Deterioration!

The rain had stopped by the time I left Tommie's place that night, but the weight in my chest lingered. I drove home replaying every moment—her moans, the heat of her cock in my hand, the way she pulled back.

It stung, but I understood. Her breakup had shattered her confidence, especially with her futanari body that her ex had mocked. I wouldn't rush her. Still, as days slipped by, my worry grew.

At first, it was small things. Texts from Tommie came slower, laced with more typos, like she was typing from a haze. Our usual hangouts fizzled; she'd cancel with vague excuses about feeling tired. I spotted her at the coffee shop once, her hair unbrushed, clothes rumpled, dark circles under her eyes.

She waved weakly but avoided deep talk, steering us to small talk about work. The awkwardness from that couch encounter hung between us like a fog—I didn't push, giving her space, but it gnawed at me. My feelings for her simmered, unrequited but patient, urging me to check in more.

By the end of the week, I couldn't ignore it. Her living habits were deteriorating, and mine as her best friend meant stepping up. I grabbed takeout from her favorite Thai place—pad see ew and spring rolls—and headed to her apartment unannounced. The building's hallway smelled stale, but as I knocked on her door, a faint, musky scent seeped through.

My stomach twisted. When she finally opened it, shirtless in baggy sweatpants that did little to hide the outline of her cock, the smell hit me full ****: thick, salty, the unmistakable tang of dried cum lingering heavily in the air. Her place looked wrecked—clothes piled on the floor, takeout containers crusting on the coffee table, the couch cushions stained and rumpled.