You don’t have to pick your head up to know he’s smiling, thumb now pressed barely to your clit, enough to make the friction even more unbearable.

“Will you leave him?”

Your broken sounds are cut short, caught off-guard by his question. It didn’t occur to you, but you think about how the guilt will burn you from the inside out to go back to your boyfriend right after Michael had you unraveling in his hands.

Apparently you waited too long for his liking, fingers dragging out. You shake your head, needing back that overwhelming fullness. “No wait, I will! I want you, not him. He can’t make me feel good like you do.”

You’ll say anything to get him to reward you with your gradually built-up pleasure, but he sees right through it. The circling of his thumb to your clit stops, fingertip lingering at your entrance. “I don’t think you mean that.”

Your voice is wrecked at this point, clinging onto the fabrics of his shirt for god knows how long. “Please, please, I mean it! Just—“

With devastating ease, he presses back in with two fingers this time, babbles dying on your tongue. Your body clenches tight to adjust, but it’s pointless as he pulls out again.

“Tell me again. Who makes you feel good? Me or that punk?”

Your muscles flutter, thighs twitching. “You!” And he’s back to it, this time thrusting his fingers in sharper, firmer, shifting his wrist to reach new depths.

It was all so fast, being so use to his torturous slow strokes. It had your orgasm arriving quickly, feeling it come from all the way down to tip of your toes, pulse stuttering.

Until he stopped himself yet again. “I want to hear you say it one more time, because I’m still not sure if I believe you.”