Katie finally meets Robbie's cock!

The last bite of meatloaf turned to sawdust in my mouth.

I chewed it anyway. Slowly. Methodically. Because the moment I swallowed my final bite, this dinner would be OVER. And the moment this dinner was over, I could execute The Plan. And the moment The Plan was executed, this entire fever dream would end and I could reclaim my house from the strange gravitational field that had settled over it the second Robbie walked through the door.

I set my fork down.

Around the table, plates were being scraped clean. Mom was refilling water glasses that didn't need refilling, one heavy breast dragging across the table as she leaned. Mike was staring at his phone with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb, thumbs flying, occasionally emitting a small triumphant yes under his breath as he presumably secured yet another photo from yet another oblivious classmate. Lily was picking at a green bean with the enthusiasm of a hostage. Hannah was—

Well, Hannah was doing what Hannah had been doing all evening: draped across Robbie's lap like a very slutty throw blanket, her fingers idly playing with the collar of his shirt, her mostly-exposed tit pressed against his chest, her lips brushing the shell of his ear every time she leaned close to whisper something obviously inappropriate.

"Sooooo," Hannah drawled, sitting up slightly so her voice could reach the whole table. "Robbie. Are you ready for dessert?"

My heart stopped.

Please no. Please. PLEASE.

"Oh!" Mom brightened, then immediately deflated, one hand pressed apologetically to her bare cleavage. "Oh, sweetheart, I don't have any dessert prepared. I'm so sorry, Robbie—I really thought I had ice cream in the freezer, but Mike ate the last of it last week and I completely forgot to pick more up—"

THANK YOU, GOD. Thank you Mike, you unwashed philistine, thank you for eating all the ice cream, thank you—

"That's okay!" Hannah chirped, and my brief flash of relief died on the vine because there was that TONE in her voice—that eager, mischievous, TERRIBLE tone. "I have a better idea anyway."

She twisted on Robbie's lap to face him more directly. Her hands came up and slid into her hair, sweeping her long blonde ponytail over one shoulder to expose the elegant curve of her neck.

"Robbie," she said sweetly, "you could just, like... lick whipped cream off my boobs for dessert."

She said it the way you'd offer someone a bowl of berries.

Innocent, sweet, casual! Look, sweetie, I have berries!

But at the same time, obscenely, catastrophically horny—her body already arching toward him in anticipation, her nearly-exposed nipples straining against the destroyed remnants of her crop top, her eyes hooded with that eager, worshipful, we-can-do-it-right-here-Mom-won't-mind expression.

The table went silent.

Not a scandalized silence. Not a did-she-just-say-that silence.

A CONSIDERING silence! Like everyone was mulling over a reasonable proposal.

Robbie tilted his head as if genuinely thinking about it. His hand—which had been idly resting on Hannah's ass— a thumb tracing lazy circles into the meat of her cheeks. "That's an interesting proposal, baby girl. Very generous."

"I could get the whipped cream from the fridge—" Mom offered.

"NO."

The word came out of my mouth louder than I intended. Sharper. It cracked across the table like a whip, and heads turned—Mom's, Mike's, Robbie's, Hannah's. Even Lily lifted her chin the barest fraction of an inch, which was practically a full head-swivel by her current standards.

I was standing.

When had I stood up? I hadn't decided to stand up. But my hands were flat on the table, and I was on my feet, and my heart was HAMMERING against my ribs like it was trying to escape the sinking ship of my body.

"NO," I said again, quieter but no less forcefully. "Hannah, stop. Just—STOP. This is ENOUGH."

I know it should be tolerant , I should tolerate that, but that was unnecessary so I didn't NEED to tolerate that!

"Katie—" Mom started, her forehead creasing with maternal concern.

"Mom, I'm serious. Hannah, get off him. RIGHT NOW. And—" I took a breath, made myself say it, "—Robbie, I'm sorry, but you need to leave. I'll—I'll show you the house on the way out. Very quickly. And then you'll go."

The silence deepened.

Four of the five faces staring at me wore varying degrees of shock. Mom's was pure, hurt confusion—her expression asking WHY was I being so rude to our guest, so unlike me, so unwelcoming. Mike's was baffled dismay—like a puppy who'd been kicked while trying to be helpful. Hannah's was—well, Hannah's was OUTRAGE, pure indignant fury, the kind of how-DARE-you expression I'd last seen on her face when I broke her Barbie DreamHouse elevator in 2009.

Only Lily wasn't shocked. Lily wasn't anything. Lily was still poking at her green bean.

"Katie, sweetheart," Mom said carefully, coming around the table with her breasts bouncing heavily with each step. She reached me and placed a hand on my shoulder, tits practically resting on my forearms she was standing so close. "What's wrong? You've been so keyed up all evening. Did something happen at school today?"

"Nothing happened at school, Mom—"

"Because if someone's bothering you, you can tell me. You know that. Is it a girl thing? Is it—" she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "—are you on your period, honey? You seem tense."

"I'm not ON MY PERIOD, Mom, I just—"

"Yeah, seriously, Katie, chill." Mike had lowered his phone for the first time in an hour, looking at me like I was ruining Christmas. "You're being really weird right now. Robbie's like, the coolest. Why are you being so uptight?"

"MIKE, I—"

"Katie, you can't just kick him out." This was Hannah, who had NOT gotten off Robbie's lap despite my direct order, and who was now actively hugging his shoulders with both arms as though he were a life raft and I were the ocean threatening to sweep him away. "MY Robbie is staying right here. With me. Where he belongs."

MY Robbie.

MY. FUCKING. ROBBIE.

Hannah had spent maybe four hours with the man—if you could call the writhing, licking, tit-groping activity of the past four hours spending time—and she'd already assigned him possessive pronouns. Like she'd DIBSED him. Like he was her new stuffed animal that she absolutely REFUSED to share with her stupid older sister.

"Hannah, he is NOT your Robbie—"

"He can be if he WANTS to be," Hannah snapped, and her arms tightened around him proprietarily. "And YOU can't tell him what to do, Katie. He's a GUEST."

"He is MY guest, actually—"

"Well, he doesn't want to leave!"

"Yes, he does—"

"Actually," Robbie drawled, cutting through our sibling escalation with the ease of a knife through soft butter, "Katie's right."

Every head snapped toward him.

He shrugged, patting Hannah's thigh apologetically. His face wore an expression of graceful concession that was so patently fake I could have wept—but of course, my family didn't see it as fake, because my family had apparently decided that Robbie Wilson was the eighth Beatle and Jesus's forgotten cousin all rolled into one insufferable package.

Seriously, if I didn't know that Robbie didn't have the CORD, I would be sure that my whole family is under its control!

"I've maybe taken advantage of your hospitality a bit," Robbie said, his voice performing humility so thick you could spread it on toast. "You guys have been so amazing. So welcoming. But Katie's got a point—I've been here a while, and I don't want to overstay."

The reaction was IMMEDIATE. And it was so, SO much worse than anything I could have imagined.

"NO!" my mother gasped, both hands flying to her bare chest. "No, sweetheart, you haven't overstayed AT ALL—"

"Dude, no way, you can stay as long as you want—" Mike was already back to his phone. "Do you want me to ask Chelsea for more nudes? She said she'd send some more if I asked. I can have her send them right now, real explicit, whatever you want to see—"

"Sweetheart," Mom said, her voice going soft and eager, "if you'd like—if it would make you more comfortable—I could—" she was now standing behind him and was leaned in close to him, her enormous naked breasts practically depositing themselves in his back, "—I could give you a proper titfuck before you go. It's the least I could do after such a lovely guest. My titfucks are—well, you can just imagine—"

"MOM!" I choked.

"—and you should feel HOW soft they are, sweetie, you'd love it—"

"Actually, Robbie," Hannah interrupted, her voice husky and eager, "you know what would be REALLY nice? If you fucked me. Right now. Right here on the dinner table. I've been waiting ALL night. My pussy is SO wet for you, you have no idea—" she was rocking her hips against him in slow, obscene circles, "—please, baby, PLEASE, I've been such a good girl for you, haven't I? I've been so good all night. Don't I deserve to have my pussy filled?"

"HANNAH!" I nearly SHRIEKED.

"I'll bend over the table, ANY table, I don't even care if everyone watches, actually I WANT everyone to watch, I want them to see how good I take you—"

"Bro, I've got some AMAZING pics coming in, look at this one—"

"Sweetheart, seriously, let me nurse you a little, I've got so much soft flesh here—"

The room erupted into a full-throated chorus of offerings. My mother literally CUPPING her tits and presenting them to him. My sister GRINDING against his crotch and begging to be publicly penetrated on our dining room table. My brother waving his phone frantically to show off yet another naked classmate. All of them—ALL OF THEM—looking at Robbie with these desperate, worried, PLEADING expressions, as though the possibility of him leaving was a genuine tragedy that they had to prevent at all costs.

I felt sick.

Actual, physical, stomach-churning nausea. My meatloaf sat like a lead weight in my gut. My hands were trembling. My family—my FAMILY—was throwing himself at this asshole as if he was the most beloved superstar ever existed!

And Lily—

I looked at Lily.

Lily was still sitting at the table. She had, at some point, put her fork down. She had leaned back in her chair. Her fishnet-clad tits were on full display above the table's edge, nipples still hard, unbothered by the chaos around her.

Her eyes were on the middle distance. Focused on nothing. Not on Mom, who was leaning against Robbie and rubbing her breasts on his neck. Not on Hannah, who was whimpering something about how tight her pussy was. Not on Mike, who was practically THROWING his phone at Robbie in his eagerness to display more nudes. Not on me, standing at the head of the table on the verge of tears.

Lily just... was.

Present. Neutral. Empty.

If she was even still in the room in any meaningful sense, she was doing a masterful job of hiding it.

"Guys, guys, guys!" Robbie held up his hands, laughing—actually LAUGHING at my family's desperate willingness to whore themselves for his continued presence. "Come on. You're all incredible. Seriously. This has been the most amazing evening. But Katie's right—I really do need to head out. Rain check on all these very generous offers, though."

Hannah made a sound like a wounded animal. "But—"

"Baby girl." Robbie tilted her chin up with one finger, forcing her to look at him. "You've been the BEST hostess a guy could ask for. I mean that. But Katie's my host tonight, and Katie says it's time."

The words landed on Hannah like a benediction. Her lower lip trembled but she nodded slowly, seriously, like a child being taught an important lesson about grown-up manners.

"But before I go—" Robbie's hand slid down from her chin, and, in one smooth motion, he pulled the sagging cup of her crop top fully up. Her right breast bounced free—pale and firm, the pink nipple already stiff. He leaned in and dragged his tongue across it in one long, unhurried, THOROUGH lick, from base to tip, before closing his lips around the nipple and giving it a small suckling kiss.

Hannah moaned. Loudly. Openly. Her whole body shuddered.

"There," Robbie said, pulling back with a satisfied smile. "Dessert. See, I got some after all."

Then, casually, matter-of-factly, he STOOD UP.

Hannah—who had been sitting in his lap—was not gently lowered to the floor this time. Instead, Robbie simply STOOD, letting her slide down his legs like a child being deposited by a parent, and, before she could tumble to the floor, he lifted her by the waist with one arm and PLOPPED her down into her assigned dinner chair. All in one motion. Barely breaking his stride.

Hannah giggled at the treatment—thrilled to be handled, thrilled to be relocated, thrilled to be reminded of her place in the food chain. She sat there in her seat, one tit still fully out, her wet nipple glistening, her lipstick smeared, staring up at Robbie with such an expression of naked adoration that I nearly threw up in my mouth.

"Lead the way, Freckles," Robbie said, turning to me.

I stared at him.

I stared at the smug, self-satisfied bastard who had just performed some kind of psychological ownership ceremony on my entire family and was now looking at me expectantly, hands in his pockets, ready for phase two of this nightmare.

The Plan, Katie. Remember The Plan.

Step one: Endure dinner. ✓

Step two: Get him upstairs. ✓ (in progress)

Steps three through six: Yet to come. But VERY soon.

"...this way," I managed.

I turned and walked toward the stairs. My legs felt weak. My throat felt tight. But I walked. Because at the end of this stairway was my bedroom, and in my bedroom was the answer to the question that had been eating me alive since second period, and once I HAD the answer, I could END this.

I could hear Robbie's footsteps behind me. Unhurried. Casual. Like he had all the time in the world.

Behind us, I could hear my mother softly consoling Hannah, who was making small whimpering sounds of loss. I could hear Mike still narrating nude photos to no one in particular. I could hear Lily's silence, thick and profound.

I climbed the stairs.

Robbie followed.

We reached the landing. My bedroom door was at the end of the hall—the second door on the right, the one with the Little Mermaid stickers still stuck to it from when I was seven, faded but never removed because Dad said they were cute.

Dad.

I felt a hot pang in my chest at the thought of my dad, but I shoved it down. I have to tolerate this decision! I would deal with that later. When Robbie was gone and my family was back to normal and I could sit down with Mom and figure out what the fuck was actually happening in this house.

I pushed open my bedroom door.

My room. Just as I'd left it this morning, a lifetime ago. Neat. Organized. My twin bed with its lavender comforter. My desk by the window, still cluttered with the notes and schematics from last night's all-nighter—the pages that had chronicled the final assembly of the CORD. My bookshelves. My chair. My things.

An oasis of NORMALCY.

Robbie stepped in behind me. His eyes swept the room with that infuriating amused appraisal.

"Cute room, Freckles," he said. "Very... you."

"Sit," I ordered, pointing at my desk chair. My voice came out sharper than I intended. Good. Sharp was good. I needed sharp right now. Sharp Katie was the Katie who was in control. Sharp Katie would look at his cock, laugh at it, and evict him from this house.

He grinned—that INFURIATING grin, the one that said he was aware of my agitation and finding it hilarious—and sauntered over to my desk chair. He turned it around to face me. He sat.

He spread his legs.

The bulge in his jeans was RIGHT THERE. Obvious. Prominent. Currently semi-hard, at a rough estimate—

Focus, Katie. FOCUS.

"So?" Robbie drawled, leaning back in my chair like he owned it. "Where would you like to admire my mighty cock, Freckles? You wanna get a good look? Get up close?"

"Oh my GOD, shut UP," I snapped, and dropped to my knees in front of him.

Not because I wanted to be on my knees, mind you. Just because it was the most efficient position from which to conduct a visual inspection of a seated man's crotch. Practical. Scientific. This was a research posture. Nothing more.

The fact that my face was now at eye-level with his crotch—that from this vantage point, that hard bulge in his jeans was quite literally the entire visual field—was just... incidental. Just how the physics of the situation had shaken out.

"Aww, look at you," Robbie chuckled, gazing down at me with that unbearably smug expression. "Already on your knees, Freckles. That was fast."

"I said SHUT UP." I could feel my face burning. I refused to look up at him. I would not give him the satisfaction. "Just—get on with it. Show me. Let's get this stupid thing over with."

"Mmm. Someone's eager."

"I am NOT eager, I'm just—" I gestured furiously at his crotch, "—I want this stupid, humiliating, insulting bet to be OVER, so I can throw you out of my house forever."

"It's a bet now, is it?"

"Whatever. Do it."

"You're really something, Freckles." He was still laughing at me. I could hear it in his voice even without looking at him. "Alright, alright. Since you asked so nicely."

I heard the sound of his belt unbuckling.

The metal jangle of it. The soft leather slide.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my ears, in my fingertips. My mouth had gone dry. My whole body had gone strange—hot and cold at once, hyperaware and floating, present and completely dissociated.

I heard the button of his jeans pop.

I heard the zipper come down.

Just look, Katie. Look, and be unimpressed. Look, and see the small, thin, unremarkable little dick that has been the subject of Robbie Wilson's laughable delusions of grandeur. Look, and laugh at him. Look, and evict him. Look, and free your family from this nightmare. Look, and MOVE ON.

Robbie's hands hooked into the waistband of his boxers and his jeans together.

He pulled them down.

And his cock sprang free.

—

The world stopped.

Not metaphorically. Literally. All input to my nervous system just... halted. My eyes were open, my brain was receiving visual information, but that information could not be processed. It hit some kind of cognitive firewall and just SAT there, unrendered, refusing to compile.

I heard, faintly, a soft ringing in my ears. Like a distant bell.

My mouth was open. I hadn't decided to open my mouth. It had just... fallen open.

I don't know how long I sat there. Frozen. Blank. BUFFERING.

When my brain finally rebooted—finally, mercifully, thrust me back into the flow of conscious experience—it did so with a sensation on my face.

Something warm. Something soft. Something heavy.

His cock. Half hard, was resting on my face.

Not aggressive. Not thrust. Just... resting. Because Robbie had leaned back in the chair, and I had apparently, at some point during my mental blackout, LEANED FORWARD—leaned forward without permission, without command from my rational mind, leaned forward like a plant angling toward the sun—and my face had made contact with his cock, and now his cock was there. On my face. Warm.

Perfect.

Because—and this was the part that shattered me, the part that broke my brain into a thousand pieces I would never be able to reassemble—his cock was PERFECT.

I had spent, honestly, a not-insignificant portion of my life fantasizing about cocks. About the ideal cock. The Platonic ideal of the male member. The One. And every time I'd conjured that fantasy—every time, without fail—the cock in my mind had been BIGGER than what I was currently looking at. Longer. Thicker. More monstrous. Some enormous, veined, hyper-masculine beast of a thing that would ruin me for anything else.

I had been WRONG.

I understood that now. With the clarity of a religious conversion. With the certainty of a mathematical proof.

I had been wrong about my own ideal cock this whole time. Every fantasy I had ever had—every mental image I had ever constructed of the perfect cock—had been a corrupted, aspirational, wrongheaded IMITATION of the ACTUAL perfect cock, which turned out to be RIGHT HERE. Warm. Soft. Slightly heavy. Resting on my nose and cheek and the corner of my mouth.

Because the ACTUAL perfect cock, the TRUE perfect cock, was not bigger. Not longer. Not thicker. Not more.

It was THIS.

Exactly this.

Not the longest cock I'd ever seen in porn or fantasy or imagination—but the PERFECT length. The kind of length you could take fully in your mouth without gagging, that would fit snugly into me without hurting, that would allow for every position and every configuration and every scenario a girl could dream of. Not too long. Not too short. Just—perfect.

Not the thickest cock. But the PERFECT thickness. Thick enough to stretch you, to fill you, to make you feel that satisfying pressure of being taken—but not so thick that you'd struggle, not so thick that pleasure would tip into pain, not so thick that it would be an unwieldy inconvenience. Perfect.

The shape—god, the SHAPE. A gentle, elegant taper. The perfect curve. The head—flushed, glossy, a lovely rose color. The vein running along the underside was just visible enough to be interesting, just prominent enough to promise sensation, not so prominent that it dominated the visual composition. The skin was smooth and warm. It smelled like—god, it smelled like MINE.

His cock.

His PERFECT cock!

MY perfect cock.

Because that was the OTHER revelation crashing through my head like a freight train: this cock was mine. It had to be. It belonged to me the way certain paintings belong to certain museums, the way certain songs belong to certain moments, the way certain destinies belong to certain people. This cock had been made for me. My mouth had been made for this cock. My pussy had been made for this cock. My entire body had been designed, from birth, in perfect ergonomic alignment with the exact proportions of this cock, and every previous fantasy I had entertained about bigger cocks or thicker cocks or different cocks had been the ravings of a woman who did not yet UNDERSTAND, who had not yet been shown the light, who had been groping in the darkness of ignorance until this holy moment of illumination.

I loved this cock.

I LOVED it.

Not I love cock in the general, philosophical, abstract way I had loved cock my entire adult life. Not the pluralistic, appreciative, admirer-of-the-form love that had characterized my sexuality until this moment.

I loved THIS cock. Singular. Specific. This ONE. The one currently resting on my face. The love of my life. My reason for being. My north star. My—

My tongue moved.

I didn't decide to move my tongue. My tongue moved on its own, motivated by the ancient wisdom of the female body which knew, in this crystalline moment of revelation, exactly what to do. My tongue darted out—shy at first, exploratory—and touched the warm underside of the divine object resting on my face.

It tasted—

Oh God.

It tasted PERFECT.

Salt and skin and heat and—

Robbie's hand snapped down and grabbed his cock, yanking it away from my face.

I lurched forward, following the movement instinctively, but he pulled it out of range. My tongue was still extended, still reaching, still SEEKING. I looked up at him for the first time since he'd unzipped his pants, and my face must have been broadcasting my complete and total surrender because the smirk on his face was atomic.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." He was HOLDING his cock away from me like a mother holds a piece of chocolate away from a grabby toddler. "Slow down there, Freckles. Who said you could touch him? Who said you could LICK him?"

I stared at him. Mouth open. Tongue still lolling. My brain was Not Working, it was mush, it was pure animal need dressed in a hoodie.

"WHAT?" I heard myself say. My voice came out high and thin and completely unlike me. "What are you—MOVE."

"Excuse me?"

"MOVE. Your hand. You—you STUPID FACE. You're in the WAY."

"In the way of WHAT, exactly?"

"US."

He smiled. "Us?"

"HIM AND ME." I gestured wildly at his cock, at MY cock, at the love of my life whom he was rudely obstructing with his fingers. "You—you can't—Robbie, YOU CAN'T STAND BETWEEN US. It's not fair. It was YOUR IDEA. YOU said I could get to know him. YOU said I could meet him tonight. And now you're just—you're just BLOCKING us! What kind of wingman are you?!"

"Wingman?" he repeated, delighted.

"YES. Wingman. For him. You're supposed to be—like—facilitating this. Right? It was YOUR idea! You said if I really loved cock as much as I said I did, I'd be head over heels for him, and I AM, Robbie, I AM head over heels, so what is your PROBLEM? Why are you holding him HOSTAGE?"

Robbie stared at me for a long moment.

Then he burst out laughing.

He threw his head back and LAUGHED, big shoulders shaking, and for a moment I was terrified that his hand would move and his cock would flop back into inaccessibility and I would DIE, I would ACTUALLY DIE, of loss and grief and cock-deprivation.

"Fuck me, Freckles," he wheezed. "You are something else. You know that? You are really, truly something else."

"Get out of the way—"

"You're right, though. You're right. I did say I'd introduce you. That was the deal." He wiped his eyes with his free hand. "Fair's fair. I gotta represent for my boy here. That's my job. I'm his wingman. That's a solemn duty."

"Yes—"

"BUT—" and here his hand tightened slightly, keeping his cock JUST out of my reach, "—my boy here has standards. And it's ALSO my job, as his wingman, to make sure the girl he's meeting is the right one for him. You get me? I gotta make sure you're girlfriend material. For my dude."

I nodded frantically. Anything. Whatever he needed. I would prove myself. I would demonstrate my worthiness. I was born for this. Set the bar wherever, I would clear it. Set the exam, I would ace it. My whole life had been leading to this cock, and I would not fail his interview, I would not lose him, I would—

"So we're gonna do a little test," Robbie said, and his voice had shifted into something lower, warmer, more dangerous. "Just to make sure. That you're right for him. Cool?"

"Yes."

"Yes what, Freckles?"

"Yes, please, Robbie, please, I'll do anything, just—just let me—"

"Good girl."

The words hit me like a warm bath. Like sinking into something soft and lovely and RIGHT.

Robbie's grip on his cock relaxed slightly—just slightly, just enough to let it stand up between us, on full glorious display, but still just barely out of my reach.

"Okay," he said, and his voice was full of that patient, patronizing amusement. "Let's see how well you can behave, cock girlfriend."

Cock girlfriend.

The title settled onto my shoulders like a mantle. Like a wedding veil. Ms. Robbie's Cock.

I was going to be the BEST cock girlfriend that had ever existed.

I would earn him.

I would earn HIM.