You are Wesley Keki, NEET in training and billboard.
Summer's mother, dressed in a police uniform, totes a pistol and points it directly at you. Or rather, points it directly at everyone watching ABC-7. Here they come, here come the spectacularly stilted line reads: "I'm on a mission, to stop, bad deals!" A stock sound effect of a police siren blares, followed by a stock sound effect of a horse whinnying (?), which in turn cues plodding banjo music (????). This fucking commercial, man. Liz Denali wanted to be an actress when she was younger, or so Summer says. But that doesn't give the woman an excuse to perpetrate this ad on the innocent people of north-central California, every hour of every day.
Now we have Liz as viewed in profile, standing on the right-hand side of the frame, while a procession of dummies appear on the left-hand side of the frame. Each one gets a bullet to the chest, dead center on a paper target, before falling out of the picture so the next dummy can pop up. Liz Denali narrates the shoot-em-up:
"Haggling? Bang!"
"Pushy salespeople, pressure, upselling? Bang!"
"Outrageous interest rates on rent-to-own plans? Bang!"
"Warranties with terms and conditions? Bang!"
The dummies have each of these phrases written on their heads, just in case you the viewer missed the rich symbolism. With every shot she fires, she juts her shoulder and most of the rest of her entire right side towards the target, as if that will give the bullet more force.
The most galling thing about the tableau is that although Liz Denali owns the fucking store, and could have filmed on-location -- it's instead quite obviously filmed in a studio, the store's background blurrily greenscreened in. The keying is so bad that you see wisps of green around Liz and the dummies she shoots.
Now the camera does a snap-zoom on Liz so that her entire face fills the screen. "Denali Furniture & Flooring. We take, no prisoners! In the fight to bring you, a better deal!" A star wipe reveals a map of the region. Small red circles fade in to mark several store locations. Liz provides the voice-over. "With six, locations around the Bay Area, Denali Furniture & Flooring, is your only destination, for all your home-decor needs!" This woman is bilingual: she fluently speaks both English and comma.
Static pictures of furniture on the showroom floor pass across the screen like the flipping pages of a diner's tabletop menu. "La-z-Boy recliners from $599. California King sized Vaughan-Bassett beds from $1499. Maiden Home sofas and sectionals from $1899."
Back to Liz in profile. She has one more foe to fell. This final dummy is dressed in a gorilla costume (???????).
"High prices? Oh yeah, oh yeah. BANG!"
Liz turns, faces the screen. She props the backs of both her wrists on both her hips and shifts her weight severely to one side. "Denali Furniture & Flooring: we've got the squish you can't resist!"
The banjo cuts out with a climactic twang and the commercial fades to black.
---
You walk through the halls between periods with your sisters. Ophie is on the phone: "Is this Hunter Pfeiffer. Yes, hello, this is Ophelia Soliloquy. You graded SAT exams recently. ... Yes. I am currently investigating some serious discrepancies with the scoring. Do you recall grading any exams that scored 1590. Sir -- sir, do not just answer immediately without considering the question. Search your memory. This is a matter of grave importance. Think carefully. ... ... Maybe. All right. My records show you were seated at table #43, which means you would have been using the model GX-30 scanner there. Firstly: did you do the requisite double-scan of all test sheets. ... Good. Did you make sure the machine was calibrated before using it. ... Good. Do you have a certificate of calibration. ... What do you mean, why would you. Why would you not. You were grading exams that will determine the future course of hundreds of young lives. Yet you have no evidence of the grading machine's accuracy. ... No. No. You are not appreciating the seriousness of the issue at hand. Now. Do you recall seeing any bubbles on high-scoring tests that appeared to be only partially filled in. ..."
"So she got you up against the locker, huh," Amber says.
"Yeah," you say.
"That's hot. She's really gagging for it."
"But..."
"But let me guess. She hasn't made a move since then."
"And she said I was the one sending her mixed messages..."
"You ARE," Amber insists. "She wants you. You want her. -- Shut the fuck up. Don't even dispute me. You do. So? When are you gonna seal the deal?"
"Did you forget the other thing I told you? She said she was going to rape me. It's--"
"--All the more reason to seal the deal quickly," Amber says. "Before Summer takes matters into her own hands. Do you know what kind of sex crimes a girl like her is prepared to commit against you? She doesn't have any tan lines! A girl with a complexion like that doesn't do things half-assed. You're gonna get destroyed if you make her act first."
You're not so sure you buy Amber's Tan Line Theory of Sexual Deviancy, but you at least agree with the conclusion that Summer could be really dangerous.
"...legal repurcussions as well. No, I am not joking. I will need to see some evidence of -- Noah." Ophie hangs up the call without saying goodbye, and stares somewhat awestruck back at Noah, who just sauntered up from the other side of the hall.
"Ophelia," he says with a terse nod, about the warmest greeting he gives anyone. He glances Amber's way now. "I just spoke with Mr. Langley. I've decided to join the quiz team."
Amber whistles. "I thought your only hobby was jerking it to math textbooks."
"Quiz..." Ophie mutters. "I -- was als--" but Amber shushes her with a held-up index finger.
"Why the sudden dive into nerddom?" Amber asks. "Deeper dive."
"Being on a team that attains national success is good for my resume. Or so says my father."
"You're already in Oxford, champ. What more do you need?"
"My f-- I take a long view. Regardless... I look forward to being your teammate. If you ever should need anything, do not hesitate..."
He pushes past, continuing on his path down the hall, but Ophie calls: "Noah..."
He stops.
"I am playing Friday at an event..." She clumsily digs a leaflet from her bag, unfolds it, and hands it over.
Noah reads aloud. "Denali Furniture & Flooring: 7th location grand opening event ... musical entertainment by The Tone Police." He lowers the leaflet to find Ophie waiting for an answer, the slightest blush to her cheeks. Noah is merciless. "I would attend, but that evening I have some research planned--"
Ophie looks crestfallen. Amber pipes up: "Hey Noah, remember how you gave me that whole spiel about 'if I ever should need anything'?"
Noah is mute and expressionless.
"Yeah," Amber says, as if a bit apologetic, "it was a while ago. I don't fault you for not remembering that conversation. Anyway though, I need you to be at that thing on Friday."
"Why."
"It's a quiz bowl thing. Look, I'm your captain now. It's not your place to question my orders. Just go to the thing on Friday. And if you don't --" Amber adopts a chipper smile that's bright and toothy, as she points and chirps in the most saccharine voice she has: "I'll have to kill ya!" Still pointing, still smiling, voice still dripping sucrose, and nodding slowly, she demands acknowledgement. "Okay? Okaaay?"
"Yes."
"Good. Great." She grabs his forearm in a way that appears chummy, but you notice the rumpling of his uniform's fabric, and know she's putting iron force in the grip. "Can't wait to see ya there."
She lets him go, and he walks off, rubbing his sore arm. A moment later, the tardy bell rings. "God amighty," Amber groans, rolling her eyes. "Wes, you've been gabbing at us way too much. Now we're late. Ophie, c'mon."
She guides Ophie by the shoulder, whisking her away. Ophie asks her softly, "should I join the quiz team too? You always said--"
"No. Fuck that. You have to make him chase you. Keep being the cool girl who's in a band. Guys love that. Even dorks like Noah..."
You shake your head and hurry to your own class.
"How many of you are sexually active?" Ms. Berenstoin asks, leaning lightly against her desk.
Some hands go up, some stay down. Your hand stays down. Summer, behind you, nudges you. You keep your hand down. She nudges you harder. You ignore her. She rears back and kicks you in the tailbone from underneath. Your chair and desk rattle, and you go stiff-spined in pain. "Ooof," you huff, and raise your hand, just barely past your shoulder, lest she do something even more violent to you. You glare back at her. You try to wordlessly communicate your anger. Summer, already grinning, just grins even wider as you make eye contact. Her hand is high in the air, her fingers splayed, her elbow locked.
"Right," Ms. Berenstoin says. "Quite a few hands in the air. A majority, even. Although the actual number is probably about half of what I count. Some of you, I know, are braggarts..." She turns and retrieves a condom from her desk-drawer. She holds it aloft for the class. "How many of you have seen a demonstration of how to properly use protection?" Considerably fewer hands go up at this. Frowning, she takes a cucumber out of her purse, and using her teeth, she rips away the perforated edge of the condom's packaging.
Behind her, on the whiteboard, is scrawled the subject of today's lesson: "The Great Gatsby: Does Gatsby's arc prove or disprove the possibility of the American Dream?"
Ms. Berenstoin has lost the script, like usual.
"Since you're so enthusiastic about the lesson," you whisper to Summer, "what do you think? Does Gatsby prove or disprove the American dream?"
Summer gives a low laugh from her diaphragm that sounds like a "hmm." "It like totally disproves it, doesn't it? Like even after he got rich and had all the stuff he ever wanted, he just kept staring at that green light, you know? Like it was never gonna be enough for him. Even if all the stuff with Daisy never happened and he didn't end up getting blown the fuck out in his pool. He was already kinda dead inside anyway." The whole time Summer explicates her thoughts, she keeps her hand in the air.
Ms. Berenstoin points at her with the condom-clad cuke. "You can put your hand down now."
Summer neatly folds her hands in front of her and wiggles a bit in her seat, beaming at Ms. Berenstoin, to convey her acquiescence.
"You... did the reading?" You breathe.
"Well'yeah," Summer says, as if the two words are one. "We were assigned it, weren't we? Didn't you read it?"
You glance away.
Summer purrs from the back of her throat. "Don't come crawling to me asking for help on the essay."
"I helped you in math!"
"And I paid you for it!"
"Fashion advice is not what we agreed to--"
"It's not my fault you didn't take my advice. You could have at least washed your hair once or twice with the shampoo I gave you. Or with any shampoo at all..."
"I'm not putting tea in my hair," you say.
"Tea tree oil and peppermint. Idiot. It's good for the scalp. You need it, too."
You and Summer both start when Ms. Berenstoin whacks Summer's desktop with the cucumber. You gaze up at her.
"If you two want to argue, do it outside class," she tells you. "Right now is the time for you to be paying attention to my lesson."
Summer's eyes dart down towards the reservoir tip poking from one end of the cucumber. She glances back at Ms. Berenstoin. "I don't think Wes is gonna need the lesson," she says.
Ms. Berenstoin looks at you.
"Y-yeah," you agree. "But... we'll be quiet. Sorry, Ms. Berenstoin."
"I see," she says. She seems to be looking at you with new eyes. "Well. We're a bit off-topic anyway. Oh, and Wesley -- please, let's not be too formal. You can call me Talia."
"Yes Talia," you say. If your teacher asks to be referred to on a first-name basis, it's only natural for you to oblige her, right? You'd be a jerk if you didn't. Talia returns to the head of the classroom.
Through the rest of the lesson, Summer seems a bit sullen, and you weigh your options:
[ ] Follow Amber's advice, and move to seal the deal quickly.
>[x] Goad Summer into sealing the deal for you. Could be fun.
[ ] Bide your time. You have better prospects...
You make a point of following Summer out of the class when the period ends, which is unusual. Summer immediately notices. "Geez. I touch you one time and now you're following me like a lost puppy..." she laughs, although there's no venom in it. "Did I leave you in need, babe?"
"2000 words by Wednesday, huh," you mumble.
Summer's smile crumples like a thing shot dead. Obviously, essays don't arouse her. "I told you, Wes. You're not getting my help. Ask me again and I'll paddle your ass with my hairbrush."
"Do my essay for me," you say.
Your heart thuds in your chest. Your head throbs with the sudden increase of your blood pressure. Your mouth goes dry and you can feel your pupils dilate. You wait, breathless, to see what Summer does. You're bracing yourself to get spanked right here in the midst of the milling students of PAP.
"Did you... hear what I said?" Summer says. Her voice is so low you almost can't make it out.
"I heard you. But let's be honest. I did your math. I didn't tutor you... I did the work for you... so you owe me. Do my essay for me."
Summer bristles. Her nostrils flare. She leans down, to face you head-on. "You want me to do your work, huh? Too stupid to do it yourself? Gotta come running to mama Summer to get it done?"
You nod. You can't speak, because your nerve is quickly leaving, and you don't want her to hear your trembling voice.
"You're coming to my softball game tomorrow, right? Of course you are. I work best after some exertion. The sweat gets me going. So how about you meet me in the lockers after the game. We can head to the library when we're done."
"--Done?" You say.
Summer puts her cheek to yours, and bites your earlobe. The scent of her coconut lotion fills your nose. A little bit of saliva from her teeth is warm on your skin where she bit you. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You shiver.
"You better not make me wait for you," she whispers into your ear. She steps back, enjoys seeing the quivering bowl of jello she turned you into, then turns, and walks away.
Alone again in the emptying hallway, you reach up and touch your hair. It's not that greasy...
You'll wash it tonight.
---
At home that evening, the moms have swatches of material arrayed on the dining room table, and they're getting snitty over it:
"Granite is so goddamn ugly," K-Mom says. "I'm not paying a contractor $30,000 to come and make my home uglier than it was before. Nuh uh. Not happening."
"Go to hell," N-Mom says. "Bluestone accentuates the walls. A lot better than this black slate crap you want. It's so bland."
"Not bland. Simple. Clean. Functional. What's not to like, you dizzy bitch?" K-Mom sweeps the sample swatches up like a player at a card table. "I don't know why we're discussing this. When was the last time you even cooked anything in that kitchen? Possession is nine-tenths. Which means it's my kitchen, so I get to choose--"
"It's OUR kitchen. WE have to choose, TOGETHER--"
"If you don't use it, you lose it. Immutable law of the cosmos."
"Oh, you are so--"
"I like the rose quartz..." you mutter.
They both glare at you like you've committed genocide. You clear your throat, and bow your head.
Just then, the doorbell rings. Thank Christ. When N-Mom answers it, you see Dad on the other side.
"Well hidey-ho, neighborino," K-Mom says, joining her wife at the door. "What brings you all the way across the street?"
"Making sure you don't rip each other's throats out over the countertops," Dad says.
"Noelle told you, huh? Well, you're about half an hour too late. We're both throatless."
"Pity."
"What's that behind your back?" N-Mom says. "You look ridiculous." Fair cop. Dad has one hand conspicuously behind him, and it gives the impression of a toddler hiding a toy.
"It's big fat fucking spiky dragon dil-- hi Wes," Dad says, sputtering, as you approach the foyer and he spots you. He coughs. "Uh, how's school? I heard you're going to homecoming with someone."
"Will," you tell him.
"Yeah, but with who?" Dad asks.
"Will."
He thinks about that. It suddenly clicks. "Ohhh. Will. Amber's friend, right?" He looks at K-Mom.
"Don't start," K-Mom says.
"Are you gonna pull that dragon dildo from behind your back or what?" You ask. "I'm curious..."
He gives you a displeased look. Then, shrugging, he reveals what was actually hidden. It's a luscious arrangement of flowers: lilies, roses, camellias, and violets. He hands them to Noelle. "Happy anniversary," he says.
"Flowers?" N-Mom says. "That's pretty lame for a wedding anniversary, isn't it?"
"It's not my anniversary. I wasn't obligated to get you anything at all. And don't ever expect me to do it again, if that's how you're going to be about it."
N-Mom finds a vase and goes to the kitchen to fill it with some water. She might bitch, but she's smiling.
"You're right on time," K-Mom says. "I was about to get our anniversary meal started. You can stay and have some if you like." She rubs his arm. "Maybe stay the night..."
You shudder.
He steps in, and loosens his tie. "What's for dinner?"
"Surf and turf. Risotto. Asparagus. All prepared by yours truly, on counters soon to be made of beautiful, functional black slate."
"She means bluestone," N-Mom says, now in the living room, arranging the flower-filled vase in a central spot on the coffee table, spreading the flowers, making sure their buds are all open.
[x] Stay for dinner.
[ ] Let them enjoy themselves without you. [sub-choice: catch Ophie and maybe Summer at the diner. / head back to your room for some hardcore gaming. / [x] take that shower.]
"That's what I was afraid of," Dad says, striding with purpose towards the kitchen. "Neither of you should be cooking. Not tonight."
"Because it's our anniversary?" K-Mom asks, smirking. "That's sweet of you. You're such a romantic."
"No. Because those cows and lobsters don't deserve to die in vain," Dad says, voice gruff, as he takes an apron from the hook on the wall and ties it behind his back. "I've tasted more than enough of your cooking. If I'm staying for dinner, I'm making it."
"You fucking ass," K-Mom spits.
N-Mom is more receptive. "Thank God," she says, kicking back on the sofa.
"Fuck you too, then!" K-Mom hollers. "Ingrates!"
Dad nods at you. "Are you eating with us?"
"You're cooking?" You ask. When he nods again, you say: "then sure. I'll have some."
"Why is your answer contingent on whether he's the one cooking?" K-Mom asks. Her face is red.
"I... you know-- one thing I should--" you fidget and play with your hair. You point towards the hall. "I should really take a shower..."
"You should," all three of your parents agree in unison. You wince.
When you start down the hall, K-Mom calls after you: "Learn how to respect me, Wes! You're not too old for spankings, you know! Remember that!"
You try to ignore her as you shut the bathroom door behind you and begin to strip. A nice, hot shower will do you some good. And since you're going to be alone, aurally shielded, and naked -- what better time to bust out your favorite back massager? You really need to take the edge off, after everything with Summer earlier in the day.
You set the showerhead in the bathroom's walk-in shower to max pressure, and as close to scalding as your skin can stand. When you bathe, you like to really marinate. And as much shit as you catch over your hair (you know, washing your hair too much can damage it, not many people appreciate that aspect) -- when you do it, you really work it in. It's like a self-administered scalp massage.
Since you so rarely take a shower without also masturbating, the whole ritual has attained a Pavlovian association in your brain. Just turning on the faucet and feeling the first wafts of steam rising up is enough to get your pussy wet. It makes your skin tingle in anticipation and your heart beat a little faster with excitement. Cumming in the shower is so convenient, since it all washes away, and you can be as loud as you want. The Hitachi's buzz would be nearly deafening otherwise, but with the steady rush of water against tile, it's barely audible at all. There's a little inset, arched, and backlit ledge at the front of the enormous shower. You set the vibing toy on it, ready for when you want to put it to use.
Stepping in, getting acclimated to the heat, you don't waste time. You lean with one forearm against the travertine wall and hike one leg up so your foot rests on the soap dish. You're really spread-open this way, your holes drift apart and you can smell the heady aroma of your own sex. You test the softness of your vulva, squishing and squeezing it, tickling it... that spot where Summer was touching you only hours earlier. You grunt. You're so fucking horny you could explode right now.
Your hand moves further down, towards your ass. Your asshole is nice and open in this position too, and you prod it with your fingertips, enjoying the way it winks and tenses involuntarily. You like being as skinny as you are because it makes your orifices so... accessible, so easy to play with, so easy to dig into and really explore. It's true: through the years you've become an addict of masturbation, and you've put both your lower holes through some real abuse. Even when it hurts, like now, as you plunge two fingers into your anus... it feels really good, too. How painful it is, how nasty and weird it is -- is precisely what gets you off the hardest. You're a weird girl. Your body has become weird through playing with it.
You think about Summer. You think about how much crueler and demeaning her fingers would be inside you. A girl like her would hurt you 100 times more than you could hurt yourself. You jab your fingers deeper to imitate that sadism, but you know it isn't the same. You think of Amber, too, the way she loves to pound your ass. She can leave you sore for days with her strap-on. And you think of others... you think of Amelia from the diner, how much an older woman like her would weigh pressing down on you... Talia, how you'd like for her to try that condom-wrapped cucumber out inside your pussy... yeah, your whole class could watch you sitting on your desktop, stripped naked and legs akimbo, covering your face in shame while your teacher molests you. You think of your mothers-- you violently shake your head. Amber's such a bad influence. You shouldn't think of your mothers like that. But K-Mom did threaten to spank you... and N-Mom knew about how you and Amber fucked the other day, didn't she? She didn't do anything to stop you...
Just as you reach for the steadily buzzing toy on the sill, appreciating the way the accumulated drops on it vibrate and scatter -- your phone, never far from your person, rings.
You consider whether to bother checking it. People almost never call you. When they do it, it's usually something really important. But you're so fucking hot right now... you really, really need to get off...
The ringing stops, and you shrug, and pick up the magic wand. But then the ringing begins again, just as piercing and insistent.
You poke your head out, glance towards the countertop on the other side of the toilet. Your phone, face-up, displays the caller ID: Summer D.
Your pulse quickens. Answer it or let it ring? You've goaded Summer enough already. Ignoring her is likely to get you really fucked up. Your hand drifts back towards your cunt when you think of that. But no... answering her while you're in the shower... is bound to get her raring even more, won't it?
You turn the massager off, hop out of the shower just long enough to grab the phone, and pick up the call. Balancing the phone on its bottom on the shower's ledge where the massager was just sitting, you put Summer on speakerphone.
"...Wes?" Summer asks. "You there? It sounds like... it sounds weird. Hello?"
"I'm showering," you tell her.
"What? You answered the phone in the shower?"
"Well... yeah," you say, playing a little dumb. "You said you didn't want me to ignore you when you call, right?"
"But... I mean, you couldn't have stepped-- I--"
"What were you calling about?" You ask. You slip a finger into your twat. You shiver with the naughtiness of playing with yourself while Summer talks to you. She has no idea that you're masturbating while she makes small talk.
"I was calling you to make sure you'd be at my game tomorrow... and to tell you... to-- to clean up."
You rub your thumb in lazy circles around your hardening nubbin of a clit. "I'm getting clean right now," you tell her. "Don't worry about it." It's so much easier to be cheeky with Summer from a distance, when she can't retaliate. "Hey... I have a couple choices of shampoo to use. What do you think? Lavender, honey melon, or -- tea tree oil and peppermint?"
"Uhh. I got you that shampoo for a reason," Summer says softly.
"Why?"
Her response is slow to come, and it's even softer than the last one. "Because I like the way it smells."
You take the unopened bottle of shampoo, remove the freshness seal, and squirt a dollop into your palm. "I'm rubbing it in right now," you tell her.
After another long pause, Summer finds her typical brashness: "Bullshit. I'll believe it when I see it."
You send a facetime request. Summer goes quiet. When, after some apparent deliberation, Summer accepts the request, she sees your face filling the frame. Your hair is sudsy with the lathered-in shampoo. The cooling effect of it on your scalp is new and interesting to you. You could use this stuff again. Summer herself is clearly in her bed, the surrounding room all gaudy and pink. The angle on her is upwards-facing, so that her features have strange contours to them you aren't used to. Nor are you used to her gulpingly hesitant expression.
You keep working the shampoo into your follicles. "See. I'm washing my hair. With tea and everything. Happy?"
Summer just stares at you. With how you're bent, she isn't able to see anything X-rated. But that changes quickly. As you ring your hair out, washing the soap away, you stand up straight. Now your whole body is on display. Summer draws a sharp breath. She's taking you all in: your chest, with its pale pink nipples and visible ribs, your belly, your thighs. Your pussy. You widen your stance a little, to make it obvious that you do mean to show off. Summer's lips part -- She's going all slackjawed.
Haltingly, you pull the magic wand into view. You nod as if to ask: "Should I?" And Summer, equally as haltingly, nods back as if to say: "Go right ahead."
You put the vibrator on its max setting. This one will be quick. You get the thing wedged between your thighs, forcing your stance even wider. Pressing the ridged silicone viciously into your squishy cunt-lips has the effect of -- well, of squishing them -- jutting them up and at the camera, showing your vulva off in all its pornographic glory for Summer's lecherous enjoyment. At the same time, you reach behind yourself and play some more with your ass, the way you were before Summer so selfishly interrupted you.
All you hear on Summer's end is her ragged breathing. But you can see both her shoulders writhing, and you know she's playing with herself too, in her bed, while she watches. When at last she says something, it's guttural and half-incoherent: "Slut... slut... you're such a slut..."
"Mnngh," you grunt, swallowing hard. You get your fingers deeper up your asshole, and begin to plunge them in and out. You like debasing yourself for Summer. For anyone. You'd ask to see what she's doing with her own pussy right now, but even like this, you're too timid to say it. So you're thankful when Summer seems to understand implicitly, or is just perverted enough to want to show off a little too. She moves the camera down. You see the ruffles of her skirt, hiked around her waist -- and her absolutely sodden panties. She wears a leopard print thong that would be semi-transparent even without her pussy juice, but which now is almost totally see-through. The crotch bulges with her busy fingers.
"Watch me cum, babe," Summer moans. "Okay? Cum with me!"
You bend and unbend your knees to bounce a little bit on the toy, creating a strange squelching noise as you work to get yourself off. At the moment of your climax, you press your knees tightly together, and let the cum rumble through the core of your being. It's a big, wet one. Your eyes roll back and you bite your twisting lower lip so hard you think you'll bleed. But then, as the subsequent rolling waves of your orgasm start to ripple through, radiating concentrically from your quivering clit, the epicenter of your pleasure... you pull the toy away, spread your legs wide, and without any more stimulation needed, you squirt. You squirt gush after gush of cum against the tile floor, the sill, and even your phone. You grunt to yourself: "fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK," again and again, as you spray your juices all over the place. You notice, from the picture-in-picture display on your phone, that your peep show has become blurred, the lens now filmy with your pussy juice.
Summer also cums. You hear the sexy squishing of her hitting her own peak, and see her fingers digging greedily at her own hole. You see the panties becoming inundated with rhythmic waves of her cum, like water running in pulses down a wall. You hear her wail: "Cumming! Cummmmmminggggg!" And then her phone goes tumbling, you hear the rustle of her flamingo pink blanket against the speaker, and at last you have only a view of Summer's high ceiling as Summer herself, oblivious, screams in the background like it's the first time she's orgasmed in a decade.
Then the noise of scrambling limbs. Soon Summer, now a bit less distracted, has the camera pointed back at her gawking face. She's shiny with sweat, and flushed, her damp hair adhering in random places to her skin.
You decide to put the coup de grace on things. You hike a leg up, one knee against the wall. And you begin to pee. This sharper, but no less messy stream is obviously not another orgasm, although it feels almost as good. Summer's face goes through several emotions: bafflement, shock, revulsion -- and finally settles on allure. You're glad. If she's going to be more than friends with you, you want her to see how nasty you really are. You want her to know you're just this kind of girl: who would lift her leg and piss on command like a trained dog if the mood is right. You flex your abdomen and push the urine out with as much force as you can, so it loudly spatters and echoes off the tiled floor. You keep playing with your asshole, too. In this position, Summer can see your fingers working in and out of your butt while you piss yourself. The yellow stream, the dark pucker of your asshole, the way you anally masturbate like it's the most casual thing in the world, Summer sees it all. This is you at your most private, vulnerable, and debauched, and you're letting Summer see it without her even asking.
"You're -- such a fucking freak," Summer at last manages. There's real judgment there, real disgust, and it makes you cum yourself a little. "You fuck your own sister... you pee all over the place like an animal... you play with your butt on camera like you're some kind of porn star... God."
"Do you like freaks?" You ask her, as you finish peeing, and lower your leg. You jut your hips out, spread your pussy so the pink interior is visible. You idly tickle your clit for her to see.
"I want to punish freaks," Summer says, voice about half an octave lower.
You play with yourselves on camera a second and a third time, before you end the call and turn off the shower. By the end, your legs are so wobbly you can barely stand. Summer promises that tomorrow she's going to rape you until you really can't at all.
You're excited.
The appetizing smells coming from the kitchen attract you there. Although K-Mom is a little better at cooking than N-Mom is (in the sense that K-Mom hasn't, at least yet, found a way to burn cereal) -- Dad's cooking can't be beat. He's the fucking iron chef, you're sure of it. He's stirring the cream into the pan with the risotto, while the steaks grill on an oil-coated griddle. You can see a cookie tray packed with blackening, butter-sweating asparagus spears inside the oven.
"Hungry?" Dad asks over his shoulder.
"You wouldn't believe it," you sigh, leaning against the counter opposite. "I'm starving."
"Yeah, well, after the sounds you were making in the shower, I'm not surprised."
Your eyes bulge. You choke on nothing. Dad cuts past and starts washing the whisk under the faucet beside you.
"I... I..."
"Thought you should know," he says. "If I can hear it, your mothers definitely can. They have better hearing than me."
All this time... the privacy you thought you had in the shower... the masking noise of the shower's rush... oh God. You get that trapped-in-a-pottery-kiln sensation again. You want to curl up into a little ball and die. God, god, god... god, fuck...
"It's fine, everyone does it," Dad assures you. "Just... be a little more discreet, yeah?"
He flips the steaks and uses a brush to paint them with some more oil. Taking the lobsters now, he plunges them into the pot of boiling water.
"How do you like your steak?" He asks.
You shake your head. Swallowing your mortification, you focus on the question: "Uh... well... I mean -- medium well."
"That's my girl," Dad says. "I knew I had to have at least one daughter with taste. But don't tell your mothers. As far as they're concerned? That's more embarrassing than the other thing." He grins at you.
"Sure."
"Dinner's in about ten. Why don't you grab some wine from the racks for your mothers and I. Chardonnay."
"Can-- I have some?" You ask.
"Absolutely not..." Dad barks. "...more than half a glass."
You look through the racks for the right bottle, and then shuffle out of the kitchen. You still want to die, but just a bit less than before.
---
"Do I walk on two legs?" You ask.
"No," Dad says.
"...Do I walk on four legs?" You ask.
"Nope," N-Mom says.
"...but I am an animal?"
"You asked that," K-Mom says. "Yes."
"...Mammal?"
Dad nods.
"Uhh... a whale?"
"No," he says.
"Dolphin?"
"No."
"I have legs?"
"Yes," K-Mom says.
You roll your eyes skyward as if you'll be able to read the sticky note there. "...Am I... am I a person?"
"Yes!" K-Mom says, a bit more triumphant.
"You guys said I was an animal!" You shout.
"People are animals," Dad says. He takes a sip of wine.
N-Mom, a bit wine-drunk, croons and snaps her fingers: "You and me baby, we ain't nothing but mammals..."
These fucking jerks are doing you dirty. After you washed the dishes and everything. You could punch someone.
You take a moment to think it through. A person... who doesn't walk. "So I'm disabled," you say.
"Is that a question?" Dad asks.
"Yes."
"Then yes."
"Stephen Hawking."
"No..." N-Mom says, giggling.
"FDR."
Dad, K-Mom, and N-Mom aren't so smug now. They gawp.
"Look at miss smartypants over here," K-Mom says when she finds her words again, motioning at you. "Hole in 2. Nice."
"She saw right through our web of deceit," N-Mom adds. "Hey." She leans across the table and lays a hand lightly over yours. "Are you sure you don't want to be in the FBI when you grow up?"
"She's sure," K-Mom says. She leans in too. "She wants to be a reporter. Right? The world's hurting for some good ones."
"I want to go to bed," you grouse, pulling back, ripping the post-it from your forehead and crumpling it up.
"Would you like a ride to school in the morning?" Dad asks.
You toss the crumpled-up post-it at him. "Make it more obvious you're gonna be screwing my moms tonight, why don't you." You stand and stalk off. Your parents laugh after you.
---
The next morning, walking to school with your sisters, you pass the parking spots near the front of the campus that are reserved for teachers. Talia, running as late you (what else is new?), is just pulling in.
Problem: Her parking spot is a little cramped this morning. A lot cramped. The teacher with the space on her right has parked way over the line. Whereas the space on her left is being illegally occupied by a box van, here to deliver sodas and snacks to the campus's vending machines. Such sugary, carbohydrate-y treats were banned from being sold at PAP until just recently, when the new regime made some changes.
Amber's face lights up when she sees the truck idling there. As the man pulls down an extensible ramp from the refrigerated cab and emerges with the first dolly stacked high with 12 oz. cans, Amber jogs up to him. Not so surreptitiously, she passes him a wad of bills.
"You are super on the ball with this shit," she says. "Make sure there's some black cherry Jolt in there, okay? And Faygo. And Fritos. And dill chips. I'm paying you enough, so don't let me down." He grunts his assent. Amber keeps yammering.
You're more interested in Talia's predicament. Her car does not seem like it will physically fit in the space allotted to her. Sure enough, her car's engine revs to a stop, and, though muffled, you hear an indicator ding followed by the computer alerting her: "Parking space obstructed. Remove obstruction or find a different space."
Face blank as ever, Talia presses a button on her dash. "Drive assist off. Manual control engaged."
She's gonna try to squeeze it in there.
Talia backs up and inches forward a couple-three times, trying to align the edges of her fender with the sides of each of the vehicles hedging her. Ophie, ever helpful, or maybe just practicing for a future career as an aircraft marshaller, stands at the curb and gives Talia hand signals to help her out, beckoning her to go or stop, adjust left or right, as necessary. With this help, and ample time to maneuver, Talia gets it centered. You cringe at the critical moment when she plunges it in, expecting to hear the shrill squeal of metal on metal. But nothing. The car glides smoothly in without a scrape.
A tighter fit is hard to imagine without any damage to the three vehicles. You squat to check: no daylight shines through the gaps between them.
Impressive. But what neither Talia nor Ophie have considered is--
Amber, aghast with anger, lightly pounds a palm against the hood of Talia's car. "You stupid bint! What are you gonna do now?"
"What?" Is Talia's reply, just as muffled by the windows as her car's computer was.
"How are you gonna get out? You're trapped! Bint!"
Talia presses another button on her dash, and her sunroof opens. Unclasping her seatbelt, and languidly guiding its retraction -- she then hauls herself up, gripping the edges of the sunroof, lifting her body up and out with such grace and speed that it's like she has no skeleton. She gets her legs beneath her, then slides, on her butt, down her windshield, across the hood, and upright onto the curbside, directly in front of Amber.
Amber is too taken aback to come up with a snarky rejoinder. Key fob in hand, Talia remotely closes her sunroof. She isn't smiling, she never smiles, but somehow you can tell that Talia is just so pleased with herself. Smug, even.
"That was..." you begin.
"It's my assigned space," Talia says. She frowns at Amber. "Tell your black market junk food dealer to mind the lines a bit better next time."
"Eat me."
Talia arches an eyebrow.
"Who trapped you on the other side?" You ask. You glance at the metal sign in front of the space to check who it's reserved for. "...Oh. That explains it."
Talia steps past Amber, and ushers Ophie towards the entrance. "Practice in the auditorium after school, right?" Talia asks.
"Mm. I will let the others know, as well..."
They whisper to one another about band practice as they disappear into the school.
"Fucking Berenstoin," Amber fumes. "Where does she get off?"
You shrug. "Gets off in her assigned space, I guess..."
Amber slaps you upside the head.
"Ow."
All day in class, Summer is giggly and over-talkative. Like she's trying to compensate with extra normalcy after the events of last night. Or maybe she's on edge about what she's anticipating for later, and gets a bad case of motormouth when she's anxious like that. She also asks you about 500 times whether you're coming to her game today. You really shouldn't -- you've got E-sports practice. But you figure she'll probably burst into your practice room and rape you in front of everyone if you don't.
Well...
She smells even more strongly of shay and cocoa butter than usual today. Her hair is brighter -- freshly dyed, fake blonde that she is. And a new sweater tied up around her waist, you figure -- you don't think you've seen it before. New pair of dorky socks hanging like discarded plastic bags off her calves.
She got herself all dolled up for you.
You glance down at your somewhat wrinkled, rumpled blouse and skirt. You feel like you've underdressed, even though you're both in uniform.
At one point in class, while you're focused on the board -- Summer reaches out without warning, and ruffles a hand through your hair. You jolt as if tazed, whipping your head around to glare at her. She giggles.
"Fluffy," she coos. "And Tea-y. ...How do you like it?"
"It tingles," you tell her. "...Uh. The shampoo."
"Hee," she laughs. "That's the point. Gets you all tingly."
"Yeah."
You face forward again.
"Do you like being tingly?" Summer asks. You don't answer her. For the 501st time today, then: "You'll be at my game, right?"
---
Just because you pledged to be at the softball game, doesn't mean you can't squeeze in a teensy bit of practice after school.
You warn the team that you can only stop by for one match, which your coach Mr. S ascents to. "Better than nothing," he says, shrugging. "Get in quick though," he adds, motioning at the bank of PCs where the rest of the team is already queuing up in ranked pubs for some matches. They'll all be here gaming until 9 or 10 PM, probably. You wish you didn't have any prior commitments...
Wait. You're getting laid. Isn't that better than some game?
Mr. S sits back at his desk and enters spectate mode. It's a bit hard to see him in amongst all the lavish gifts and love-tokens he gets. The girls at PAP are just gaga over him. You guess he's cute enough, sure -- attractive in only the most strictly conventional sense -- but he has the personality of a 12 year old, and you're many things, but you aren't a shotacon.
Dad knew Mr. S from high school and says he used to be a real lardo. You have a hard time picturing it. He's as ripped as anyone. Looks like he'll pop out of his button-down at any second, and not because of a beer gut.
"Oh, by the way," you tell him. "You parked over the line."
"...What?"
"You parked over the line. Ms. Berenstoin's car could barely fit in her space this morning."
"Oh. Oops. Still getting used to the Lambo. Hey, did you see the custom plates?"
You did. They say NARUT8. You're guessing NARUTO and NARUT0 were both taken. But maybe he could have come up with something closer... MARUTO?
What are you even thinking... he could have come up with something not related to fucking Naruto. That'd be the place to start.
You take your customary seat next to your co-captain. Lily is as bright and sun-shiny as always: "Just one game? Late to your hentai doujins? Or just scared of losing rank?"
"Actually, the plural is just doujin," you correct her as you put on your headphones. "And yeah. With you on the team... definitely scared of losing rank."
She flips you the bird, without tearing her eyes from her monitor.
You've got 10 kills on the board right now. That's about the only good news. Your jungler is calling for heals, and his DPS is dropping like a stone. Meanwhile, the rival team is about to get their third care package, which they'll almost certainly use to demolish your Titan. Your ink is running low, and since wavedashing is off by default in Master Diamond rank, you have to use a shoto, which doesn't pair too well with such a hitscan heavy meta. On top of all that, your opponents are rocket jumping and headshotting with such precision that you think they might be hacking. In fact, you even sus--
"Lily..."
A whispery, wispy twig of a girl is all of a sudden standing to your right (Lily's left). You think this girl's name is Marceline, but you aren't quite sure. You used to remember the names of Lily's girlfriends. That was 10 or 15 girlfriends ago. Marceline... Marianne? No. Mariko? Hmm. Mo...lybdenum?
Nah.
It's an M name, though, that much you're certain of.
Msomething stands there expectantly, gripping her purse's straps in front of her, her face twisting into a mask of soul-hollowing sadness. She fights the tears, but the longer Lily ignores her in favor of the match, the more difficult the battle against crying becomes.
"Lily," she repeats. Her voice quavers.
"Yeah. I'm listening."
"You haven't -- haven't answered me since..." Msomething stutters.
Lily waits for her to go on.
"You were..." Msomething begins, but trails off with a whimper.
"What?" Lily barks. "Say it. Use your talk parts."
"I gave you my v-- my virginity..."
"Oh," Lily says. She finally pays Msomething the minor dignity of glancing at her. It's only a quick up-down, Lily's eyes scanning her a single time before swiveling back to the game in progress. "Congrats," Lily says.
"I've been texting you--" Msomething says.
"My phone still works."
"Why didn't you--"
Lily takes a death in the game, and she reacts with the same guttural rage as always: "WHERE'S MY HEALER? STOP FUCKING FEEDING!" She yells to you and the rest of the team. Then, hair flipping, she snarls at her spurned, now-ex gf: "Quit messing with my concentration. I got your stupid texts. Don't call me. I'll call you. Okay?"
"O-oh... okay..." Msomething takes a couple halting steps back, then in a convulsion of sobs, she runs from the room.
"You're a real bitch with your girlfriends," you tell Lily.
"Avery wasn't a girlfriend. She was a one-night stand. Which I made abundantly clear at the time, but some people just don't learn shit. Not my problem." She pounds the desk: "STOP FUCKING FEEDING! GODDAMN IT!"
"Language," Mr. S says.
"FUCK YOU."
Mr. S murmurs and glances away.
"I knew I'd lose rank playing with you," you say, getting a bit salty yourself.
"Oh, do not even right now. If I didn't have to carry your dumb ass, we'd be in the lead. We're gonna get kickbooted from Master Diamond at this rate."
You DC.
"The fuck are you doing?" Lily shouts as you stand and gather your things.
"Leaving for prior commitments."
"How are we supposed to manage without our tank?"
You shrug. "I don't know. Do something. Kill something." You breeze past, and out the door.
[ ] Go straight to the softball game. Don't want to keep Summer waiting.
>[x] Check out Ophie and Talia's band practice.
[ ] See what's up with quiz bowl first.
[ ] Blow the whole thing off, go home. Summer's reaction will be priceless.
From Mr. S's class to the baseball field takes you past PAP's auditorium, so you decide to poke your head in. Ophie and her band are on the lighted stage. Ophie herself with her Fender Stratocaster, Talia on synthesizer, Will at the drumkit. And a boy you don't recognize on bass. He's a stranger not because you've never seen Ophie play, but because the position of bassist in this group is a revolving door. Judging by how nervous this kid looks, he won't even last to the Denali Grand Opening.
These are the Tone Police. Or should you say: Tone Police II. Aunt Whitney, Ophie's mom, spearheaded the original group. Ophie is just picking up where mommy left off.
You've caught them in the midst of a song. Ophie, boomer at heart, has a few Beatles covers in her repertoire. Sadly, even with Ophie and Talia swapping singing duties between lines, they don't match Lennon's charisma:
"I am the the egg man," Talia says flatly.
"They are the egg men," Ophie says.
"I am the walrus."
"Goo goo gah joob."
Will really goes to town on the drums, working so hard that sweat scatters off his body in manifold arcs with every strike of his drumsticks. He puts his whole body into it, grooving out and letting the rhythm take him. It gives the cover a percussive flare the original didn't have. Yet even that cannot whitewash the dead-fish lyricism of the group's frontwomen, or the even icier sheen of their electro-synth instrumentation. You're drawn in, it's true. It's just not the most lively thing you've ever heard.
There's no accounting for taste, though: "WOOOO! YEAH!" A voice cries out from the front row, and holds a Bic lighter high in the air.
As you make your way down the central aisle between seats, you get a better view of the groupie. Aunt Whitney. Of course.
She isn't the only one who showed up to watch. Aunt Vivian is here as well, along with Renee. In the row of seats behind them, you spy even more family. There's Nelson Berenstoin, Talia's uncle. Beside Nelson, his employer, David Darkbloom -- Ophie's grandfather. David wears a giant foam finger that he lightly waves back and forth.
Since Aunt Whitney is swinging her lighter in a wider and more erratic arc, and screaming practically at the top of her lungs, you decide to hang back by David and Nelson.
"Crabalocker fishwife," Ophie says with nary a lilt or intonation.
"Pornographic priestess," Talia says. She sees you and meets your eyes. You don't like the look she gives you as she says: "Boy, you've been a naughty girl. You let your knickers down."
"Man, she's changed so much," Nelson says. "I barely recognize her."
"Ophie or Talia?" David asks.
Nelson makes a face.
"Oh, Wesley," David says as you take a seat a couple places down from him. Aunt Vivian turns and nods at you. Aunt Whitney and Renee are, for their part, too enthralled to notice. Renee is getting in on the WOOOO-ing now, too, as the music swells. You'll go deaf even from here.
"Have you seen Amber?" Vivian asks.
"She should be at quiz bowl practice," you say.
"So I surmised. I was hoping it wouldn't be the case."
"Why?"
"Alabaster and Rose are there too. I am a bit weary of their bickering right now, so I did not want to suffer it just for the sake of seeing Amber." She stands and dusts the backside of her ostentatious dress off. Even an elite private academy like PAP is a bit beneath her, in her view, and she obviously feels dirty hanging around here. Plus she's minding the dress. A getup like that probably runs in the high 4 figure range -- overkilling it, as always, for a simple social visit to see her niece.
"I will meet you back at home," Vivian tells Whitney, but Whitney isn't paying attention.
David's eyes follow Vivian out. In your entire life, the number of words you and David Darkbloom have exchanged must total fewer than 100. He intimidates you. And you get a somewhat judgmental sense from him -- like he doesn't like you. But you somehow feel compelled to make small talk, sitting so close to him. You start simple: "Uhhh. How's it going?"
"Hmm? Oh, so-so. You look well. Your hair is nicer than usual."
Always with the hair... "You, uh, look good too. Have you been dieting?"
David doesn't answer. "This music is just fantastic. Wouldn't you say? Are you excited for Ophelia's concert, too? It's so great that one of her sisters supporting her."
"I'm surprised to see you guys all here," you tell him. "Just for a practice session--"
"Well, Friday is their first real concert. Ophelia won't let on, but she is so nervous over it that she can hardly sleep! Or so Whitney tells me. We want to give her some encouragement."
The song is winding down. "ENCORE! ENCORE!" Renee is hooting. "BRAVO! BRAVO!" Whitney chimes in. Is there such a thing as too much encouragement?
Not everyone is so enthusiastic. That anonymous bassist is pulling off his guitar (actually property of Talia) and setting it down. "Man, I don't know. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. This isn't -- I don't think this band is for me."
"Yo, what the fuck!" Will yells. "I didn't talk coach into unbenching you so you could renig on me!"
"Renege," Ophie tells him softly.
"Put that fucking bass back on!" He shouts, pronouncing it like the fish, not the instrument.
"I'm out, man, sorry." He glances at Ophie. "Good luck. Really. I hope you find the right person."
He dips. See? Didn't even make it to the Denali Grand Opening. And as bad as Will chewed him out, Renee's "BOO, HISS" through cupped palms is a lot more forceful as he passes by. Ophie is unperturbed. Nonetheless, Whitney clambers onto stage to console her. She puts a hand on Ophie's shoulder. "If you still need a bassist on Friday, I can do it, baby."
"Mm..." She mutters, indecisive.
"What?" Whitney asks, not sure why Ophie's not sure.
Talia plays interpreter. "I think what she means is that having her mother play in her band is... let's say... uncool. We'll find a replacement. Don't worry, Mrs. Soliloquy."
Whitney giggles -- ego unwounded. She understands completely. But she picks up the guitar and puts the strap on anyway. "I can still help ya through practice." She winks at Ophie. "That's not too uncool, is it?"
"No," Ophie agrees, with a slight smile.
Whitney thumbs through the songbook on the stand in front of her. "Hmm. Polite Dance Song?"
Ophie nods.
"All right, Mrs. Soliloquy!" Will hoots. "Hot Mom Central up in here."
"Whoa now--" Whitney starts.
He pounds his drumsticks together. "A-one, a-two, --!!"
They launch into the song. This one has a better groove to it than their attempt at Beatlemania. Whitney isn't the world's most proficient bassist, but her presence definitely helps.
You sway a bit in your seat along with the music as you carry on with David. "How did you get out of work just to watch a jam session?"
"I'm a CEO, not a prisoner. I don't need to be at work 24 hours a day."
"Just 23," Nelson says. Now it's Darkbloom making a face at him.
Renee props her forearm on the backrest of her seat and tells you, "delegation is key when you get this far in the business world. In other words, we have underlings to do our bidding."
"Some of us do," David says. "Say, Nelson, who's picking up your slack today?"
"Steven. Of course."
David is unmoved. "Right. So, again: only some of us have people to delegate to."
Ophie, in the middle of a lyric, chokes on her words. She seems taken aback. You glance towards the aisle: Noah sneaked in at some point, and now he's standing there, stoically watching. You would find it creepy, if you were in Ophie's shoes. Ophie finds it unnerving in a different way. She's unable to continue for a few agonized moments. It takes her mom slapping her back to get her in gear. But she never breaks eye contact with him again as she plays and sings. He returns the gesture.
It's not to last. Another visitor enters the auditorium.
"Noah. There you are. Come on already -- you need to be at quiz practice right now."
He pats his trouser like beckoning a disobedient pet. This would be Absalom Abrams, Noah's trillionaire daddy. Or mere centibillionaire, depending on how you reckon his wealth. Regardless, there's no love lost between him and David Darkbloom. They're bitter business rivals. (A bit of gum in the works of the blossoming romance between their kin.)
Zuck he isn't. He has the looks to go with his status.
David's voice roars with false civility: "Absalom. So nice to see you. Do you still have your son's life plotted down to the microsecond, or have you refined your scheduling into the nanosecond range by now?"
"We're working on picosecond resolution," Abrams tells him. Noah returns to his father's side, and the music on stage draws to a feedbacky halt.
"I thought I felt the net worth of this room shoot up by a couple orders of magnitude," Talia muses.
David minced words a bit. Whitney definitely doesn't: "Fuck you, Absinthe!"
"Actually, Noah is his own man," Abrams tells David. "I couldn't be prouder. He's making his own way, a real solid head on his shoulders at such a young age. Oxford, his independent math studies... even his decision to enter the quiz bowl. All him. I'm just a supporter."
"Really," David hums.
"Really. I trust him to make the right choices. But some choices... well, the bad ones, I do steer him from." He casts Ophie a sidewise glance.
"FUCK YOOOOOU," Whitney calls.
"Have you reconsidered my suggestion for rebranding your company?" David asks. "Abrams Security Systems has such a nice ring to it."
"Darkbloom International Computer Kiosks has a nice ring to it, too. Think about it."
Geez. These men are children. You pity Ophie and Noah.
Ophie, miserable, fiddles with the tuning knobs on her guitar.
Before leaving, Noah tells her: "I like your singing voice."
You've never seen quite that shade of pink in Ophie's complexion.
"You could get along a bit better," Renee tells David, as David watches the auditorium's double doors swinging in Absalom's wake. "Like it or not? Your granddaughter is in love with his son."
"Well, not even Ophelia can be perfect," David says, picking at some lint on his pantleg.
"That's kind of a fucked up thing to say," you mumble, without even realizing yourself.
"Excuse me?" David sputters.
Renee grins at you.
Your phone buzzes. You check it -- it's a text. "Oh shit," you breathe. You grab your bag and hop to your feet. "Sorry. I gotta go. Like now."
You hurry out. You overhear David telling Renee: "she's definitely her father's daughter. Putting her nose in everyone's business." Renee laughs at him.
---
"Saved you a seat," Amelia tells you.
Huffing and puffing, you plop down on the uncomfortable aluminum bleachers beside her. "What inning is it?"
"Top of the fifth. You missed quite a bit."
You're not a softball superfan, but you know that when there's three members of the opposing team all on-base, things could be going better. Especially when the box score looming over the field shows that the PAP Shoebills are already trailing 3-0.
Still, you feel the need to confirm. "This is a bad situation, right? Three people on?"
"And no outs," Amelia adds. You cringe.
Summer looks flustered -- sweaty, nervous, and out-of-it. Amelia points at the home team dugout. "They're about to bench her, you know."
The coach is conferring with his assistant coach near the mouth of the dugout. They have the universal pose of all ball coaches when they're deliberating important matters: their wrists on their hips, their heads bowed, like they're about to break into a chicken dance at any second. Apparently reaching the foregone conclusion, the coach begins towards the infield to deliver the sorry news.
"Fuck," you mutter.
"All is lost," Amelia says with a smile. "Oh woe, oh woe." Then she gives a sharp whistle, shrill enough that it would shatter a wine glass in the outfield.
It makes everyone in the bleachers wince, and draws every single eye in the park. Attention. God. You try to shrink as best you can, feeling the heat of hundreds of angry gazes. Amelia just sits there with her perfect posture and coy grin, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Among the eyes her whistle drew are Summer's. And when Summer spies you sitting next to Amelia, it's like a stormcloud got yanked away from the sun. Summer positively beams. She waves at you with her typical four-finger waggle. Her smile is so wide that it forces her eyes closed. But she notices her coach approaching, then, too.
Bowing her head, taking a deep breath to recenter herself, she gets a pitch off before she can be told she's getting benched. Her windup is clean and fast, and the ball is a heater thrown straight down the middle of the plate. The batter doesn't even try to hit it -- doesn't have the time to react.
"STRIKE!" The ump yells, pointing.
The catcher tosses Summer back her ball. She steps off the mound, to the right, to retrieve it, bubbly, and sprightly. Her limbs seem loose, but move with clear coordination, as she shakes them and cracks her neck. She readies up for the next pitch. The execution is stayed. Coach, halfway between the dugout and the field, folds his arms, watches on. Summer draws another deep breath and pitches another heater. The batter tries wildly for this one, but doesn't come close.
"STRIKE!"
"I think you're a good luck talisman," Amelia tells you.
Summer blows a bubble of bright pink gum. She stares the batter down. She throws -- this one is a slider. The batter plays golf trying to whack it, and still misses.
"OUT!"
Summer's coach goes back to the dugout.
"I brought snacks," Amelia says. She lifts two red-and-white diamond-patterned paper trays from by her feet. "Burgers."
She hands you yours. "Burger," you correct. "Just one. That's not a burger." You point at her tray.
"Well, I wasn't sure you would want a gyro. Gyros are burger-esque, though, right? It's the Greek answer to the hamburger. An honorary hamburger -- if you will." She dips her gyro in the plastic cup of tzatziki sauce and takes an enormous bite.
"I was hoping for a hot dog," you say. "Not that burgers are bad. But I always get burgers. Kinda in the mood for something different."
"What? How could you have been expecting one or the other? You didn't know you were getting anything at all until just now."
"Well just because I didn't know, doesn't mean I couldn't hope."
"Oh no you can't," Amelia says. "You -- are hopeless." She wags an index finger in a hypnotic circle directly in front of your face. Your eyes roll around, following it -- and then she pokes your nose.
"Don't bully me," you grouse.
"You make it too easy."
You take a bite of your hamburger. It's nice and warm, fresh tasting. Amelia must have gotten it from the concession stand right around the time she texted you. How thoughtful. "Why'd you come to a high school softball game?" You ask her. "Are you that bored?"
"Summer's the star of second shift. I would love to be able to schedule her more consistently. So I had to see whether there was any hope of talking her out of her softball gig."
"What do you think?" You ask.
"OUT!"
"Outlook not so good," Amelia says. She drowns her sadness with cucumber sauce and gyro meat.
"Who's keeping the diner running?" You say.
Through a half-full mouth, she says: "No one. Probably burning to the ground as we speak. But I needed a day off, too. Plus I had to make sure you would show up to cheer Summer on."
"How did you know I was supposed to show up?" You demand.
"Keen intuition. I think I started to suspect something around the 60th time Summer mentioned it last night."
You nibble at your burger. "I hope she's not mad I'm late."
"I think she'll forgive you," Amelia says. "After a spanking or two."
"Don't joke about that," you say, suddenly worried.
"Who said anything about a joke?" Amelia asks. You blush. She shifts her entire body to the side to nudge you playfully, and it nearly topples you. "So it's true. You're together like that."
Shrugging, you say: "Not together. It's just a hookup thing. She wants to do it with me."
"Oh my," Amelia intones. "Have you...?"
You shake your head. "She wants to--" you rub your scalp, look away. "Meet up after the game."
"Oh my," she repeats, even deeper. "Well, let me know how it goes. If she's too rough on you, I can set her straight."
You clear your throat. "You know -- in the context -- I'd think you just propositioned me for -- for some kind of threesome," you say, laughing awkwardly.
Amelia just chews her gyro.
Summer is the Babe Ruth of high school girls' softball. An excellent pitcher and an equally excellent hitter. In the bottom of the fifth, she nails a hard line drive into center field that turns into a double and gives the team its first run scored. From her spot on second, Summer can establish direct eye contact with you. She gives you a cheeky wink as she takes a particularly risky lead-off. The pitcher notices, and gets twitchy, and tries to pick her off by tossing the ball back to the second basewoman. But Summer is already going for the steal. The now desperate Diamondback infielders try to tag her out at third, then. Diving, she slides in, and it's a close call, but the umpire rules it safe. She stands, exultant, and absolutely swathed in dirt from head to cleat.
(Look at you, with all your BASEBALL WORDS. Though you've never been a fan, being in such close proximity to such an accomplished player for such a long time has helped you pick up on the lingo through sheer osmosis. How could it not?)
"Showoff," Amelia mutters, tittering.
"It was a good play, though," you say.
"It was a terrible play. Look:" she points to the Shoebill dugout. Summer's coach is gesticulating at her as if to say "what the fuck?" Summer is ignoring him. Amelia fills you in. "She was in scoring position with no outs. They're still behind. You don't try to steal third in that spot. It's a huge risk for such little reward."
(Okay, you've got some of the baseball words down pat, but the baseball strategy is going to be slow to come.)
"Well, it worked, right?" You try.
"Yeah, it worked. But it shouldn't have. " Amelia folds her arms and casts you a sly grin. "I suppose she wants to impress her girlfriend. She's lucky. And a showoff."
Summer is smiling at you and waving like a little kid who just did a trick and wants mom to acknowledge it.
The events of the 5th inning shift the game's momentum decisively. The Shoebills pull ahead in the 7th, and never look back. Summer allows only a few hits for the remainder of the game, and no more runs. The final score is 5-3.
When Summer throws the last pitch to strike out the last batter in the top of the 9th, the rest of the team rushes the mound, pouring in from around the field and from out of the dugout. They stage an impromptu group hug, trapping Summer in the middle, and hop up and down together. You clap politely. Amelia jumps to her feet and screams in adulation.
What is it with people being so over-enthusiastic about everything these days? Especially in a game as slow-moving as softball, where you can see the win coming from 1,000 miles away. Well, you're happy for them, anyway. And you're even more happy for yourself. You're going to be rendezvousing with Good Mood Summer, not Fussy Summer. Good Mood Summer is Forgiving Summer. Things are looking up.
The two teams form two single-file lines marching at one another for conciliatory postgame handshakes. When one of the Diamondbacks accidentally-on-purpose trips over her feet, shoving Summer hard, Summer hauls off and decks in the face. Summer doesn't hold back, either: you can see the blood from here.
The two lines of players collapse into a single angry mass of pushing, pulling, hair-tugging, and slapping amidst jeers from the crowd. The kerfuffle is brief but chaotic, and ends only when the coaches and umps dive in from various angles to untangle and physically separate the brawlers. Recriminations and shouting abound on both sides. But the Shoebills' head coach seems to find the greatest fault with his star: he delivers what looks like a pretty severe dressing-down to Summer, which she responds to in typical fashion, by grabbing her duffel from the dugout and storming off, alone.
You thought that Summer would be in high spirits after the game, and therefore more liable to be gentle on you. This incident has totally destroyed that prospect.
Still seething, she makes her way up the bleachers, straight for you and Amelia. She grabs your collar. You don't even try to force her off. It would be pointless. "You were late," she growls. "Fucking useless shitty little freak." She glances at Amelia, perking up. "Hi, Mel! How ya doing?"
"You shouldn't treat people you care about that way," Amelia tells her.
Summer lets you go with a hard shove. "I'm pretty over my team right now," she tells you. "I need some alone time. Some me-time. The boy's locker room is gonna be empty, so meet me there."
"Uh--" you begin. "The boys'--"
"If you want me to do your shitty fucking essay for you, you'll have to be my caddy." She tosses her duffel into your lap. By reflex, you wrap your forearms over it and exhale hard from the impact.
You sit there, quiet and still.
"Well?" Summer demands, throwing her hands up. "Let's go!"
She spins through a 180, and starts down the bleachers. On uncertain legs, you rise to your feet.
"Are you going to be okay?" Amelia asks you.
"Yeah... I think."
"Are you sure? Do you need me to warn her off? She's a bit over-aggressive."
"It's-- it's fine," you mutter. "I... want this..."
Even Amelia can be put on the back foot. She can't think of anything to say. Toting the duffel, you hurry and run, to catch up with Summer.
You get a sense of foreboding and taboo even just approaching the blue mosaic entrance to the boys' lockers. Even though no one else will be in there, it feels somehow immoral. Summer steps past the threshold without a moment's hesitation, but you stop short.
Summer obviously isn't in a mood to wait any longer. "Don't be a pussy," she scolds. "What would the perverts in your dumbass cartoons do, huh? The only difference between locker rooms is that one has pink tile and the other one has blue tile. Come on."
It's hard to argue. You follow Summer through.
What she said seems true enough. It's a normal locker room: rows of lockers, with showers at one end, and offices for the male gym coaches. Summer takes a seat on one of the pinewood benches, and you gently set her bag at her feet. You're very close to her now, and you can smell the tang of her sweat, undergirded by the earthy tones of grass and dirt, and only faintly but distinctly made cleaner by the vestiges of her scented lotions. It's a complex and, if your being honest, intoxicating bouquet; distinctly Summer's. It turns you on. Maybe just thinking about what's to come, or knowing that she's all worked up right now, is responsible for the redirection of your blood flow to parts further south. But you think this smell alone is enough to set something off inside you. It has before, although you never really let it take hold the way you are now. You feel a little weak in your extremities.
But you aren't sure what to do. You don't have the easy rhythms with Summer that you've developed over years with Amber. Do you reach out, touch her, kiss her? Do you wait obediently for instruction? Summer isn't helping you out. She's just sitting there in her uniform, looking sternly back at you. Only after some long moments does she begin, finally, to get undressed. She moves slowly and makes awkward struggles against the clasps. It's sexy, anyway. Seeing her unwrap herself... and as she gets down to her skivvies, you can smell more strongly her perfumed lotions, and her sweat, too. The beads of perspiration run down her chest and torso in huge, thick channels, disappearing into her cleavage, pooling a bit in her navel, stippling her thighs. She's dirty and grimy with it. You lick your lips.
This is where you expect her to pin you down. But she just stands there.
You say, uncertainly: "Summer?"
She points. The command she pairs with the gesture lags by several seconds. "Sit!" She says. Her voice is harsh but has a catch to it at the same time.
You take a seat on the bench. She swoops in beside you, sitting on your right.
She draws some deep breaths, leans in, parts your bangs from your face to see you better. "Are you ready, to get, fucked?" She asks with stilted cadence, and putting way too much force behind the word "fucked." It sounds like a failed take in a low-budget porno.
"I'm ready," you tell her.
She blinks. She seems a little surprised. "Oh. Good. Well. You're about to get FUCKED."
"Fuck me," you tell her. It's a phrase you've practiced enough to capture the right balance between rasp and mewl.
She shrinks back from you just a bit. But then catches herself doing it, and lunges forward more insistently. She's shadowing you now, getting you half-supine. She wraps a hand around your throat, but puts absolutely no pressure on it. "You... want... this. You want this," she says, although it's more like she's trying to convince herself.
"Give it to me," you say, encouragingly.
"Oh, I'll give it. To you."
You purse your lips and close your eyes. Nothing comes. You feel her hand leave your neck.
When you sit up straight and open your eyes again, you find her hiding her face in both hands. "Are you okay?" You ask.
"Ivegoddaheadche" She says, voice nasal and muffled and stressed.
"Sorry. Do you still... want to..."
"Leabmealonde" she shouts. "Ivegoddaheadache. Imfind."
Your eyes search around. The truth is becoming clear in your mind. Summer Denali is a virgin. You expected that a girl like her, so popular, so athletic, so... slutty looking... would have tons more experience. And as forward as she was over texts with you, as forceful as she was even in person with you a couple days ago... you never expected this. But faced with the prospect of having to actually, for real, do the deed with you -- Summer has completely lost out to performance anxiety.
[ ] Sho ga nai. Show her how you like to be dominated.
[ ] This is your chance to take the lead, Wes! Don't waste it!
>[x] Let's try something easy and gentle.
You get a sense of foreboding and taboo even just approaching the blue mosaic entrance to the boys' lockers. Even though no one else will be in there, it feels somehow immoral. Summer steps past the threshold without a moment's hesitation, but you stop short.
Summer obviously isn't in a mood to wait any longer. "Don't be a pussy," she scolds. "What would the perverts in your dumbass cartoons do, huh? The only difference between locker rooms is that one has pink tile and the other one has blue tile. Come on."
It's hard to argue. You follow Summer through.
What she said seems true enough. It's a normal locker room: rows of lockers, with showers at one end, and offices for the male gym coaches. Summer takes a seat on one of the pinewood benches, and you gently set her bag at her feet. You're very close to her now, and you can smell the tang of her sweat, undergirded by the earthy tones of grass and dirt, and only faintly but distinctly made cleaner by the vestiges of her scented lotions. It's a complex and, if your being honest, intoxicating bouquet; distinctly Summer's. It turns you on. Maybe just thinking about what's to come, or knowing that she's all worked up right now, is responsible for the redirection of your blood flow to parts further south. But you think this smell alone is enough to set something off inside you. It has before, although you never really let it take hold the way you are now. You feel a little weak in your extremities.
But you aren't sure what to do. You don't have the easy rhythms with Summer that you've developed over years with Amber. Do you reach out, touch her, kiss her? Do you wait obediently for instruction? Summer isn't helping you out. She's just sitting there in her uniform, looking sternly back at you. Only after some long moments does she begin, finally, to get undressed. She moves slowly and makes awkward struggles against the clasps. It's sexy, anyway. Seeing her unwrap herself... and as she gets down to her skivvies, you can smell more strongly her perfumed lotions, and her sweat, too. The beads of perspiration run down her chest and torso in huge, thick channels, disappearing into her cleavage, pooling a bit in her navel, stippling her thighs. She's dirty and grimy with it. You lick your lips.
This is where you expect her to pin you down. But she just stands there.
You say, uncertainly: "Summer?"
She points. The command she pairs with the gesture lags by several seconds. "Sit!" She says. Her voice is harsh but has a catch to it at the same time.
You take a seat on the bench. She swoops in beside you, sitting on your right.
She draws some deep breaths, leans in, parts your bangs from your face to see you better. "Are you ready, to get, fucked?" She asks with stilted cadence, and putting way too much force behind the word "fucked." It sounds like a failed take in a low-budget porno.
"I'm ready," you tell her.
She blinks. She seems a little surprised. "Oh. Good. Well. You're about to get FUCKED."
"Fuck me," you tell her. It's a phrase you've practiced enough to capture the right balance between rasp and mewl.
She shrinks back from you just a bit. But then catches herself doing it, and lunges forward more insistently. She's shadowing you now, getting you half-supine. She wraps a hand around your throat, but puts absolutely no pressure on it. "You... want... this. You want this," she says, although it's more like she's trying to convince herself.
"Give it to me," you say, encouragingly.
"Oh, I'll give it. To you."
You purse your lips and close your eyes. Nothing comes. You feel her hand leave your neck.
When you sit up straight and open your eyes again, you find her hiding her face in both hands. "Are you okay?" You ask.
"Ivegoddaheadche" She says, voice nasal and muffled and stressed.
"Sorry. Do you still... want to..."
"Leabmealonde" she shouts. "Ivegoddaheadache. Imfind."
Your eyes search around. The truth is becoming clear in your mind. Summer Denali is a virgin. You expected that a girl like her, so popular, so athletic, so... slutty looking... would have tons more experience. And as forward as she was over texts with you, as forceful as she was even in person with you a couple days ago... you never expected this. But faced with the prospect of having to actually, for real, do the deed with you -- Summer has completely lost out to performance anxiety.
[ ] Sho ga nai. Show her how you like to be dominated.
[ ] This is your chance to take the lead, Wes! Don't waste it!
[x] Let's try something easy and gentle.
You pull Summer's hands away from her face. She makes it easy for you -- doesn't fight. Her face is beet red and her eyes are welling up.
"I... I..." she stutters. "I haven't."
"I didn't know," You say.
She rests her weight on one palm, leaning away from you. "Oh gosh. My heart is beating so fast. I didn't think it would be this-- this hard." She brings herself to look you in the eye. "I thought a girl like you would be a virgin too. I mean -- no offense, but you're not exactly popular."
"How is that my fault?"
"It's whatever," Summer says. "I don't care. You're still -- you're still cute. I like you. Even if you're weird." She curls and uncurls her toes on the tiled floor. "I always figured if we got together, we'd learn together, you know? But you're so far ahead of me. I tried to keep up..." She smiles through the sadness: "I guess I'm a real disappointment, huh?"
You kiss her.
You hold the back of her head and pull her close, your mouth on hers, in the middle of this boys-only locker room. Her lips are incredibly soft from the constant application of gloss. Her tongue is hot, and tastes like a stick of cinnamon chewing gum. Mixed with that is the salty taste of sweat from the extreme edges of her mouth. She isn't sure what to do, but she tries her best to kiss you back. She wags her tongue around, a bit too eagerly, and mates it with yours. You've been secretly worried that she would be repulsed by actual physical contact with you -- that she'd think your breath was gross or that you stank or that your skin was too pale and sickly or that you were too scrawny. But she warms to your kiss. Her breath hitches and she lets a little moan escape. Her skin is feverish, getting hotter.
She hugs your insubstantial body closer to her. Summer is so paradoxically soft and firm, her skin so taut but with such unending give to it, that it makes you want to swoon. You let your hands roam and explore her mostly naked body. You squeeze her randomly. Her back, her sides, down by her butt. You don't find anywhere to lay your hand without excess skin to half-envelop your digits. She isn't fat, but she's no skeleton, either. She's like an enormous person-sized pillow, all for you.
"Hold on, hold on," she repeats. She pushes you lightly back. "I'm actually really gross right now. I should shower first."
"No," you moan desperately, and dive back in for a kiss. She can't resist returning it. You make out with her, jabbing your tongue into her mouth, as you fight your blouse up and off your body. You stop kissing only long enough to pull the top over your head and chuck it -- Summer helps -- then it's back to enjoying the warmth of her inexperienced mouth. She undoes the clasps on your skirt, and you shimmy from them. Blindly you snake a palm down her slick belly, and find the crotch of her panties. She wore tiger print today -- silk. They're ruined. They're completely inundated with sweat and arousal, sticky, sodden, and you can smell them from here.
Summer returns your gesture, gets her hand cupped over the crotch of your plain white briefs. Kissing, wagging your tongues together, you tickle one another through your underwear. All this gentle foreplay carries the low-level but constant thrill of danger -- the danger of being caught out. Two girls caught doing it in the boys' locker room... would be infinite gossip fodder for everyone at school. You'd never hear the end of it. And you don't care.
"Are you really -- okay -- with me being all -- sweaty and gross?" Summer huffs between kisses.
"Yes," you pant back. "I love it." You punctuate that by slipping your hand past the waistband of her panties. Your heart overflows with excitement at touching, directly, skin-to-skin, the squishiness of Summer's vulva, that's been marinating all day in her sweat and cream.
"Freak," she murmurs lovingly. "Pervert."
"We can go slow," you whisper. You feel up and grope the inwardly-turned folds of her cunt, no shame, and writhe against her, against her curious fingers that are still too timid to push past your panties. You press against her invitingly smooth, soft body. You put a cheek to hers and continue: "Slow is fine, but I need it now... no shower. No waiting."
Your arousal has made you bold. Summer accepts it. She nods.
You kiss her up and down her face. She turns this way and that to let you. "Do you want me to eat you?" You ask.
She nods again, her blonde bangs swaying.
You undo the hooks of her bra and toss it aside. Summer's tits are wet, each one individually almost as big as your head, each one adorned with enormous, dark pink aereolae and fat, hard nipples. You've only ever fooled around with Amber. You've never played with a chest like this before. So you can't believe how spongy and springy her breasts are. You're transfixed by them. And so, as if by instinct, you trail kisses down her tensing neck, past the hollow of it where her sweat is extra concentrated. Across the expanse of her bust and over her heavy, perky, hot and heaving breasts. You lick up all the sourness of her perspiration and the last oily residue of her lotion, not caring about drinking it down, and you latch your lips to her nipple like you're nursing on her. You paw at the tit you aren't sucking, while still tickling her down there with your other hand, too. She opens up to your violation, gasping with a deep and sexy voice, spreading her legs, leaning back on the bench. You follow her. Down, down, down, until she's on her back and you're over top of her.
She chews her knuckles to keep from crying out. You suck her nipple, that throbs and pulses against your lapping tongue, and with that you start to finger her. Your index finger slides in easily, your middle finger with small effort, and then with some forcing, your ring finger. Using all three fingers, you masturbate her. The heel of your palm mashes down against her clit. You play with her unbelievably hot interior and explore its interesting textures, creases, and crevices. You wonder what it would be like to have a cock to fuck her with. It would probably feel really, really good.
"Wes... Wes, I'm gonna..."
You grin at her from across the top of her boobs. You said you'd eat her out, and god, do you want to. So you slide a bit further down, running your face across her sun-kissed, slippery, dirty body. Her thighs are even softer than her tits, and from up close you can see how tight her panties fit -- how they bite into her skin and leave cruel, deep indentations. Her legs are close enough together that, when you put your lips and nose against the crotch of her panties, her inner thighs press against the sides of your face. It contorts your features and makes you feel like such a slut.
Out of consideration, Summer tries to widen her stance. But you stop her, one arm looping around either of her of her legs, pressing them even tighter to you. You want her to smother you a bit. You adore this feeling, the feeling of this womanly body trapping you. Oppressing you. And here, at the seat of her womanhood, her unique Summer scent is most concentrated. The dirty parts of her: the grime and funk of playing sports all day in the sun. The feminine parts of her: her soaps and perfumes, her skin care products, her naturally neutral, light and airy body odor. And her sex. The smell of her pussy leaking like a busted faucet, directly into her underwear -- the smell of a cunt absolutely fucking screaming some relief. That smell is the strongest of all.
"Please... lick me..." Summer begs.
You could honestly lie here all day and night, just inhaling the brain-melting scent of Summer's cunt through her underwear. You could die like this. But licking her out is going to be even better, you know. You tug her panties, pulling them partway down. They bunch up and twist and roll as they slide down her thighs. You get them off, but leave them dangling around of her ankles, as you dive back in.
Summer's entire body from head to toe is evenly colored, and her genitals are no different. Her pussy is as brown as the rest of her. You love it. The dewy, quivering lips, totally smooth and tucked in, glimmer under the lights. You can just barely spy her clit poking out through the meaty folds at the top of her labia. It's the perfect twat. It belongs in a museum.
Making an O with your lips, you encircle as much of that slit as is possible. You grunt, eyes rolling back, when your tongue makes contact. Her cunt's got all five flavors: the salt of her copious sweat, the sourness of her arousal, the bitterness of the day's grime, the sugary sweetness of her womanly body -- and the squishy, sticky, meaty texture of a cunt all primed and ready to cum. You breathe hard through your nostrils, knowing that your puffing breaths are blowing needles of air directly against her clitoris. You moan helplessly around her.
Summer sighs and coos and whines. She's being overwhelmed by these sensations. "It's so wet..." she says, half out of breath. "So hot... you're so good at this..."
Her voice cuts out with a hiccupy "ahh--" when your tongue presses past the entrance to her vagina. She's fucking tight, so tight, but her pussy spreads apart for you. You swab it. You lick her all up. But you need more, more, more... much more. Pulling off, your chin shiny with her fluids, you beg her in a hoarse voice: "stand up a minute-- get up--"
She does as asked. As she weakly stands, you draw beneath her. She seems to grasp what your want: she bends a little at the waist, bracing her weight against the benchtop with both palms. You pry her fleshy ass apart. Even the insides of her ass cheeks are tanned, and the pucker hidden there is the exact same honey-golden color as all the rest of her. You bury your face in it. You hug her around her belly to prevent her getting away and drown yourself in her sweaty butt. Like a fucking dog, you nod your head up and down, with your tongue wagging out, to totally and completely stain yourself with her. To totally and completely eat every square millimeter of her tender cunt and ass. To totally and completely wallow in her smell and taste.
"Fffff--" she hisses, unable to even get the word "fuck" out. She bucks against you. You hold her tighter. She's leaking so much now -- a steady stream of her juice that flows to the back of your throat and into your hungry tummy. It's warm and thick, it coats your esophagus and cloys. You nearly gag. Summer begins to sway, unable to keep her balance for long. You try to make her cum before then, but you don't succeed. She slips, one arm suddenly going out from under her, and she falls, and slides, and ends up lying on the tile floor like a ragdoll.
You get on top of her again, facing the opposite direction. Swinging your legs to straddle her, you enter into a 69 position.
"Yes, god yes," she groans, grabbing your butt with both hands and pulling you into her face. Like you with her, Summer must adore your scent -- she imitates your nodding method of smearing cunt juice all over herself. Your pheromones are in perfect harmony.
You lie fully atop her, weight pressing down. You can feel her nipples, so hard against your belly, and her navel, so yielding against your chest. Down here, in among her discarded clothes, smacks of being in the middle of a baseball park. If you close your eyes, you can imagine that you're 69ing with her right in the middle of center field. A puddle forms beneath her as you eat her.
And Summer, however unused she is to sex, picks up fast. Even through the barrier of your panties, her probing tongue and desperate sucking, inhaling nips and kisses bring you to the edge.
"I'm gonna cum," you warn her, between loving kisses to her slit.
"Do it..."
"You want me to cum on your face?" you grunt.
"Yeah... I'm gonna cum too, babe -- let's cum on each other's faces... oh, fuck... fuck, babe, fuck..."
You let go of the last bit of tension in your body. No need to hold back. Your muscles relax, your pussy flutters. You cum. You fucking cum in your underwear, and all over Summer. In exchange for cumming on her, you get your reward: Summer's pussy lips clench and flex against your insistent tongue, then go all loose when she hits the peak.
Summer is no squirter. She gushes. When she gets her nut, it's just a weak but voluminous drool of girlcum that flows in steady pulses from her deepest parts. Like lapping waves on a beach: ebbing and flowing with a regular, consistent, agonizingly blissful rhythm. Between each pulse of cum she blows, her whole pussy quivers like gelatin. It's such a pleasing pattern. Drool, quiver, drool, quiver: she shamelessly creams your face. On the floor, here at school, in a boys' locker: you ejaculate together, the first of what you hope will be many hot and nasty orgasms you wring from each other.
GIRLS FUCKED: 2/8
Summer crawls out from under you, leaving you on your tummy on the tile that's been warmed by her body heat. She gets on top, belly-to-back, hugging you, and ruffling your hair with her button nose.
You lie there together like that, catching your breath. She entwines her fingers with yours, pinning your palms to the floor. She tenderly kisses your neck. She slides her entire body back and forth a little, massaging you all over with her pillowy softness.
"That was..." she whispers. "You're really good at this."
"I guess..."
She laughs in her low, humming way. "Thanks, babe. You talked me into it. I was totally gonna wuss out."
"You'll do my essay now, right?"
She pouts. "You're gonna have to eat me like that at least 10 more times if you want me to write the entire essay for you... no, 20... 100!"
"Sure."
"Then it's a deal." She pinches one of your cheeks. Pulls at it like taffy. "That makes you a hooker, you know."
You shrug. "I don't care... as long as the essay gets done."
"Slut!"
The two of you are quiet for a long, contemplative moment. Summer plays with your hair. Rakes her nails so softly down your back that it tickles. Feels you up a little.
"Wes," she says. "You know... hooking up with you -- it was really fun. But I--"
The door of the locker room creaks open. Sluggish with enervation, neither of you react fast enough to hide yourselves or even attempt to cover up. Instead you just panic. You make a choked-off "ghh--!" and go stiff. Summer's head whips up and her eyes go wide. You both freeze in position. The squeal of the bum wheel on the janitor's pushcart approaches, then rounds the corner.
But it's not the janitor. It's Talia Berenstoin. She stops, takes stock of the two of you lying there naked on the floor. Her face is as passive as a bovine's. A moment later, she bends and pulls a "Caution: Wet Floor" sign from the bottom of the cart and erects it. She grips the handle of the cart again and pushes it onward. Not a single syllable escapes her lips.
Summer leaps to her feet. Holding your blouse against her chest and your skirt between her crotch, she pokes her head around the corner of the lockers, looking this way and that for where Talia wandered off. "What are you doing here?" She demands.
The acoustics of the room are good enough for you to hear Talia's answer. "I saw you come in here. Then I saw the janitor was about to make his rounds through here, too. So I thought it would be best if I volunteered to clean in here for him today, and spare you the embarrassment."
Summer doesn't seem any less embarrassed. What's dumb and blonde and red all over? A gyaru tomboy whose teacher caught her eating pussy in a locker room.
You, though, you appreciate Talia's purview. In the end, if you had to be caught, you'd prefer it to have been by a person so bloodless yet free-spirited. Talia is such a weirdo that you half expect she's as sexless as a doll -- that you could take her skirt off and find absolutely nothing between her legs. What better a person to walk in on something so lurid?
Summer glances helplessly back at you, mortified, and quaking.
"My clothes..." you say, reaching out. You're feeling a bit exposed yourself, and chilly.
Summer pulls the clothes away from her body, but she doesn't toss them back -- instead uses them to gesture at you as she talks. Must be a habit instilled by holding pompoms so often. "Aren't you gonna shower first? You just had sex! --" Her eyes widen, remembering that Talia is still here. She steps closer and lowers her voice to a hissing whisper: "You just had sex!"
"Twice?" Talia calls from the other side of the lockers. She punctuates this with the wet shlump of a mophead hitting the tile.
Summer grimaces. "M-Ms. Berenstoin... you're not going to--"
"Talia. Please." Squeak squeak squeak goes the mop.
"You won't tell anyone, right, Talia?"
"That depends. Were either of you forced against your will?"
"No!"
"I must say, it looked like Wesley was being forced when you brought her in."
Summer whips around and gives you a pleading yet menacing look. She jerks her head towards where Talia is mopping. "Tell her," she whispers.
"Summer told me to tell you that it wasn't rape."
Summer throws her hands in the air.
"I'll call the police at once," Talia says.
"Wes--"
Talia appears from around the corner on the opposite side of the locker room. Summer quickly covers her shame again using your clothes. You pull Summer's softball jersey up and hold it like a shield in front of you.
Talia observes you both with utter apathy. "Shower quickly if you're going to do it. I need to clean in there, too."
---
"Thank me."
The only light in your room is the pallid blue glow of your four PC monitors. You and Amber lie on your bed, on your backs, her feet towards the headboard, your feet towards the front, the sides of your faces jutting up against one another. She tosses a softball into the air. It describes a tight, lazy parabola, and you catch it.
"For what?" You ask. You toss the ball back the way it came.
Amber catches it. "Quit. You remember. I said you can thank me when she cums on your face. She came on your face. So thank me."
Up goes the ball, down goes the ball, and you catch it down by your chest. "Yeah, gee, thanks. She won't leave me alone now. Look." You grab your phone and spin it 180 degrees, holding it in front of her face. Amber whistles.
"22 unread messages? Since when?"
"Around 4 PM." It's only a little after 8 PM now.
Amber cackles. "She's in loooove. She loooooves you."
"No she doesn't." You take your phone back, set it aside, and throw the ball in the air. Amber retrieves it prematurely with the ferocity of a woman punching her way out of a coffin, her hand shooting up so fast and so hard that the bed shakes.
She turns onto her stomach, props herself on her elbows, and hovers her face directly over yours. "Do you love her, too?"
You look away. "We're having sex. That's all."
She taps your forehead with the softball. "Don't go full Lily on me. One raging dyke slut sleeping her way through my entire social circle is enough. Besides, you're not cool enough to be that kind of pump-and-dump alpha bitch anyway."
"I don't hate her."
Your phone dings.
"Guess she doesn't hate you either."
Amber rolls onto her back again.
"Hey," she says. "When are we gonna spitroast her?"
This time when Amber tosses the ball in the air, you forget to try to catch it, and it collides with your face.
END OF EPISODE 2.