Chapter 12: Starlet's Deep Throat Debut
Rachel’s hand trembled as she extended it. The air between her fingertips and his flesh seemed to crackle with static. For a few seconds, she hesitated, her mind screaming a dozen different warnings that her body violently ignored. Then, driven by a need deeper than shame or reason, she reached out.
Her fingers made contact. The skin was shockingly hot, like sun-warmed leather stretched over steel. She placed a few tentative fingers on the broad side of his shaft, then slowly, as if mapping uncharted territory, began to run her hand along its impossible length. The texture was a complex geography of rigid veins and smooth ridges. She squeezed her fingers, trying to form a ring. Her thumb and forefinger didn’t even come close to touching. She couldn’t close her grip.
In her thoughts, a silent scream of disbelief echoed. It isn’t possible. She had seen pornographic images, heard crude jokes in the choir room, but nothing in her limited, fumbling experiences with Finn Hudson had prepared her for this. She easily closed her hand around Finn’s penis, could make a fist around it with room to spare. Marcus’s cock wasn’t just thick and long; it was a heavy, living weight in her palm, a dense muscle that pulsed with a low, threatening heartbeat.
Without really meaning to, driven by some primal instinct to please this terrifying object, Rachel began to move her hand up and down the enormous shaft. The motion was clumsy, her small hand incapable of encircling it, so she essentially massaged the side of it, her palm sliding over the slickness left from Quinn.
Marcus groaned, a deep sound that seemed to come from the floor itself. The brunette felt the cock in her hand twitch, swell, and regain its full, intimidating shape, rising to its full, rigid attention. The head, a dark, broad mushroom, glistened inches from her face.
“That’s it,” he rumbled, looking down at her with hooded eyes. “Keep going. Must be a fucking change of pace from that little boy’s piss-straw.”
The crude comparison to Finn sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between Rachel’s legs. She quickened her pace, her movements becoming more determined. She figured Finn, with his eager, teenage stamina, would have already ejaculated by now. But that wasn’t the case for Marcus. He just grew harder, thicker, a monument of patient endurance. The weight of the cock began to hurt her arm, a steady ache in her wrist and bicep. She used her other hand, placing both on the shaft, one above the other. It was only with both hands working in tandem that she could completely encircle the black man’s penis, her fingers finally lacing together on the far side. The feeling of finally containing it, of her grip meeting around that massive girth, was perversely triumphant.
A weak, slurry voice came from the tiles. Quinn had pushed herself up onto her elbows, her blonde hair plastered to her pale, sweat-sheened face. Her eyes, glazed and distant, focused on Rachel’s hands working Marcus’s length. A broken smile touched her lips. “See?” Quinn whispered, her voice raspy from screaming. “Told you. Can’t… can’t resist a cock like that. It’s not even a choice.” She coughed, a wet sound. “If he wants to fuck you, he will. He just… will.”
Marcus, his breath coming in heavier grunts now, looked from the ruined cheerleader on the floor to the ambitious starlet on her knees. “Enough with the hands, little girl,” he ordered, his voice tight with building pressure. “Use that famous tongue of yours. Let’s hear you make a different kind of music.”
Swallowing hard, Rachel leaned forward. The musky, salty scent filled her nose, overwhelming the chlorine. She brought her lips close, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her tongue darted out, a pink, nervous flicker. She traced the corona, the rim of the broad head, tasting the pre-ejaculate that beaded there. The flavor was bitter, earthy, profoundly masculine, and mixed with something else—the distinct, tangy trace of Quinn. The taste of his penis, of them, excited the petite brunette even more. A low moan escaped her, muffled against his skin.
She played with it. She swirled her tongue around the head, licking the slit, exploring the formidable anatomy. The head seemed enormous to her, a smooth, demanding dome that pushed against her lips, nothing like Finn’s modest tip. She continued stroking him with both hands, her movements synchronizing with the circles of her tongue. She was performing now, for an audience of one, and her perfectionist drive took over. She wanted to be good at this. The best.
Marcus’s hands came to rest on her head, not forcing, but cradling her skull in his large palms. He guided her gently, pushing her mouth more firmly onto him. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like that. Now open up. Show me how you use that mouth.”
Rachel parted her lips, allowing the broad head to press inside. It stretched her mouth wide, an immediate, jaw-aching strain. She relaxed her throat, a technique she’d practiced for singing, and took him deeper. The invasion was shocking, a fullness that threatened to trigger her gag reflex. She breathed heavily through her nose, her eyes watering as she took another inch, then another, her hands still working his shaft in a steady, pumping rhythm.
“That’s my girl,” Marcus growled, his fingers tangling in her brown hair. “Take it all. Show me how a star sucks cock.”
He began to move his hips, slowly at first, a shallow, testing thrust. Rachel’s world narrowed to the sensations: the stretch of her lips, the heavy weight on her tongue, the musk in her nostrils, the tight coiling of pleasure in her own belly. She lost herself in the rhythm, in the filthy, beautiful act of it. Her own virginity, her dreams of Finn, her Broadway ambitions—they all dissolved in the steam, replaced by the singular, overwhelming reality of the massive cock filling her throat.
Quinn watched from the floor, a numb witness, as Rachel Berry, virginal and driven, found her true calling, gagging and moaning around the janitor’s shaft, utterly conquered, and loving every second of it.