I could tell how jealous my boyfriend was getting. I made him sit down on the sidelines while I danced with other guys. He had to pretend that we weren’t even dating, that I was single and available and ready to be fucked. When one of them started kissing my neck he almost got up to stop him, almost, but I gave him a look that assured him how pissed I’d be if he screwed this up for me. So he sat back down, getting hard in his jeans, watching me get increasingly physical with another man.
I walked over to him, barefoot, and asked him for my shoes and my purse. He wanted to know why.
“He wants me to go home with him tonight,” I told him, waiting to see his response.
“Are you serious?” He asked, starting to stand. I lifted my foot, it was dirty from dancing, and pressed it against his belly, pushing him back into his seat.
“Yes,” I told him, as I began to rub my bare sole through his jeans and against his cock. It had been hard since before I’d even walked over. “And I know you’re going to be okay with that, because you love me, right?“
He sat there, speechless, trying to make sure nobody was watching as I continued to stroke him with my sole, harder and faster until I could feel him starting to cum.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”