Chapter 3: Marcus muffles Tina's surprised shrieks with his palm as he splits her virgin pussy wide open on his thickness, her petite body convulsing as he pounds her cervix raw while sheet music flutters to the ground around them.
Two days later, the hallway was a canyon of shadows, the only sound the tap of Tina’s heels against the linoleum. She’d almost made it to the dorm when the phantom weight of her songbook registered in her empty hands. The glee club room. With a sigh, she turned back.
The light was on. As she reached for the handle, the door swung inward and Brittany Pierce drifted out.
The blonde looked radiant, her usual vacant smile replaced by something softer, more knowing. Her straight hair was a little messy, strands clinging to her flushed neck. She moved with a languid, cat-like grace that seemed to reshape the air around her.
“Hey, Britt,” Tina said, stepping aside.
Brittany walked past without a second glance, her eyes fixed on some blissful middle distance, lost in her own world. A faint, familiar scent—musky, salty—trailed in her wake. Tina swallowed, her throat tight. She pushed the door open.
The room was empty save for one person. Marcus stood by the piano, not cleaning, just standing. The single overhead light cut his massive frame out of the gloom, making him seem like a monument planted in the center of the scattered chairs.
He had always impressed Tina. Now, as the petite Asian girl hovered near the threshold, she felt microscopic. Her recent style shift—trading gothic lace for form-fitting dresses that ended above the knee, dark hair highlighted with warm brown—felt suddenly, desperately transparent under his slow, appraising gaze.
The air was thick. Not just with dust, but with the lingering, pungent ghost of sex. It was in the humidity, the warmth, the faint, sweet-tangy odor that mixed with the smell of old paper and polish. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“I know what you did,” she blurted, the words too loud in the quiet room. She pointed a shaky finger towards the door. “With her. With Brittany. I know.”
Marcus didn’t move. His expression was one of mild curiosity.
“I’m going to tell Mr. Schue. I’m going to tell Principal Figgins. You’ll be fired.” Her voice wavered.
He finally stirred, taking two slow, deliberate steps to lean against the classroom door, blocking the only exit. The subtle movement was terrifying. “You gonna tell?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes.”
“You want to?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “I have a boyfriend.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Marcus’s face. It wasn’t cruel, just utterly certain. “You’re lying.” He pushed off the door and began moving toward her, a predator with all the time in the world. “Seen you. Lots of times. Those little sidelong looks from the soprano section. Watching the help.”
Tina’s back met the cool cinderblock wall. “I—I don’t… I wasn’t…”
“You stare.” He was in front of her now, his heat enveloping her. The sheer size of him, the broad shoulders blocking the light, made her dizzy. “At these.” His hand gestured loosely towards his own crotch, the heavy denim straining. Her eyes flicked down for a split second, betraying her. A soft, dark chuckle escaped him. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Before she could form another denial, his hands were on her. One large palm splayed against the wall by her head. The other went to the hem of her short, straight skirt. He didn’t fumble. He simply gathered the fabric in his fist and lifted it to her waist, exposing her thighs, the sheer black tights, the simple cotton panties beneath.
“Stop,” she whispered, but her body arched slightly into his touch.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of her panties. “This your boyfriend’s?” he murmured, his breath hot against her temple.
Then his thick fingers were inside the fabric, slipping down, past the curl of hair, finding her. The touch of his calloused fingertip against her labia was electric, abrasive and perfect. A choked moan tore from her lips, her head thumping back against the wall.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of dark approval. He explored her, spreading the folds, circling the aching nub of her clit until her hips jerked. She was embarrassingly, drenchingly wet, her slickness coating his finger with a soft, obscene sound. “Sopping. Dripping for it. And you talk about telling.”
“Please,” she gasped, unsure what she was begging for.
He pushed one finger inside her, just the tip, stretching her. The sensation was a bolt of pure white lightning up her spine. Her cunt clenched around the intrusion, greedy.
“Lie again,” Marcus commanded, his voice a gritty whisper. He thrust the finger deep, a single, brutal penetration that filled her completely. “Tell me you don’t want it.”
Tina cried out, a sharp, shattered sound that echoed in the empty room. Her nails scraped against the wall. Her body betrayed every word, pulsing around his invading digit, her own wetness a blatant confession.
“See?” he said, working the finger slowly in and out, the filthy, wet noise echoing her shame and her craving. “Your pussy doesn’t know how to lie.”