It started as just a little game between Lucy and me. How I’d tease her and how she’d blush and pout.
“You know the only reason I like you is because of your big tits,” I’d say, pushing her into a corner and feeling her up.
“Rude! How could you say that!” she’d whine, but her eyes gave her away.
Sometimes I’d lead her into bathrooms or closets at parties and make her show me. If there were any doubt of her love for the game, it disappeared when I saw the speed in which she pulled up her blouse. The way she bit her bottom lip, waiting to be felt up, begging to be useful.
At some point, other people in our little friends’ group caught on. It became a running gag. We only keep Lucy around for her tits. She’d like a stuffed animal, good for squeezing and cuddling up to. She was one of those little stress balls, something to knead and hold and focus on to get your mind off things.
Once in a while, when I had her against a wall, greedily squeezing them and sucking on them, I’d feel a pang of fear. I’d kiss her neck and whisper to her.
“You know you’re a sweet girl. Pretty and smart. A good friend and a lovely toy.”
And she would go quiet and nod.
“I need to hear that sometimes too,” she would whisper back, a secret within the secret.
“I don’t have to be so mean,” I’d say, letting her go for a moment.
And her eyes would flash wide.
“I- I mean- I like it a lot. Maybe- maybe you could even be a little meaner? Just a little?” She would say in her littlest voice.
Then I’d laugh at her—Laugh in her face.
“God, you’re even more pathetic than I thought,” I’d chuckle.
“Anyhow, you do have one more useful thing about you. And knowing how gross you are, I bet that other useful thing is soaked right now.”
Then she would gasp, and her embarrassment was like a drug for me.