"What about this one, Jacob?" A bright, perky voice chirped out at me.

Fuck, I'm dying a slow, painful death.

I ran my palm over my face, then scrubbed it over the bristly stubble on my chin a few times. My stiff back and numb ass reminded me I'd sat in this position way too long.

"Looks great, babe." Without looking up from my phone, I feigned interest for my severely neglected and self-pitied cock's sake. At this point, my words probably came out as monotone and drained as I felt inside.

Girlfriend or not, I don't have time for this shit.

I'd better get at least a fucking blow job afterwards.

"Jacob!" A pair of lips that I had much better ideas of what to do with pouted at me, which at this point was just another jab at my blue balls. "That's what you said about the last six pairs of jeans."

Brittany Manfield's perfect figure whirled around one-hundred and eighty degrees in front of the store's three-way mirror, then her eyes dragged scrutinously down her rounded, temptatious ass that I also had better ideas for than what she'd dragged me through the past three hours.

I don't even sure what fucking store we're in anymore. They all look the same to me.

"Jake, you aren't even looking!" At her shrill tone and unusual use of my nickname, my eyes snapped up to her baby blues, a personal weakness. After a few eye blinks, she spoke slowly like she thought I was either a child or just stupid, "Do... these... make me look... fat?"

"Hardly, babe." I fought the urge to stab my eyes out with the end of a plastic hanger or, even better, a metal one. "Nothing makes you look fat, because you aren't."

And because you eat nothing but salads, cabbage soup, and juices.

"I don't know, Jacob..." I internally groaned as her manicured fingers ran over her perfectly round ass then cupped her cheeks. "Maybe I should try the AG's on again..."

My eyes dropped to the discarded, foot-high pile of rejected clothing on her dressing room's floor and I fought the urge that I slammed the back of my head into the wall it rested on.

Shit, don't go backwards.

"How about..." I set down the similarly sized giant stack of clothes laid across my lap, that honestly I couldn't tell how any were different from anything she already wore, down on the bench I sat on.

My legs and back sighed with relief when I stood up and popped some tension out of my neck when I pulled each ear down to the nearest shoulder. Since she watched me in the mirror, I took two long steps towards her, my arms wrapped around her slim waist.

"...We go back to my house and I'll take off whatever jeans you want." My right hand's knuckles brushed against the underside of her left breast as a painful reminder of how long it's been since I'd actually touched them and I buried my nose into her hair.

She smells like... hairspray.

But at this point, I was so desperate, even Brit's fake, product-heavy scent turned me on as it burned the inside of my nostrils. I got as far as one kiss placed against the skin on her neck before her shoulder lifted and jabbed me in the ear. She giggled, shoved my hands off her, then turned around and faced me with both hands now on her hips.

"But Jacob." Her blue-gray eyes batted at me from under thick, false eyelashes. "We can't right now."

"Brit, please." I felt like I'd broken a tooth with how hard my jaw clamped tight.

She's dragged me around these God-damned stores for nearly three hours like her personal bitch-boy.

Thankfully, Brittany had insisted on shopping in Beverly Hills, where she was from, instead of Los Angeles near USC. Since her daily shopping budget exceeded most college students' for the entire year, at least I was less likely to be spotted here while she put on clothes that I preferred were torn off her.

"Babe, you're being unreasonable," I pointed out my obvious repressed frustration and grinded my hips into her ass. The friction rubbed ache after ache through me to the point I wouldn't have been surprised if I blew my wad right here in my shorts.

"We'll discuss it in the car," she deflected with a wave of her hand, grabbed her pile of clothes on the bench with a huff, and went into the dressing room. I caught a severely annoyed expression on my face in the mirror, dragged both my hands overhead through my hair, and sat down on the bench again.

Frustrated didn't begin to describe how I felt with my girlfriend. She'd effectively cock-blocked me for the past three weeks and the bullshit reasons had started to pile up past my patience level.

Ever since I asked her to be my girlfriend... No way that's not a coincidence.

I tipped my head back against the wall, closed my eyes, and pushed out my frustrations in a loud, drawn out exhale.

Fuck, why does this happen every time when I get a girlfriend?

Trying to be better, monogamous at least, and what does it get me? Jack shit.

After a few minutes, Brittany exited her dressing room and brushed past me without a word. She charged her giant pile of clothes onto her Dad's credit card then flung her stack of bags into my chest.

"Let me get these for you, Brit." I rolled my eyes behind her blonde-haired head, my second weakness.

My third weakness, Brit's large breasts, jiggled while she walked quickly out of the store. I watched for a few distracted steps before she pushed a soft huff out her lips like somehow she was the one justifiably annoyed in this situation. We walked silently out to her car, where I set her bags in the trunk. I gnashed my teeth again at how she waited silently out the passenger's side door, then opened it for her and slammed it shut.

Normally we took my car everywhere, except whenever we went to Beverly Hills. Once there, Brittany insisted that we drove hers. I never minded since her Mercedes Benz was ten times nicer than the seven-year old Acura that I still drove after high school.

What I minded was how we sat in an uncomfortable silence, apparently in the middle of having an argument about...

Honestly I had no idea why we argued this time, but definitely knew I'd suffer the fallout again.

"I just feel like we moved too fast." One of her acrylic nails reached out and traced small circles over my right bare bicep muscle.

The fuck is she talking about? She approached me first.

Desperation won over my irritation, so my hand tugged her wrist towards me. With zero shame or fucks to give, I rubbed her palm over the still-obvious source of frustration between my legs.

"Do you know how hard it is to have a girlfriend as hot as you?" I leaned over, cupped my left hand around her slim neck, and kissed a line down her soft skin. With my best attempt, I murmured in her ear, "You drive me crazy babe, I want you so badly right now. Say the word and I'll take you right now in the back seat."

After three weeks of rejection, I should've expected Brittany's reaction. She snapped her hand back from my erection like it'd burned her, pushed the same palm into my cheek, then scoffed. Her tone turned cold as she leaned away as far as she could into the passenger's side door but the way she arched her back and pressed her breasts between her arms only frustrated me further.

"I am not some cheap slut you can play with whenever you get horny, Jake." Her eyes flashed up at me with a stormy gray cast over them. "I have standards. Do I need to remind you that I left -"

"No you don't," I growled at her, turned on the car, and pulled out of the shopping area a bit faster than I probably should have.

We fell into silence while I drove out of Beverly Hills. Once I turned left onto Burton Way on the route back to USC that I now knew in my sleep thanks to Brit, I warned her in a low voice, "I'm fully aware of your exes."

Does she care what it cost me after she left him? Only my best friend since I was fifteen.

I might've been partially to blame there.

No, it was definitely her black g-string under a white lace dress.

"And you have more ex-whatevers than I'd ever want to count," she chirped with a sense of bitterness that, once again, made me regret our 'So, how many?' conversation every time she'd brought this back up. Inwardly, my eyes rolled at her idea that we needed to share that information once we forcibly became 'official.'

That never brings anyone closer together.

I couldn't have cared less how many previous partners Brittany had slept with as long as she was clean and only with me. I'd been with more girls than I cared to admit, but admitted it to her anyways, and with one pink-lipped jaw drop, my sexless punishment was charged and sentenced.

Brittany and I met at the beginning of this summer, before my fourth year at USC. Head Coach Campbell had arranged that some of the team's starters trained highschool football players off-campus two weeks prior to the summer session. Brit, an incoming junior at UCLA, vacationed at the Phoenix resort we stayed at.

Most people had no idea how little downtime college football players experienced. The majority of the team enjoyed 7-10 days off before spring exams ended and summer school started, which helped them take fewer fall semester classes or boosted their GPAs before the football season damage hit.

I'd redshirted my freshman year, which meant I hadn't 'officially' started on the Trojans' team until my second year. Academically, that allowed me to take fewer credits in the fall but I still took one or two summer classes since my scholarship required a 3.0 GPA. Our workouts never ended year-round, although the summer versions of the full or partial weight lift sessions, conditioning runs, and speed and skill sessions were definitely lighter.

During the evenings at the football camp, I relaxed at the resort pool and bar, where I met Brit. She was perfect - gorgeous, blonde hair, blue eyes, impeccably put together, tight ass, large breasts, and a great fuck. Her bathing suits left nothing to the imagination but I only needed one night with me before they were tossed onto the floor of my hotel room every day afterwards.

Brit was, ironically, a Communications major at UCLA. That school was definitely close enough that we continued seeing each other but far enough that I wouldn't have to see her every minute of every day. We kept in contact over the summer, but after two weeks of fun, our relationship shifted when Brit introduced me as 'her boyfriend' to her parents the week I returned to USC for football camp.

Three weeks later, here we are... her annoyed and me begging my 'girlfriend' to put out.

This is painfully so, so familiar.

While I'd never actually asked Brit to be my girlfriend, I agreed at the time since her parents hounded her to settle down, put me on the spot, and I thought I'd done her a favor.

In hindsight, I wondered if she had just wanted to snag the arm of USC's star quarterback. She had blown up all my social media accounts with some intimately private 'my 💖!'- captioned pictures that definitely raised a few eyebrows from my coaches. I was beyond embarrassed when Offensive Coordinator Coach Colbert and Quarterbacks Coach McGuire suggested Brittany made her bedroom pictures private.

Brit definitely flaunted our relationship but I was the biggest hypocrite if I hadn't acknowledged the obvious fact I used my quarterback status to get in any girl's pants that I'd wanted. Facts were facts, I rarely tried for a girl's attention. My drive peaked with the stress of football season, when literally blowing off steam took some of the pressure of fifty thousand students, seventy-seven thousand amazing fans in the stadium every home game, hundreds of thousands of alumni, and millions in revenue for the university off my shoulders.

Also, for the sake of full transparency, sex after a win was the best way I knew of that rode down that high. Not that I suffered many losses, but sex afterwards was also a huge pick up and frustration release.

The last three years I'd fucked randoms through every season, whichever girl flocked to my side during our football house parties. Our parties weren't that special but we had no shortage of willing participants that literally lined up outside our door. Some of the girls extended past one night or weekend if they offered me something interesting in my bedroom, but I'd never had just one girl for an entire season.

After I confronted Brittany about our 'relationship upgrade,' she promised the title came with monogamous, available sex when I needed it. I obviously wasn't the first football player she'd dated so stupidly I'd assumed she understood my needs, which honestly I hadn't thought were too demanding. I wanted Brit naked and ready in my bed every night but only needed her before and after games.

And, like a pathetic sap, I believed her.

I was upfront and honest with Brit about what I needed if we were monogamous, her legs open and willing when I needed her, and she'd agreed that the feeling was mutual. She had some odd conditions, like she threw away my entire sheet set even before they were on my bed and insisted she slept on eight hundred thread count Egyptian cotton. But now, before both school and football season started, she obviously had other ideas.

With a flick of her fingers, Brit flung a platinum blonde strand flung over her shoulder and hammered home that point to me again, "Then you'll understand that we need to slow down, at least for appearances."

How is this the girl who put up pictures of herself tangled in my sheets?

"Look..." I took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "Brit, this isn't -"

"Please drop me off at Face Haus," she interrupted me. "I have class in thirty minutes."

"It's Friday," I reminded her with a frown. "And classes don't start until next Monday."

"Microblading and contouring class," she tossed out the words with an implied 'duh?' inflection in her voice. "After you park my car, are you okay waiting in the lobby?"

"I'll walk back," I mumbled as I pulled onto Highway-ten back to Los Angeles. Not surprisingly, the four-lane road looked more like a parking lot than the shopping area we'd just left.

The last time I sat through one of Brit's eyebrow-eyelash-makeup-whatever classes, the girls in the salon lobby pounced on me like stray cats on catnip, claws included. Despite my efforts as I deflected their attention, Brit charged out of her class like she had a stick up her ass and accused me of flirting.

I might have flirted a little.

I couldn't help myself, around USC everyone knew me and practically every girl wanted me. A fucking billboard of my face was stationed every two miles down the highway that approached campus. We passed one in silence as I drove over to Brit's home away from home, a beauty salon.

Jake Harrison, star USC quarterback, begging his own girlfriend for sex... What is wrong with this fucking picture?

"The girls want to go out for drinks after class, so I'll text you whenever we're done," Brittany broke the thick, uncomfortable silence with an ice-cold command then jumped out of her car and slammed the door before I answered her.

I wasn't done so I rolled her window down. "Shit, you're killing me." I groaned in frustration as Brittany's tight, perfect body leaned over outside the car. The way her breasts spilled out of her low cut top like low hanging fruit sprung the tightness back in my pants.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I pointed to the obvious erection in my athletic shorts. A flash of her eyes down to my area of discomfort only put another annoyed expression on her face as she pursed her lips.

"Walk of shame back to campus." Brit cursed under her breath, then shook her head and stood upright. "Then perhaps a nice, cold shower so you can be more clear-headed about your priorities, Jacob."

"Fuck priorities," I cursed as her hips swayed away from me. Each snap of her heels on the sidewalk grated my ears. "This is bullshit."

Once the salon door shut behind her, I leaned my head back and groaned loudly up at the ceiling of her car. Frustration ran through my veins, more than just the pent-up testosterone to the point where my cock begged for relief. With my teeth gritted tightly, I parked in the salon's side lot.

After I slammed the door shut, I walked back to campus with my hands stuffed in my pockets and head tilted downwards. Thankfully, Brit's mud or seaweed face shit salon was located in USC Village, a shopping center walking distance from campus. Just a few blocks down a diagonal street, I'd almost memorized the walking path that hooked a right onto Jefferson St and ran parallel to USC's campus.

Just as I reconsidered my so-called relationship with Brit, my phone's text alert went off. With a slight hope that Brittany had reconsidered, I picked up my phone but frowned when I saw a message from the one girl in my life I dropped anything for.