Chapter 9: Profession of Love
The Mustang’s engine purred, a low thrum that vibrated through the leather seats and into Brittany’s bones. The school was a fading mirage in the rearview, its halls still echoing with the wet, slapping sounds of the locker room. The vanilla air freshener shaped like a cartoon cupcake swung from the mirror, fighting a losing battle against the deeper, saltier scent that clung to them both—sweat, cheap body spray, and something muskier, something earned.
Tiffany hadn’t stopped trembling since she’d buckled herself in. She stared at Brittany’s profile, at the way the late afternoon sun caught the golden down on her cheek, at the faint, smug curve of her glossed lips as she navigated out of the lot. The silence between them was thick, charged. It was Tiffany who cracked it.
It started as a low whimper, then escalated, her words tumbling out in a frantic, pressurized stream. “I can’t stand it anymore, Brittany. Watching you. Watching everyone touch you. Today, with him, with Percy, I was there but I was just thinking about your… your mouth, and the way you command everything, and I think I’m gonna die if I don’t say it, I love you, I’m in love with you, I don’t want to just be on the squad, I want to be your—your wife or something, I want to—"
Brittany’s head snapped to the side, her eyes wide with pure shock. The Mustang veered sharply toward a row of parked faculty sedans. She wrenched the wheel back, tires squealing against asphalt, and slammed the brakes. The car jerked to a halt, rocking on its suspension. The radio’s sultry beat played on, absurdly calm.
“What the fuck, Tiff?” Brittany hissed, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She stared ahead, catching her breath. “Are you trying to get us wrapped around a lamppost? Wife? What are you, medieval?”
Tiffany was sobbing now, big, hiccupping gulps of air. “I’m sorry! I’m just—it’s all so much!”
“Shut up. Just shut up for a second.” Brittany put the car in park, the click loud in the sudden quiet. She killed the engine, leaving only the tick of cooling metal and Tiffany’s ragged breathing. The windows began to fog almost immediately, sealing them in a soft, private cocoon.
Brittany unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp retract and turned in her seat. She looked at Tiffany—really looked at her. The smeared mascara, the heaving of her enormous chest under her too-tight top, the sheer, desperate hunger on her face. It wasn’t cute. It was inconvenient. And a little pathetic.
But useful.
A slow smile spread across Brittany’s face. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who has just found a new, interesting tool.
“Look,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr. “We’re not gonna get married. That’s fucking stupid. I’m not marrying anyone, especially not a girl who screams declarations of love and almost wrecks my car.”
Tiffany’s face crumpled further.
“But,” Brittany continued, leaning closer. The vanilla scent was losing badly now; the smell of her own body, of practiced exertion and powerful deodorant, filled the space between them. “You are… intensely loyal. I’ve seen it. Today, with Percy. You were committed.”
“I was thinking of you,” Tiffany whispered, her eyes huge.
“I know you were.” Brittany’s hand came up, not to caress, but to assess. She pinched Tiffany’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning her head side to side like inspecting livestock. “So here’s the deal. You can be my… extra best friend. My personal fuck-buddy. A special project.”
Tiffany’s breath hitched. A spark ignited in her wet eyes. “A project?”
“Mmhmm. I have needs. Specific ones. Percy’s fun for the squad, but a girl needs variety.” Brittany released her chin and settled back into the driver’s seat. She didn’t look at Tiffany again. Instead, she stared out the fogged windshield, a queen issuing a decree. “And you’re so desperate to prove your love. So prove it.”
“Anything,” Tiffany breathed, her voice trembling with fervor. “Tell me.”
Brittany shifted her weight, the leather of her shorts squeaking. She leaned forward, hiking one thigh up onto the center console. The motion strained the fabric across her ass, the sheer, cartoonish volume of it—a perfect, round shelf of muscle and flesh molded by years of cheer and genetic lottery. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and the tiny lace thong beneath, and in one smooth, practiced motion, peeled them down to mid-thigh.
The air in the car changed. The musky scent intensified, deepened into something earthy, primal, and unmistakably female. It was the scent of a long day spent in a sweaty uniform, of power, of unapologetic physicality.
“You wanna worship me?” Brittany said, her voice cool. “Start here. It’s been a long practice. I want it clean. Spotless. Use that obsession of yours.”
Tiffany didn’t need to be told twice. She fumbled with her own seatbelt, the clasp clacking loudly in the quiet. She launched herself across the center console, her body twisting in the confined space, her mouth seeking its target with the single-minded drive of a junkie finding a vein.
Her face buried itself between Brittany’s spread cheeks. There was no hesitation, no gentleness. This was not love-making. This was service. Tiffany’s tongue, hot and wet and desperate, lashed out, flat and broad, tracing the sweat-salted valley from perineum to tailbone. She groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction, as her nose pressed into the pungent, damp center of Brittany.
“Yeah,” Brittany sighed, her head lolling back against the headrest. She stared at the stained fabric of the car’s roof. “Use your tongue. Get deep in there. That’s where the stink is. That’s where I am.”
Tiffany obeyed, her movements becoming sloppier, more frantic. She ate with a frantic, needy abandon, her lips and tongue working over every inch of skin, savoring the bitter, salty tang of pure Brittany. She sucked at the flesh, lapped at the creases, buried her face so deep her breathing came in ragged snorts through her nose. One of her hands came up to grope the massive, jiggling globe of Brittany’s ass, kneading the firm muscle beneath the soft skin.
Brittany let out a soft, pleased hum. “Good. You’re a natural at this. You like it? Tasting my day? Tasting where I sat in Coach’s office? Where I bounced on that bench in the locker room?”
Tiffany moaned her affirmation, the vibration against Brittany’s skin drawing a sharp gasp.
“Mmm. You’re better than Percy, you know that?” Brittany murmured, her eyes half-closed. “He just sits there. Lets it happen. You… you need it. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect.” She reached a hand back, not to guide Tiffany, but to tangle roughly in her red hair, fisting a handful of it. She pulled, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to claim. To own.
Tiffany whimpered, the pain a bright pleasure, and redoubled her efforts. Her world had narrowed to taste, smell, and the sound of Brittany’s escalating breaths. The car windows were completely fogged now, the outside world a blur of muted color and light. They were in a universe of their own, a universe governed by sweat and spit and selfish desire.
Brittany’s hips began to move, a slow, grinding rotation against Tiffany’s devoted face. “Yeah… yeah, just like that. You’re my good little fuck-buddy, aren’t you? My extra best friend. This is your job now. Cleaning up my mess. Getting me off.”
A shudder ran through Tiffany, a spasm of ecstatic submission. She drove her tongue as deep as it would go, her own pleasure building from the sheer act of service, from the taste, from the ownership in Brittany’s voice.
Brittany’s breaths came faster, shallower. Her grip on Tiffany’s hair tightened. Her other hand snaked down between her own legs, her fingers finding the wetness that Tiffany’s mouth had missed. She rubbed tight, urgent circles, her back arching off the leather seat.
“Don’t stop,” she commanded, her voice husky and raw. “You stop when I say. Not before.”
Tiffany didn’t stop. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. She was a machine of worship, fueled by a desperate, all-consuming love. She licked and sucked and nuzzled, her own arousal a soaking ache between her thighs, ignored, unimportant.
Brittany’s orgasm, when it hit, was a silent, tensile thing. Her whole body went rigid, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her fingers digging into Tiffany’s scalp and her own flesh. She pulsed against Tiffany’s face, a series of quick, hot tremors. She held there, suspended, for a long moment before collapsing back with a long, ragged exhale.
The only sounds were the drip of condensation inside the fogged glass and Tiffany’s wet, panting breaths against Brittany’s skin.
Brittany didn’t push her away. She left her there, face buried, for a full minute, regaining her composure. Then, with a gentle but definitive nudge of her hip, she dislodged her.
“Enough.”
Tiffany pulled back, her face glistening, her makeup ruined, her expression one of blissful ruin. She panted, her tongue darting out to catch a last taste from her own lips.
Brittany looked at her, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face. She pulled her shorts and thong back up with a casual snap of elastic.
“See?” Brittany said, turning to face the windshield. She started the engine with a push of a button, the purr filling the car again. The defroster whirred to life, beginning to clear a small arc of clarity in the fog. “That’s how it works. No marriage. No drama. Just… service.” She put the car in drive. “Now sit back. And don’t get my seat wet on the way home.”