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 force: 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.
Tommie blinked at me, her soft curves visible under the dim light, breasts full and untouched, nipples hardening slightly in the cool air. Her hair was greasy, tied back messily, and her skin looked dull, like she hadn't showered in days.
The futanari bulge in her pants twitched faintly as she shifted, but she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding herself. 'Hey... what are you doing here?' Her voice was flat, lacking its usual warmth.
I held up the bag, forcing a smile. 'Brought food. Figured you could use some company.' I stepped inside without waiting, the cum scent wrapping around me like a confession she hadn't voiced. It was everywhere—on the fabrics, in the stale air—evidence of her neglecting everything, including release that didn't leave her emptier.
My heart ached seeing her like this, my dominant side itching to take charge, to pull her back from the edge.
She shuffled to the kitchenette, avoiding my eyes, and I set the food down, glancing around. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink, her bedsheets visible through the open bedroom door, tangled and spotted.
'Tommie, talk to me,' I said gently, keeping my tone steady, not accusatory. 'This isn't you. The mess, the way you're not taking care of yourself... it's getting worse. I noticed at the coffee shop, and now here. You smell like you've been... well, you know. But it's not just that. You're slipping, and I hate seeing it.'
She busied herself with plates, her back to me, shoulders tense. Her sweatpants sagged a bit, revealing the curve of her ass, and I caught a whiff of her unwashed skin mixed with that pervasive cum aroma.
It stirred something in me—concern laced with desire, my cock twitching at the thought of her touching herself alone, lost in pain. But I focused on her, stepping closer without crowding. 'Come on, sit with me. Eat something real. You've got to start caring again—for you.'
Tommie turned, plate in hand, but her gaze dropped to the floor, cheeks flushing. 'I'm fine,' she muttered, voice small and defensive. 'Just... busy. Work's been shit, and I don't see the problem. It's my place, my life.' She avoided eye contact, fiddling with the food, but I saw the lie in her fidgeting hands, the way her body curled inward, submissive even in denial.
Deeper struggle simmered there—the breakup's echo, her futanari secret making her feel broken, unworthy. The cum smell told me she'd been jerking off relentlessly, chasing relief that never came, her hygiene forgotten in the spiral.
I sat on the couch, patting the spot beside me. 'It's not just your place, Tommie. It's you. And I care—more than you know.' She hesitated, then joined me, the cushions dipping under her weight. Up close, her scent was intoxicating, a mix of sweat, cum, and her natural musk that made my pulse quicken.
I wanted to pull her into my lap, stroke her cock until she begged, show her dominance wrapped in love. But not yet. 'Look, that day on your couch... it was intense, and maybe it spooked you. But I'm not backing off as your friend. Or more, when you're ready.'
She poked at her noodles, still not meeting my eyes, but her thigh brushed mine, sending a spark through us both. 'I said I'm fine,' she repeated, softer now, the denial cracking. I sensed the turmoil—the unrequited pull she felt too, buried under depression, her submissive heart craving my support but fearing the leap.
I reached over, squeezing her knee gently, my thumb tracing her skin. 'You're not. But you will be. I vow it—I'm here to help you regain control, step by step. Starting with a shower after we eat, maybe? Let me stick around, make sure you don't drown in this.'
My voice held that subtle dominance, reassuring yet firm, my unrequited love fueling the promise. She finally glanced up, eyes watery, the air thick with unspoken need. The cum scent lingered, a reminder of her isolation, but as she leaned slightly into my touch, I planned ahead—nights of emotional support turning physical, guiding her submission until she shone again. For now, though, we ate in quiet, the tension building like a slow burn.