>[x] Wanna cram?
Whitney opens the door to her dorm room and leans against the jamb. She's still wearing that same slutty outfit. "I'm alone in here," she says, apropos of nothing. Then: "...Were you crying?"
"Fuck's sake."
"Not trying to pry," Whitney says. "Geez."
Inside her dorm, you clear some space on her desk and sit down at it. Whitney pulls up another chair. "All hands on deck for education," she says, saluting you. "Give me your history knowledge."
"I can't just give you knowledge. I need to know what you're actually studying first. Do you have a textbook or something?"
"It's just the test I showed you, you idiot. I have to take it again."
"...Are you telling me it's going to be the same exact multiple choice test? No changes?"
She scratches her head. "Kind of. There's a list of about 100 questions he gave us as possibilities. I just need to know all of those. Plus three different essay questions he could pick."
She hands the study guide over. You grouse. "You could just google this stuff, you know."
"Yeah, but this way I get the answers straight from the world's biggest superdork. So I know they're right."
You quickly leaf through the study guide, circling the right answers for each question. The thing is so easy an unprepared middle schooler could pass it. You can't believe Whitney needs help with this. But as she watches you work, she appears genuinely impressed.
"You're a wizard with this shit," she says. "Quiz master Ally saving my ass again." She stands, circles you, and leans over your shoulder, watching intently. "How do you remember all this? The only history stuff I really remember is that William Howard Taft is too fat to fit in his bathtub since like 100 years ago."
You put down your pen and gaze back at her. "Wow," you say. "That sentence almost made sense."
Just a bit later, you're done. 100 questions answered in less than 10 minutes.
"Okay," Whitney says. "Now drill me."
"--Excuse me?"
You swivel to face her in your chair. "Who was Prime Minister of England during World W--" you begin.
Whitney pretends to doze off with a snore.
"If you're not going to take this seriously," you say, "I can go."
"Make it fun, Ally! Geez. You're smart, can't you think of anything?"
You have a feeling where this is going. And then it goes there.
"It can be like when we drilled for your quiz bowl championship."
"Not that," you say. "That was a one-time--"
"Only in reverse!"
You glance at the door. It's locked.
From the inside, but still. It's the implication.
"Is this why you brought me here?" You say.
Whitney steps forward and sits in your lap. Her body is just a bit slick, and warm against you. The pressure of her as she straddles your crotch makes your stomach do cartwheels. She smells like sweat and lust. You push back with your legs, but all that does is roll your chairback up against the desk, and then there's nowhere to go.
"Why not?" Whitney says. "You're gonna be away all summer, aren't you? Fucking other girls too, I bet. Shouldn't we have a fun memory before you leave?"
"Whitney-"
"Why are you always like this?" Whitney says, her cheery voice cracking into a sort of pained whine. "You've been so fucking weird ever since I sucked your dick in Boise."
"You took advantage of my inebriated state," you say.
"Oh, come on," she says, rolling her eyes. "You wanted it. You want it now." She cups your crotch, and there's no denying what she finds there.
"We'll do it like quiz bowl drilling, only backwards," she continues. "You ask me the questions, and if I'm wrong, I have to take something off."
"You're only wearing about --"
"Two things," Whitney purrs. "And I really can't remember most of this stuff..."
"Jesus."
She puts her lips to your ears. "Teach me," she whispers. Her voice sends electric shivers down your spine.
"W-who was Prime Minister during World War II?" you say.
"George Bush?"
You shake your head no. She instantly peels off her barely-there tanktop and tosses it aside. Her breasts are tiny but pert, with small soft pink nipples that you can't help staring at.
"Are you staring at me?" she teases. "Per-vert~"
"You're the one waving them--"
She shakes her torso a bit, sending her little tits jiggling. "Go on," she says. "I don't mind. What's the next question?"
"Who was President of the USA during World War II?"
"...George Bush?"
"Jesus."
"My bad," Whitney says. She turns, scoots forward and - while still sitting on your lap - peels off her spats. The synthetic material clings tenaciously to her thighs as she pulls it away, but slowly she reveals a cute pink pussy that's shaved completely bald and glistening. As she tosses the spats into the corner, she spreads her legs enough for the lips to part, and from your vantage you can see enough of the inside to know it's as invitingly pink as the outside.
The room smells like your hotel in Boise that night on the eve of the national championship. The sweet heady odor of female sex. You blink rapidly, gulping.
"You've got a naked girl in your arms, Ally. What are you going to do?"
"Things were a lot easier when I thought you were a lesbian," you say.
"Who's to say I'm not?" She faces you again and wraps her arms around you. She grinds her plump mound against the straining crotch of your dockers, leaving little trails of her wetness on the material. "You smell like Rose. Are you fucking your cousin, Ally?"
"Once removed," you grumble. "Are you a bloodhound or something? No. I'm not fucking her."
"You want to. You had a hardon already when you got here. From being with her."
She reaches down and unzips your pants. You do nothing to stop her.
"Are you still a virgin?" she demands. She has a crazed hitch to her voice, here. She fishes around and frees your dick from your pants. The cool air suddenly hitting it makes you hiss. "Or did you give yourself to that whore you call a cousin?"
You shake your head. " You got me, okay? Never had sex." Technically that's still true, even if Whitney isn't the only girl you've been with.
She buries her face in your neck and suckles sweetly, moaning as she grinds up and down on your cock. "We need to fix that," she says.
"I'm gonna-" you groan. "We're not going to-- to be able to fix that if you don't--" but she's already got the idea. She laces her fingers around the back of your neck, hauls herself up and hovers over the tip of your dripping cock.
"Whitney-"
And then you're inside her. All the way - to the hilt in one motion. It's warmer, wetter, and more snug than any stupid onahole you've ever even dreamed of. Her muscles ripple and contract with such precise motions that you wonder how you could have ever avoided this to begin with. You mind swims with a delirious pleasure that you didn't know could exist. You can actually feel her milking every drop of precum from your tip.
She humps up and down in quick but measured strokes. "Y-y-you are m-m-m-mine," she moans, her voice thrumming with her own pleasure. "I just m-made you m-m-m-mine... I'm so happy..."
Your phone rings.
"Whitney--!"
"Fuck that, fuck your stupid phone," she says, her balled-up fists pushing into your chest, forcing you back in the chair, so that you two are nearly horizontal now - Whitney on top. Her wet cunt pistoning up and down makes obscene squelching sounds that echo through the dorm. "Cum inside me," she yells. "Cum inside me! Cum inside me!"
"I need to--!"
"Yes you do! Fucking cum inside me already, you idiot! Mark me! Make me yours too!"
Your jaw hangs slack, you close your eyes, and then you lose it. As you cum, she mashes her lips to yours, and forces her tongue into your mouth. The force of the ejaculation in such a vice-tight enclosure is actually painful, but deliciously so. Your balls pulsate as you squirt her insides with so much cum that it starts to gush out. Her tongue roots around in your mouth to the same rhythm as the pulsations.
And then Whitney is cumming too, howling, her pussy spraying a geyser of her own cum, so much you can't believe it, all across your shirt and pants, ruining them.
"Yes!" is all she can say, loud enough to wake up Beijing, "Fuck yes! Fuck!"
You collapse, even further back, and the chair topples over. You land on the floor, Whitney still on top, both of you still mated together. Your phone isn't ringing anymore.
GIRLS FUCKED: 1/8