The Ex (Futa/F, rough)

A one-shot story about rough sex between a futa and a girl, because that is all I want out of life. :16:

The Ex

I fucking hate my ex.

We bumped into each other for the first time in over a year at an art exhibition. I still felt a surge of panic, fear and lust when I saw her. She wasn’t difficult to spot – amongst the expensive designer suits and elegant evening dresses, she was dressed in a red leather halterneck top and slashed jeans. Her short black hair was tousled and messy, and her lying eyes were as large and innocent as ever. She was nonchalantly handling one of the sculptures. It was a Barbie doll BDSM diorama, and she had taken the gimp-hooded Ken doll to check under its leather thong.

When she saw me, her lush red lips curled in a predatory smile. She looked me over in a way that made my Marc Jacobs dress feel far too flimsy and low-cut. Hell, it was too low-cut – the neckline plummeted to my navel. Still, I had been working out. My stomach was smooth and flat and my tits were perky. I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Nice dress,” she said. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks treacherously. Godammit.

“Thanks,” I said tersely. “Are you well?”

She smiled again, this time in genuine amusement, and put the Ken doll back into its kneeling position.

“Yeah, I’m well,” she said, “How you doing? Fucking anyone new these days?”

Just mention of the word ‘fucking’ brought certain memories clawing to the front of my mind. I tried desperately not to think of what lay inside those jeans of hers.

“None of you business,” I said. She put a finger under one side of the neckline of my dress, and tugged it gently before I could bat her hand away.

“You’re looking good, all dolled up,” she said. “Looking for a good time tonight, are we?”

“Fuck off!” I hissed.

“Bet you haven’t found anyone like me,” she said. The memories came trickling back again. I remembered the first night with her, after I had found out her secret. It was dark in her room. I could just glimpse her taut, sweating body gyrating in the moonlight as she…

Nononononono.

“Look,” I said, “If you don’t have anything civil to say, perhaps you could just leave me alone?”

“Oh, nothing I want to do to you is civil.”

I glared at her angrily, unable to think of a good retort. Her big brown eyes locked with mine, and I had to look away. All I could think of was her sitting spread-legged on the swivel chair next to my desk, her hands on the back of my head as I knelt in front of her. “Look at me,” she would say, and I would try and look into her eyes…

“Is that all you ever think about?” I asked, blushing furiously.

“Maybe I should be asking you that question,” she