Chapter 2: The Feeding Frenzy
The only sound was the wet, desperate slide of lips and the soft, helpless noises catching in two throats. Brittany’s world had narrowed to taste and scale, the heavy, salt-and-skin flavor of him filling her senses. She worked with a frantic, focused energy, her hands cradling the impossible weight, her cheeks hollowing as she tried to take more, always more. Spit slicked her chin, dripped onto her uniform top.
Tiffany watched Brittany’s lips stretch, and a new, competitive hunger ignited in her gut. She wasn’t just worshipping Percy now; she was trying to outperform, to earn a glance of approval from her blonde idol. She lapped at the base with broad, sloppy strokes of her tongue, her hands clutching at Percy’s slender hips for purchase.
Percy stood amidst it, his back against the cold metal of a locker for support. A faint, shaky sigh escaped him. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his pale cheeks. One hand came up to push his own soft hair from his forehead, the gesture almost unbearably casual against the obscene frenzy at his waist.
The door to the gymnasium burst open.
Kelsey and Mika entered first, their laughter slicing through the humid air. They were followed by Sasha, Becky, and Lana, a chattering, giggling flock of purple and gold, their practice bags slung over shoulders.
“Britt, we’re heading to—holy shit.”
The laughter died as if smothered. Bags hit the floor with dull thuds.
Five pairs of eyes locked onto the scene. The captain and her lieutenant, on their knees, glossy mouths stretched and working around a piece of anatomy that defied reason. The quiet boy from art class, a distant look on his face, presiding over it all.
No one screamed. No one gasped. A collective, stunned silence descended, thick and electric. Then, as one, they moved closer. Not in outrage, but in the slow, gravitational pull of pure, stunned fascination.
“Is that… real?” Becky whispered, her voice cracking.
“It’s bigger than my forearm,” Lana breathed, stepping forward, her previous cattiness evaporated into awe. “Look at Brittany go.”
Kelsey, the most pragmatic, just stared, her mouth agape. “How is he even standing? That’s a medical marvel.”
Their circle tightened. The initial shock morphed into a tangible, humming hunger. The locker room, once a place of petty hierarchies and gossip, was rewritten by a new, single-minded creed.
Tiffany pulled back, a thick string of saliva connecting her lips to Percy’s skin. She looked up at the gathered squad, her eyes wild. “Get over here,” she panted, her voice ragged. “You have to… you have to feel it. It’s like… it’s like warm marble.”
That was all the invitation they needed. Dignity, modesty, rivalry—all discarded like the towels on the floor. They descended.
Soon, Percy was surrounded. Hands, soft and manicured, curious and greedy, reached out to touch, to stroke, to knead the heavy flesh. Mika ducked under Brittany’s arm to get her mouth on the other side. Sasha claimed a spot near the tip, her tongue darting out to collect the bead of moisture that had gathered there. The air filled with the sounds of them: wet, slobbering sucks, low groans of disbelief, whispered, filthy praise.
“God, it’s so hot.”
“Taste this part, it’s leaking.”
“Let me try, move your hand.”
“I can’t even get my fingers around it.”
Percy’s breath began to hitch. His casual aloofness fractured under the sheer, overwhelming physicality of it. A tremor ran through his thighs. His fingers, which had been resting limply at his sides, curled into faint fists.
“He’s close,” Brittany moaned, the words vibrating against him. She redoubled her efforts, her eyes squeezing shut in concentration.
It hit them like a warm, sudden storm.
A choked, shuddering gasp tore from Percy’s throat, and the first thick, pearlescent rope lashed across Brittany’s cheek and into her hair. The second caught Mika on the chin. The third painted a stripe across Sasha’s collarbone. Then it was a ceaseless, pulsing fountain, a vulgar, abundant geyser that coated faces, necks, the front of uniform tops, upraised, eager hands. They cried out—not in disgust, but in a kind of triumphant, reverent shock—tilting their faces up like flowers in a rainstorm, wanting to be marked by it.
When it finally subsided, they were a panting, glistening masterpiece. They looked at each other, dripping, their perfectly applied makeup smeared, and a ragged, collective laugh bubbled up. It wasn’t mockery. It was giddy, disbelieving communion.
Brittany wiped a hand across her mouth, smearing it further. She looked up at Percy, who was leaning heavily against the locker, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes, blue and fierce, held a new, unshakable decision.
“Okay,” she breathed, her voice husky and raw. “Enough playing. Minions, step aside.”
The squad parted without a word, shuffling back on their knees, leaving a space before him. Their eyes were wide, watching their captain.
Brittany got to her feet, her legs unsteady. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her spandex shorts and pushed them down, kicking them away. She wasn’t shy; it was a claim. She reached for him, her hands slick with their combined mess, guiding the softened, still-immense weight toward her. “This,” she said, locking her eyes with his dazed ones, “is going inside me. Now.”
She lowered herself, not with grace, but with a single-minded, brutal determination. The initial stretch drew a sharp, torn cry from her lips. Her head fell back, cords standing out in her neck. “Fuck! Fuck! Oh my god, it’s—it’s splitting me!” It was a cry of pain and ecstasy, a border obliterated.
Tiffany, still on the floor, watched with a feverish intensity. One hand was shoved down her own shorts, fingers working frantically against herself, her gaze glued to the point where Brittany was being relentlessly filled.
Brittany began to move, a shallow, rocking grind that grew more frantic. Each descent forced a punched-out “uh!” from her lungs. Her eyes were unfocused, seeing nothing but the sensation of being reshaped. Then her body locked, arching violently. A guttural shriek ripped from her, and a jet of clear fluid spattered onto the tile between Percy’s feet. A squirt. Then another as she convulsed, her inner muscles clenching in ragged pulses around him, her scream dissolving into mindless, sobbing pleas.
She didn’t stop. She rode him through it, through a second peak, a third, each one wracking her body, reducing the proud, bitchy captain to a shuddering, dripping mess. Her repeated cries echoed off the lockers, a symphony of utter, ruined surrender.
Finally, she slumped forward, her forehead against his shoulder, her body trembling uncontrollably. She was mumbling, words lost in the fabric of his hoodie.
Percy looked past her heaving form, over the glistening, watching faces of the squad. His gaze, still quiet, still strangely distant, met Tiffany’s. He gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.
Tiffany’s hand moved faster under her shorts. Her back arched, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’ as she came, her eyes rolling back, a worshipful sigh finally escaping her lips. The locker room held its breath, the only sounds the drip of a distant shower, the buzz of the lights, and the ragged, satisfied weeping of its queen.