When my girlfriend’s cousin asked if their 18-year-old son could stay with us for a few weeks while he handled college paperwork and got settled in the city, we agreed without hesitation. He was a quiet, well-mannered young man, so we thought it would be no trouble.
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One evening, after a few drinks, my girlfriend and I found ourselves lost in each other’s desire. She wore her signature black lace lingerie beneath a silky robe that barely skimmed the curve of her ample hips. We began a heated kiss in the kitchen, her body pressed tightly against mine. Suddenly, I noticed the boy quietly entering from the hallway. He froze, watching us silently. A thrill surged through me, and I said nothing. I kissed her more passionately, hands roaming over her skin, then slipped the back of her robe upward, revealing her bare, luscious behind directly to him — still, she remained unaware of his presence.
I turned her to face him, her robe open to reveal deep cleavage and the soft swell of her breasts. She rubbed herself against me while I gently directed her face to capture my lips again and again. Then I instructed her to kneel, and she obliged, slowly teasing my cock with her tongue. It was then she caught sight of him—standing there, his boxers visibly tented by arousal. She gasped, hastily closing her robe, eyes wide with shock. He slipped away silently.
Later that night, tensions boiled over in our bedroom. She chastised me sharply for not noticing him sooner, for allowing things to escalate as they had.
In the days that followed, while I was at work, the boy’s boldness grew. In the kitchen, he would ‘accidentally’ press his erection against her as she reached for dishes, his hands lingering provocatively on her hips. He’d ask her to bend down for something low on the shelf, openly admiring her curves as he did. A few times, his hand would sneak a quick squeeze of her backside as he passed her by. She told me about these moments, but I brushed them off, attributing it to teenage hormones.
One evening, however, I returned home to find her visibly frustrated. She confessed that every time I left the room, he pressed his hard cock against her ass, rubbing gently but insistently, and insisted this had to stop. Doubtful, I questioned if he would really be so bold. She offered to prove it.
She rose from the dining table and, arching her hips, called his name to clear the plates. He appeared, and as he reached past her, he pressed his erection firmly between her cheeks in plain view. She looked at me with an unmistakable “I told you so.” After stowing the dishes, he left quietly.
The next evening brought something even more intense. I found the boy seated on the couch in just his boxers, clearly uncomfortable and aching with a painfully full erection. My girlfriend stood before him in her silky robe, pressing his engorged cock and swollen lower belly against her, soothing him. Curious, I asked what was happening.
She explained his prolonged arousal had left him suffering from swollen, blue balls. Though she had suggested he masturbate, the motions only increased his discomfort. Skeptical, I watched as she gently pulled down his boxers, revealing the swollen veins and tense blueish hue of his painful testicles and erect shaft. Having experienced this myself, I knew his suffering was genuine.
We moved to the kitchen to talk. She cast a bit of blame on me for missing the signs that first night and then said, “He’s just an 18-year-old kid in pain. I want to help, but I’ll do it openly in front of you so there’s no misunderstanding.”
Returning to him, she whispered, “Close your eyes, I’ll help you.” Slowly, she began to stroke his cock like a tender massage, caressing the swollen head and shaft with soft, deliberate movements.
Still, progress was slow. A slight misstep caused him to wince in pain as she pulled too hard. She attempted to support his aching balls while continuing, but his discomfort persisted. Meeting my eyes, she hesitated, then said, “Babe, let me give him a quick lap dance if you’re okay with it. He’s just a kid; this will help him forget.” Reluctantly, I agreed to a brief moment.
She told him to keep his boxers on, properly positioning him, then began to grind against him, hips rolling in sensuous circles. When she leaned forward, her robe lifted, exposing the full curve of her bare ass to him. Watching her seductively move ignited a fire inside me.
Just as he neared release, she accidentally pressed too hard on his swollen balls, eliciting a sharp cry. Apologizing, she looked clearly frustrated by the ordeal’s length. Then, with determined boldness, she stood, bent over the dining table right before the couch, pulled him closer, and invited him to take the lead.
She started grinding slowly at first, but as his urgency grew, he transformed into a wild force, thrusting fiercely into her ass cheeks from behind. His hands gripped her waist and shoulder, pulling her back with every powerful motion. The silky robe slipped open at one side, her breasts bouncing with each impact. Her face contorted — mouth open, biting her lip, eyes rolling back — caught between effort to finish and a hint of unexpected pleasure.
He pounded her relentlessly until he exploded, staining his boxers with the evidence of his release. She rose, straightened her robe, and treated the encounter as just a helping hand for his relief.
Now, I find myself haunted by the memory of her bent over that table, letting him rampage inside her, and the expression she wore throughout it all. My mind reels, uncertain what to think.
Am I losing control? Should I intervene or let this reckless arrangement continue?
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