somerealnerd

  When John spat that final “I own you” at Anthony, the room got the memo—game over, time to scatter. Everyone knew it was their cue to haul ass out of there. John didn’t waste breath on goodbyes. He dug into his pants pocket, fished out the equipment room key he’d swiped from Anthony on the way in, and flung it toward the three girls still standing there like deer in headlights.

  It hit the floor with a sharp cnk, snapping them out of their daze. Stacey, Rachel, and Becca had been stuck, repying that chaotic, primal, animalistic tangle of John and Britney—sweat, thrusts, and all. Stacey shook it off first, lunging for the key, fumbling it in her hands as she bolted for the door. Then she froze mid-step—shit, the guys. She spun back, barking at the other two: “Hey, untie them, quick!” The three stooges—Anthony’s pdogs—were still sprawled on the floor, ropes biting into their wrists. Anthony just sat there, head bowed, stewing in whatever mess was churning in his skull.

  The guys got loose, staggering upright, but they didn’t budge. Their eyes stayed glued to John, twitchy and wide, like they were waiting for his permission to excuse themselves. John caught their pathetic stares and smirked—bunch of chickenshits. He flicked his hand, a zy wave: “Get lost.” That lit a fire under them—they scrambled, shoving each other toward the door, yanking their girlfriends along, hollering at Anthony: “C’mon, boss, let’s go!”

  Anthony didn’t move fast, just shuffled after them, shoulders slumped, a beaten dog trailing the pack.

  Britney, meanwhile, had slipped her clothes back on ages ago. She leaned against the wall now, arms crossed, a sly little smile pying on her lips as she watched John. He flicked his eyes her way—yeah, she had something to say, no doubt, just biding her time till the room cleared out. Then Becca’s voice cut through, loud and brash: “I’m not going—you guys take off. I’ve got business with John!”

  Heads swiveled, jaws dropped. Everyone ping-ponged looks between Becca and John, half-stunned, half-curious. John didn’t have the patience for their gawking bullshit. He jabbed a finger at the door, where the key still dangled in the lock: “Toss it over.” This equipment room? His turf now—no question.

  Britney stayed quiet through it all, that damn smile still pstered on her face, eyes locked on John like she was sizing him up. It was starting to creep him out—he shrugged it off, turning to Becca instead.

  The others didn’t linger—door swung open, and they bolted, footsteps fading fast down the hall. Becca stood her ground, thumbs hooked in her jean pockets, hips cocked to one side, staring him down with a grin. Then she opened her mouth, and both John and Britney damn near choked on their own spit.

  “John—no, Johnny! I’m rolling with you from now on!”

  The flip caught John off guard—he hadn’t seen that coming. If she’d said she wanted to “give him a spin,” he’d get it—hell, he’d be down. But “rolling with you”? What was this, some me-ass gangster movie?

  “Becca, you little bitch!” Britney snapped, her cool cracking, voice sharp with a sting of jealousy. “Who said you could call him Johnny?”

  Becca didn’t even blink—just ignored her ft-out, spun around, and spped her own jean-cd, juicy rear with a loud thwack. She shot John a look over her shoulder: “I can give you what Britt does—anytime you want.”

  John’s throat went dry—his eyes locked on that round, tempting rear, and he swallowed hard. Well, that’s a hell of a pitch. If he hadn’t already emptied the tank twice today, he’d be on her like a shot. But he had bigger fish to fry with Becca. After today, she didn’t strike him as rotten—just a little dumb, maybe even cute in a clueless way. So why the hell had she piled on with the bullying?

  “Was just tagging along with them—seemed fun,” she shrugged, like it was no big deal. John stared, half-dumbfounded. Yeah, she’s a fuckin’ airhead—cute’s debatable now. Still, he reined in his impatience and pressed her: “Becca, did John—I mean me—ever screw you over?”

  She blinked, those big, puzzled eyes scrunching up, then shook her head slow, like she didn’t get why he’d ask.

  “If I never wronged you, picking on me wasn’t fun—got that, Becca? And that applies to anyone.” She nodded, half-getting it, half-lost, then piped up: “But what if you had screwed me over?”

  John sighed—this chick had zero common sense, no wonder she’d been ballsy from jump. He decided to throw her a bone: “Take Anthony—he fucked me up nonstop. You think what I did to him today was fun?”

  Becca’s face lit up, a grin splitting wide: “Yeah! Fucking hirious!” John nodded back—there you go, genius.

  He was mid-thought—maybe keep chatting her up, see if I can test-drive that plump little rear today—already picturing her in tight yoga pants, curves bouncing just right, when Britney cut in with a loud “ahem.”

  What the hell’s her deal? John grumbled to himself. He weighed it—part of him wasn’t ready to ditch Becca’s offer—but manners won out. “Becca, head out for now please,” he said, waving her off. She sauntered to the door, then spun back, tossing him a cheeky wave: “Johnny, I’m with you now!”

  “Just fuck off already, you slut!” Britney barked, her temper fring again. Becca stuck out her tongue, smirked, and strutted off.

  “Alright, spit it out—what’s up?” John turned to Britney, shrugging loose, hands in his pockets.

  She gred back, that smile gone, repced by a flicker of annoyance. “What do you think, you fucking pig? What now?”

  “What’s with the ‘what now’? What’re you even trying to say?” John knew damn well she wanted the “retionship talk”—but fresh off that wild ride with her, his head wasn’t in the game for it. He’d have to dodge and weave, py it off with some bullshit.

  Her eyes narrowed, fury spiking at his sidestep. “Oh, you fucking pussy—tell me straight: am I your bitch now or what?”

  John let out a helpless huff, rubbing the bridge of his nose, racking his brain for the right py. On one hand, that romp with Britt had been too fucking good—mind-blowing enough to spark a flicker of something like liking for this ex-bully. On the other, she’d tormented old John—letting her slide into “his girl” slot this easy felt too damn cheap. So he squared up, picking his words careful:

  “Yes and no. I get what you’re driving at, but I don’t vibe with the word ‘bitch’—I call ’em my women, my girls. No, you’re not one of my girls yet. And Yes, you’re just my bitch right now. I own you—that’s it.”

  Britney’s brows furrowed, her gre sharpening, but John caught that gorgeous face—still dusted with a pink flush from their earlier heat—and tacked on: “Fine, py your cards right, though, and I wouldn’t mind you stepping up to one of my girls someday.”

  She mulled it over, then shrugged, a grudging smirk tugging her lips. “Fine, you asshole—I’m rolling with you too.”

  John groaned inside, shaking his head. Why the hell do these chicks keep spouting me gangster flick lines? Do I gotta yell “say hello to my little friend” like Tony Montana when I strip around them?

  He waved a hand at Britt, ready to bounce—time to call it a wrap. But then he caught her plopped down on that soaked mat they’d just wrecked, sliding her bck pantyhose back on, slow and deliberate, one leg at a time.

  “Change of pns, Britt,” he said, voice dropping low. “Lock the door, grab a clean mat, get those pantyhose on right now, no underwear and ditch those shoes. If it goes well, you’re my girl today.” He even winked once.

  Typical fucking man.

  Britt sprawled on the mat, propped up on her elbows, staring at John crouched in front of her. She felt like a goddamn queen right now—throned, commanding, but with a twist of unease, maybe even a flicker of nausea nagging at her gut. This world catered to women as the prime audience for skin flicks—Britt had burned through her share of them, no shame—but nothing she’d ever streamed came close to the freaky shit John was pulling now. Hell, she’d never dreamed of living it herself.

  From her perch, John looked like a full-on pervert—eyes gzed, drunk on lust. One hand cradled her foot like it was some holy relic, tracing every inch with a hungry stare: the sleek arch, the delicate ankle, the curved footbed, every damn toe. Through her sheer bck pantyhose, her pink-polished toes popped, and this lunatic was drooling—swallowing hard, gawking like he’d stumbled on a masterpiece carved by a sex god.

  That look—part worship, part madness—made her squirm, a flush creeping up her neck. But mostly, it pissed her off. You’ve got me running circles, and you’re still not fucking me? What’s rattling in that dumbass skull of yours? The thought snapped her fuse—she shed out, pnting a swift kick square on his dazed, foot-ogling face. To her shock, John didn’t dodge—didn’t even flinch—just took it full-on, tumbling back with a thud, sprawled ft like a knocked-out dog.

  She’d figured he’d duck—any sane guy would—but nope, he ate it. Worry spiked, and she scrambled up, looming over him. “You okay, Johnny? Why the hell didn’t you move?”

  John y there, grinning like a smug bastard, eyes glinting up at her. “Truth is, I kinda dug that queen game we pyed earlier. Let’s keep it rolling.” Before she could process that, he piped up again, voice low and greedy: “C’mon, step on me, my queen.”

  Britt froze, brain bnk—step on him? What the fuck?

  See no foot coming his way, John’s grin faded, irritation fshing as he flipped over, sitting up on the mat with a huff. “Oh, come on—never seen a foot fetish before?”

  She shook her head, brows scrunching, totally lost.

  Hmm, guess I’ll have to school her, he thought, cooling off quick. Those eyes of his lit up again, sparking the second they grazed her bck-stockinged legs and that pair of feet he couldn’t quit. “Lie back down like before, my queen,” he said, calm now, a hungry edge simmering under it.

  This time, he didn’t just stare—he grabbed one foot and dragged it across his face, stubble scraping the pantyhose with a rough shhrrk that sent a ticklish shiver up Britt’s leg. But there was more—a jolt, like electricity sparking from her sole, buzzing slow and steady through her nerves. She didn’t get it—what the fuck’s he doing?

  He rubbed for a while, then snatched both feet, burying his whole damn face between them, sucking in deep, greedy breaths. Her scent hit him like a freight train—sharp, sweaty, a raw tang that smmed straight to his brain, hooking him hard, leaving him ravenous. Britt caught a chill from his huffing, her soles cooling under his exhales, but his hot cheeks pressed tight against her kept flipping the switch—cold one second, warm the next. It was freaky, but… kinda nice?

  “Your feet smell so fucking good, babe—I’m in love with ’em,” he growled, voice thick with need. Before she could blink, he hoisted them up, diving in—sucking each toe one by one, slow and deliberate, like a man possessed.

  “No, Johnny—it’s dirty, stop it…” she protested, but he didn’t hear a damn word, didn’t even pause. That tent bulging in his pants screamed he was loving this, lost in his own filthy bliss.

  A prickly, tingling rush shot from her toes, ripping through her whole body—itchy, numbing, electric. Maybe this ain’t so bad, her brain mumbled, dazed. Watching him crouched there, worshipping her feet with that serious-as-hell focus, she started piecing it together—this queen game he’s yapping about. A double hit of satisfaction—body buzzing, ego swelling—rolled over her, and a soft moan slipped out, sparked by the licking she’d just been gagging over.

  John rose to his knees, unzipping his pants in one swift tug, yanking out his cock—rock-hard again, straining, a slick bead of precum dripping from the tip, glistening like it was polished. He kept slurping one foot, wet and sloppy, while his free hand snatched the other pantyhose beauty, dragging it straight to his balls, rubbing it up slow and firm. Britt felt it—hot, weird, pulsing under her sole—a freaky thrill she couldn’t shake. She matched his rhythm, sliding her foot along his balls herself, working it smooth and steady. John let go, grinning as she took over, his hands roving up her calves, savoring the silky pantyhose, climbing higher to her thighs. He kneaded them over and over, growling low: “Oh babe, my queen, you’re fucking unreal—gonna pound your honey pot soon, flip those sweet lips inside out.”

  With that, he gripped both feet, yanked her close—her body slid across the mat—and smashed his lips onto hers, fierce and wet. Then he looped those pantyhose-wrapped feet around his penis, stroking himself fast with them, a tight, slippery grip.

  “Oh Johnny, you kinky fucking hound,” she gasped, half-ughing, half-moaning—his filthy tricks were hitting every damn spot. John felt her feet take charge, working him on their own now—one hand snaked around her waist, pulling her in, while the other dove between her thighs. No panties meant her pussy pressed flush against the pantyhose, and John’s fingers hunted quick—found that little bean jutting up top, ripe and ready. He flicked it with his thumb, teasing it hard, and a fresh wave of tingling fire ripped through her. She soaked fast—clear juice seeping out, drenching the silk, turning it slippery under his touch. John felt that new slickness, knew she was hooked, and cranked the pace—thumb working her like a damn maestro, her moans swelling loud and wild.

  “Stop it, Johnny—it tickles!” she whined, squirming under him. John fshed that signature grin, all teeth and mischief: “Hold tight, babe—just wait, I’ll scratch that itch real good soon.” He dipped low, fttening her out again, hoisting both legs over his shoulders—hands roaming her thick, taut thighs, kneading the silk—then buried his face deep between them. His tongue went to work, pping her entrance and that upper happy button through the pantyhose, slow and thorough from bottom to top. The friction of the silk mixed with his hot, wet licks hit her like a truck—brand-new, wild, unbearable. Her insides itched like crazy; she cmped her thighs hard around his head, fingers tangling in his hair, moaning loud as she begged him to move the hell on.

  John tore a jagged rip in the pantyhose crotch, peeling her pussy bare—no barriers now—just wet, slick flesh under his tongue. He dove in, licking deep, his spit mingling with her juice, a thick, raunchy scent flooding the air.

  “Johnny, stop licking—I’m itching!” Britt groaned again, her voice a desperate, needy whine.

  “Impatient little babe,” John teased, pulling back just enough to grin. He kept his mouth glued to her clit, but his hand slid down—fingers circling her entrance, slicking up with her mess. Slow and deliberate, he slipped two fingers inside, curling them in deep.

  “Ah—ah, Johnny, slow down, slow it!” she wailed, her grip on his hair tightening till it hurt, her pantyhose-cd feet dragging wild across his back, rubbing him raw.

  John grinned—his cute little Britt was catching on fast, a damn good girl. Satisfaction hummed through him as he picked up the pace—fingers digging, pumping, twisting inside her, tongue flicking faster, swirling tight around her doorbell.

  Britt’s cries turned filthy, louder now—her hands smmed down, pinning his head hard against her wet pussy. She bucked, grinding herself onto his face, riding him like she owned him. The fury of it tipped her over—she hit her first orgasm—shuddering wild, her screams tearing loose as she bucked hard against John’s face, drenching him in a hot, messy flood that left her trembling like a leaf in a storm.

  That was just the spark—she lost track after that, her body caving under his savage onsught, each brutal thrust yanking her back to the brink, erupting over and over in a relentless torrent of soaking, howling chaos that smashed her senses to pulp. They ripped into each other like rabid beasts—grunting, cwing, smming together with no mercy, a primal fuck-fest that scorched through the day, hours melting into dusk until they had to pry their wrecked, sweat-drenched bodies apart to stumble home. John stayed glued to her feet the whole damn time—slobbering over them even as he pounded her senseless, sucking and licking those pantyhose-slick toes with wet, frantic slurps, that sharp, sweaty tang fueling every thrust like a drug hitting his veins. Britt’s world boiled down to the searing, throbbing bze he rammed into her—each sm stretching her tight pussy to its breaking point, filling her up with a heat that owned her down to her shaking core.

  By the end, John was drained as fuck—gutted dry, legs wobbling like jelly, his head a spinning wreck like he’d been sucked hollow. He slumped back, chest heaving, staring at Britt sprawled there—thighs slick, breath ragged, a glistening ruin under his reign.

  Then the air shifted—he eased closer, slow and deliberate, his rough hands softening as they brushed her sweat-damp hair away from her flushed face. His fingers lingered, tracing her jaw with a tender graze, and he leaned in, eyes locking onto hers—deep, raw, glinting with something beyond the beast he’d been. Hers met his, hazy but steady, a flicker of warmth threading through the exhaustion, like they were seeing each other for the first time. He pressed his lips to her temple, soft and lingering, tasting the salt of her skin, then slid a hand behind her neck, pulling her close until their foreheads touched, breaths mingling hot and slow. She didn’t pull back—her arms, limp from the chaos, draped over his shoulders, fingers curling faint against his back, and a quiet, shaky sigh slipped from her lips, binding them in that fragile, electric hush.

  But hey, he was a man of his word—she was his girl now, carved into his damn soul, and he’d make fucking sure she’d feel it deep, owned and worshipped in his grip.

  And sure, he was a man of his word—he flipped the sweet lips of her pussy inside out, just like he’d sworn, leaving her a dripping, shattered testament to his reign.