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[Commission] A Tight Fit by Blankage and NosferatuKata

The boy’s locker room was empty, but it still had the musty smell of unwashed gym shorts and pit stains, not even moderately camouflaged by the haze of deodorant that hung in the air. Robyn wrinkled her nose and followed the unsavory smells as they wafted through the room, the worst of them settling in front of Mike’s locker. She held her palm over his greasy, mottled combination lock and concentrated on its spiritual essence.

“What do you want?” the lock said lackadaisically.

“Might I please enter your domain?” Robyn said

“What’s that now?”

“Um, I need you to unlock.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” The lock slowly began to spin unaided. Right to nine, left to six, back up to zero and around to seven. The lock gave a high, pinging pop and sprung open.

A can of body spray fell to the tile floor with a clang. Robyn wondered if Mike even bothered to put any on. He certainly didn’t usually smell like he did. His clothes lay wadded at the bottom of the locker, a rumpled, dark green, long-sleeve shirt with the words ‘I do all my own stunts’ jammed against a pair of nondescript cargo shorts all wrapped around a pair of torn sandals with the straps attached by a scant handful of frayed threads.

Mike’s laughter kept replaying through her mind. “Sucker! You really thought I would go to prom with you?” She’d sat up in her black, strapless prom dress for an hour waiting for the doorbell to ring. When it became apparent that it wasn’t going to, she’d gone to her room and had refused to come out despite her parent’s promises of chocolate Sundaes and neck massages. She’d spent most of the night lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, refusing to cry, plotting what she would do to repay him for this unforgivable slight.

And now she was standing in the boy’s locker room with an iron lower lip and gritted teeth. Carefully, painstakingly, she removed the labels from her backpack. They were warm and sticky, and pulsing with power. Though the Hermes label was barely brushing her hand, her fingernail polish swept a few shades pinker as she applied the cursed thing to to Mike’s backpack. The Christian Louboutin label for his sandals went on easier, the edges glowing briefly as they melded into the tattered, brown, artificial leather. With steady hands she pasted the Louis Vitton brand name to his stained shirt, and the word Gucci to his baggy jeans. And finally the crown jewel, the label for his briefs. She held the crumpled, greyish-brown undergarment by a corner of the elastic and gently stroked the Carine Gilson label across it. The fabric already seemed softer as she stuffed it haphazardly back into the locker and quietly clicked the door shut. Then, she strode back to the girl’s locker room, threw on her hoodie, and made her way to her next class.

A matter of seconds after the bell rang to announce the end of PE, the boy’s locker room was a humid jungle of adolescent musk, lockers clanging and boys shouting to be heard over the hiss of running water. Mike shouldered his way through the crowd of sweaty backs and damp towels to where his friends, Joey and Nolan were already undressing.

“That was retarded,” Joey said.

Nolan nodded. “Fucking Corey.”

“What’d you say about me?” Corey shouted as he stomped into the locker room.

“Nothing, man,” Nolan said with a queasy giggle.

Corey ran directly towards them with a look of cartoonish fury and stopped just short of ramming Nolan into the locker. A few guys laughed wildly while Nolan looked around with a sheepish expression.

“You stomped us into the ground, and he’s pissed,” Mike said, turning the combination of his locker without looking up.

“I would be too!” Corey said triumphantly. “I would be crying like a little bitch to my momma.”

Nolan laughed weakly and started to change. Mike banged his locker open and was about to undress when he stopped short, squinting curiously at his sandals. He pulled them out of the locker and turned them this way and that, a frown on his face.

“Did you guys touch my stuff?” he asked.

“No,” Nolan said. “I don’t even know your locker combination.”

“Somebody messed with my stuff,” Mike said.

“Oh yeah, my bad,” Joey said. “I took a shit in your sandal. Apologies.”

“I’m serious!” Mike said. “Somebody polished them or something.” The brown leather was so glossy that he could almost see his reflection, and the frayed, worn straps now seemed almost brand new.

“Just put on your damn shoes,” Nolan said, and Mike shrugged and complied. Maybe his mom had snuck new sandals into his locker as a surprise or something.

History came after PE, so Mike shuffled towards home room with his hands in the pockets of his baggy cargo pants, shivering a little in the unheated air of the hallway. The boys tromped noisily past the girl’s locker room, around the corner and into the classroom, the fresh odor of their unwashed bodies fouling the air. Robyn watched them enter from her vantage point in the front row. Mike felt her eyes on him as he sat down at his desk, his hands pressed firmly against the small of his back.

“You look nice,” Corey said as he walked past, staring down at Mike’s shirt. Somehow, it was tucked neatly into his pants. A faint flush crept into his cheeks as he roughly untucked it and tried to grin nonchalantly. Corey laughed in his usual hoarse phlegmy way.

“Alright class,” Ms. Jenkins said. “Who can tell me who wrote Common Sense? It was in your reading.” Mike wasn’t really listening, distracted by the tightness of his shirt, the words ‘I do all my own stunts’ stretched tightly across his chest. He yanked his collar down a bit, feeling the fabric fluttering very slightly in his fist. It was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly, the dark green shifting into a lime.

“Nobody knows?” Ms. Jenkins said. “He’s quite famous. First name starts with a T.”

“I’m very sorry about this,” said a soft, pleasant voice that didn’t sound like anyone Mike had ever heard before. His shirt began to swirl around his nipples.

“Did you hear that?” Mike said much louder than he’d intended.

Joey looked up from his cell phone game. “What man?”

“Something’s rubbing my nipples,” Mike grabbed his shirt and pulled it away from his chest.

“Clearly that’s not a true story,” Joey said, going back to his game.

“I’m dead serious!” Mike said. “You can’t see this?” The fabric was wriggling around in his hand like a slippery fish trying to escape.

“No, and I’m about to get a high score so shut up,” Joey said.

“Joey!” Ms. Jenkins said. “Since you seem to be the only one wanting to talk right now, why don’t you tell us who wrote Common Sense?”

Joey cleared his throat loudly and several girls giggled. Mike’s shirt jumped again, pulling up across his cargo pants. His chest was beginning to feel very, very warm all of a sudden.

“Thomas Jefferson,” Joey said.

Ms. Jenkins shook her head with a barely disguised look of disgust. “That’s not quite right. Anyone else? Mike, what do you think?”

Mike had his eyes closed, hands folded and pressed to his lips, legs crossed tightly so that his thighs were squeezing his groin. A faint humming vibrated through his body, filling him with chills of pleasure. His shirt poured around his nipples and filled them with a warm heaviness. A ripple rolled across the fabric, the threads bleaching into a bright yellow in its wake. He rolled his shoulders slowly as if he were receiving the best back massage of his life.

“Mike?” Ms. Jenkins said, louder this time. Mike’s eyes snapped open.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” There was a faint rustling as everyone in the class turned to stare at him. No one had ever heard him speak in quite that tone before. His voice was somehow rough and feathery at the same time, like he had just woken up the day after a scream-filled Taylor Swift concert.

“Um,” Ms. Jenkins said, her eyes open wide, “Who was…”

A barely audible stretching sound emanated from Mike’s chest as his nipples yawned. A low gasp burbled up from somewhere deep in his throat, so deep that he barely recognized the sound as his own. A straight fold of fabric bunched around his nipples, pinching them and sending flashes of pleasure through his chest. Blood began to flow into his cock, unfolding it into his briefs.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Mike breathed, his vocal cords vibrating daintily like confetti streamers. He leaped to his feet as another tidal wave of color swept across the shirt, orange with a faint hint of rose. He grabbed his backpack and stomped out of the classroom, the inchoate eggs on his chest barely undulating.

The halls were empty, and his footsteps echoed hollowly through the building. His shirt was beginning to blow two soft bubbles beneath each of his nipples. The skin squelched wetly as it pulled tighter and tighter, bulging and wobbling. More pleasure began to pulse out in shockwaves, his nipples the epicenter of an earthquake that threatened to knock him off his feet. The shirt shifted and rode up, then pulled down always sliding and massaging. Images of pretty, lacy bras flashed through his mind, and he held his head in his hands, arms squishing against the cushion of his chest.

“Are you making me think these things?” he said to his shirt. He felt more than a little ridiculous trying to talk to his clothes, and he was rather hoping they wouldn’t respond.

“Who me?” the shirt said, hammering the bulging undersides of his tits.

He broke into a slog jog as he rounded the corner into the bathroom, flinging his backpack onto the ground. “I’m taking you off,” he said to the shirt. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do with my chest, but I don’t like it.”

“Oh stop, your boobs look great,” his shirt said, “although I wouldn’t recommend taking your shirt off in the boy’s locker room.”

“I don’t have boobs,” Mike said, trying to ignore the way his shirt was making his fleshy chest jostle around. “And I’m still taking you off.”

His shirt clamped firmly onto his nipples, and when he tried to yank the rebellious garment over his head, all he succeeded in doing was pulling his nipples out a couple more inches. They puffed, bright and succulent like little, red lollipops. When he let the fabric fall, a flash of bright pink flashed him in the eye. It came from his nails, a sparkly gloss at the tips of his fingers. He shook his hand from the wrist, fingers flailing around, but the shiny pink only spread, washing across his nail towards his cuticle.

Grinding his teeth, he grabbed ahold of his shirt and rip the fabric apart. His sleeves wrinkled around his arms, pulling up over his elbows to hang loosely around his forearms. The material flowed over his biceps and stroked them gently. He kept yanking at the shirt, fists tight, veins standing out in his arms, but slowly the tension in his biceps began to fade. The tendons slackened, and a feeling of relaxation washed through his shoulders and down his arms. The harder he pulled, the more his arms trembled, as soft as his developing chest. The taut fabric began to loosen in his weakening grip, and it gently slid through his fingers.

“Please don’t do this,” he begged meekly. He ran his hand over the delicate cloth covering his stomach, a faint hint of roundness beneath his belly button. The material felt like Mulberry silk, and although he’d never heard of that material before, he was nonetheless beginning to realize that it was very expensive, and he really shouldn’t be trying to rip it like this. He patted it gently, and adjusted it so it draped gently over his pants. As if in response, the shirt tweaked his nipples and blushed a lighter shade of pink.

“What are you trying to do to me?” he asked. He felt different, lighter, cleaner, his pores breathing for the first time since he’d hit puberty. It wasn’t an altogether bad feeling.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss that,” his briefs said as they began to shudder and float softly around his hips. The fabric flowed across his skin, and it was a bit like being massaged by a million tiny pieces of satin, each caressing him at a slightly different angle. He sighed deeply as more blood rushed into his cock. It began to throb as it engorged, the shaft plunging even deeper into his briefs as the head stretched out the leg hole.

Pink lace sewed around the waistband of his underwear. Like an undulating squid, the fabric shifted colors. His cock was drowning in the sea of softness, and it was beginning to feel vacuous and open like it wanted to swallow something, the fabric, his pants, maybe even him. He imagined being sucked into himself, turning inside out, and then it was happening, like giving birth in reverse, the wet, slippery phallus slurping into him, and electric sparks of pleasure wherever his briefs caressed his crotch. He could tell they weren’t really briefs anymore. They were shedding cloth, and Mike scratched his legs as the tiny slivers of fabric detached and tumbled down his hairy legs. Elastic tightened, the thong bunching and nestling into the gap between his thighs.

Mike delicately picked the wedgie he’d developed and looked discretely around the boy’s locker room. All was quiet except for the occasional hiss of water pipes above his head. What if someone was in one of the stalls and had been watching him this whole time? What if a boy walked in right now? He crossed his arms protectively over the softness of his chest, like a shield against the sudden chill that had crept into the locker room. I better get out of here, he thought.

Before he left, he couldn’t resist taking a look at himself in the mirror, flouncing his hair. He ran his fingers through it, and the nail polish leaped from his fingernails onto the soft strands, beginning to weigh them down with a metallic red luster. The hair stretched like taffy, brushing the curve of his cheek as it folded over his ears and bobbed down the back of his scalp, swaying from side to side across his neck. He shook his mane, and soft, auburn locks swept out of his scalp as if in slow motion to nestle around his narrow shoulders.

He didn’t recognize himself. His hair was almost all red and underneath his pale skin, freckles popped out, fireworks exploding across the bridge of his milky nose. He loved the way his long eyelashes delicately bent away from his green eyes. His chin was maybe a little big. He turned sideways and examined his profile, his jawline curving gently.

His pink blouse kept distracting him by kneading and pulling his boobs. The neckline was stretching further down away from his collarbone, growing pointier. Apparently dissatisfied with the amount of cleavage it was leaving uncovered, the rebellious garment was pulling at the bases of his boobs and broadening them so that they started to squish together. He didn’t stop to wonder at the physics involved because every inch of the waggling flesh was shooting pleasure straight to his genitals. Again and again the shirt squashed his titties inward and pulled them out, and every time it tugged at them, his chest elongated further.

The backs of his sandals jumped off the ground a bit, rising up in the air, flinging his heels together. He lowered his weight backward in an attempt to crush them back into the ground, but he only managed to make the muscles of calves flex and bulge beneath his skin. A dark, reflective liquid dripped over the surface of the shoe, cold and smooth beneath his toes. Without even thinking, he lifted his leg in the air behind him to examine his footwear instead of crossing his foot over in front of him. An obvious heel was pushing out like a long jagged spike.

“What do you have against my masculinity?” he said.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but we can’t discuss that either,” the shoe said in an elegantly posh British accent, pushing his heels out another inch.

He tried to pull off the footwear, but it clung between his toes like a leech. The sides of his sandals were curling upwards, and the black leather creaked as it stretched over his wriggling toes. The shoes were squeezing his feet tightly and his toes crunched and popped inside the stiff grip of the leather. The spiky heels shot up again, and he might have turned his ankle if not for the back of the shoe that crept up to tightly encase his shins. His hands flung out of their own volition, and he waved them frantically to keep his balance on the 3 inch things, feeling like he was standing on stilts, high and exposed in the air.

“You might try standing up a bit straighter,” his shoes said helpfully, sprouting yet another inch.

Mike not only stood up straighter but pulled his shoulders back, sucked in his stomach, and moved his feet closer together. He found that this helped immensely. His shoes crawled up over his calves until they were just above his knees, his cargo shorts draping loosely over them. Tiny metallic clips grew out of the dark leather and shoelaces crisscrossed them like a climbing vine.

The bell rang, and Mike gasped at the realization that he’d been in the bathroom over half an hour. He flounced his hear one last time and pranced towards the exit.

“You’re forgetting me,” said his backpack. The thing was lying on its side, and thick clouds of color swept across it like sand blowing across a barren landscape.

“You too?” Mike said reaching to grab the straps, but they pulled away from him. He reached for them again, but again they danced away, playfully swinging around each other, sticking straight up from the backpack. A bright pink color swept across the fabric and stuck to the surface like moist, shiny bubble gum. The bottom began to round, the jumbled pencils and pens jangling around as the contours of the backpack shifted, tapering towards the top. The zipper whizzed open, but instead of unzipping, it left only slick, bare material in its wake.

“A purse?” Mike said, delicate eyebrows arched. “Really?”

“You’ll never guess what kind,” the purse said.

Mike hesitated, an inordinate amount of purse related knowledge filing into his brain. “Valentino?”

“Please,” the purse said, and scales bubbled out of the pink surface.

“Oh my god, is that pink alligator skin? Are you a limited edition Birkin?” His mouth had fallen open, hands clasped to his face.

“That is correct,” the purse said as its two straps began to merge into one

“Oh goodie!” he said, clapping and jumping up and down, heels clopping against the tile. He mentally noted that his boobs had almost popped out and decided that he had enough cleavage.

“You can stop now,” he said to his shirt, grabbing his purse and rushing out of the bathroom. The cafeteria all the way down at the end of the hall, and he walked slowly, trying to avoid bouncing his tits into anyone’s face. His heels were still lifting him higher above the sea of teenagers that crowded into the hall like packs of hungry animals. Heads turned as he walked past, but he was too focused on remaining upright to notice. His shoes were offering him loads more helpful advice on how to walk correctly. They told him to pretend he was walking a tight rope. He tried it, taking baby steps due to the tightness of his pants.

The black shine of his boots licked at his shorts and began to crawl upwards like fire climbing drapes, charring his gray cargo pants into a deep black, gleaming like polished obsidian. The shrink-wrapped crotch of his pants loosened, sagging downwards, stretching his zipper until it crackled metallically and began to unzip. Cool air rushed into the void between his legs, his damp thong clinging wetly to his pubic mound, his pink, satin cameltoe visible until his crotch drooped down further and buried his privates beneath swishing folds of leather. He ran his hands over the dark, sleek surface and it made a little ruffling, schlicking sound as if he was running his hand over a table cloth.

“I don’t think it’s very thoughtful of you to expose me like this,” he said all in a huff.

“You were just a wee bit damp down there, so I wanted to provide some cross-ventilation.”

“That’s not what skirts are for!”

The cafeteria was only just starting to fill up when he strutted in, heels clomping loudly. The smell of grease and bubbling, oil-filled fry pans floated enticingly towards him as he grabbed a tray and made his way to the back of the line that already stretched along the wall to the back corner of the room. He stood facing the expanse of chattering students and tried to pretend the world wasn’t upside down and inverted backwards.

Strangely, it wasn’t a hard thing to pretend. Joey and Nolan were characteristically early to lunch, sitting at their usual table in the opposite corner of the cafeteria. Robyn was sitting close to it, but not too close, staring at him like she always did. He was about to wonder how in the world she recognized him when his skirt made a blomping sound and his ankle turned. He almost dropped his tray, and only managed to remain standing by putting all his weight on his other foot. But there was the blomping sound again, and his other ankle turned. He stood there for a moment contemplating the angle that his legs were jutting out at. He somehow rocked himself back up onto the spikes of his heels by using the wall, but he still felt unbalanced, as if something was wiggling gently behind him. It was broad and doughy, pulling his butt cheeks down and apart.

He handed his tray to the girl scooping tomato soup into bowl after bowl with a dissatisfied expression on her face. The red liquid sloshed, oil swirling on the surface as she handed it sideways to a boy with curly, brown hair straining his hair net. He plopped two halves of a deformed cheese sandwich onto the Styrofoam plate and handed it back to Mike.

“Thanks,” he said distantly just as his ass bounced into the boy standing behind him.

“I’m sorry!” the boy said stutteringly. “I didn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Mike said. “I think my butt is getting bigger.”

He turned around and imagined the boy standing there watching his rear end ripen into a huge watermelon-sized booty. Holding his tray with one hand, he pulled his skirt down a little bit and his cheeks mashed together, the fabric letting out a low, satisfied groan.

He walked towards the familiar table in the corner where Joey and Nolan were already sitting, laughing and joking. The cafeteria was full of wide eyes, staring at him and his $2,000 outfit. Two of those eyes belonged to Robyn, peering out from behind her greasy, round glasses. She stirred her tomato soup and smiled to herself as he walked past her. He tried to shorten his stride so that his unfettered breasts didn’t wag around so much, but it didn’t really work.

He dropped onto the bench opposite his two friends, carefully smoothing the leather miniskirt beneath him as he crossed his creamy thighs. His boobs slapped against the top of the table. He was already starting to realize that big boobs were a bit like expensive shoes: aesthetically wondrous but a bit of a liability at times.

“Notice anything different about me?” he said, trying to talk normally but still feeling like he’d inhaled helium.

“Who are you again?” Nolan said with a reverent quaver in his voice that he reserved for talking to pretty girls.

“I’m Mike,” he said.

“Where is Mike anyway?” Nolan said, looking down at his tomato soup, raising his eyes slightly, then darting them back down like frightened rabbits.

“I’m Mike,” he repeated. “You believe me don’t you, Joey?

“What’s that?” Joey said to his tits. Mike flushed a little, a light red falling down his face and neck like a scarlet curtain. The attention was nice, but on the other hand, Joey obviously wasn’t listening to a word he was saying.

“Why won’t you guys believe me?” He slammed both of his open palms down on the top of the table with a loud crash, his face burning. Nolan giggled and snorted and a bit of tomato soup dripped out of his nose.

“We’ll believe you if you keep making grandiose gestures like that,” Joey said. Mike sat frozen, palms stinging, boobs still jostling around like the aftershocks of an earthquake, one thick nipple asserting its independence above his neckline. He flushed a deeper shade of purple and mashed it back down with trembling hands.

A watery blur began to shine in his blue eyes as he jumped up from the table. “Why did I ever like you guys? I was going to ask you to come shopping with me, but now, forget it!” He grabbed his tray and stomped off.

“Are you going bra shopping?” Joey said to Mike’s back, but he didn’t turn around.

He stood in the middle of the slowly filling cafeteria, feeling all the eyes staring back at him, boring into his overflowing cleavage, scanning across the back of his straining skirt. Scores of prattling teenagers all sat at their preordained tables, and Mike had the sudden unshakeable feeling that he didn’t fit at any of them, the overdeveloped fashion nerd who’d been a slobby boy less than fifteen minutes ago.

He slumped down at the nearest table, not even slightly hungry, and slowly ripped off a piece of his dried out cheese sandwich. Disgusting. His gaze wandered to the popular girls jabbering and giggling at the appointed table across the room. They seemed to be having a great time at the top of the informal social hierarchy. Looking down at his expensive clothes and mouth-watering figure, he could easily project himself into their midst. He’d laugh and tilt his head to the side, gathering his hair and flicking it effortlessly over his shoulder so it wouldn’t get into his food. His own voice would blend into the chatter of the other girls as they swapped makeup tips, discussed the latest fashion…

His thoughts were interrupted by someone plunking down across the table from him, and when he looked over, he found himself staring at his own reflection in Robyn’s glasses. Her face was blank, but he could sense faint, hard edges hiding behind her expression. He felt his heartbeat quicken.

“Hey Mike,” Robyn said.

“Hey yourself,” Mike said. “How’d you recognize me?” A shrug and an inscrutable expression were the only reply. “Did you know this is the worst day of my life?”

“Is it really? That’s good.” Robyn stared at him without blinking.

Mike snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about prom.”

“Mad probably isn’t the right word.”

“I can’t believe you seriously thought I was going with you. That was just a joke!”

Robyn stirred her tomato soup and lifted a spoonful into the air, the red liquid as thick as blood. “Okay you got me. Haha.” Her voice was flat and toneless, but Mike could see something in her brown eyes light on fire.

“You just don’t have any sense of humor,” Mike said, a strange ache cramping in his stomach.

“False. For example, I find it hilarious that you have boobs now. Do you think I should have made them bigger?” She slurped up the spoonful of soup, her eyes never leaving his.

Mike couldn’t breathe. He coughed, but there was no air in his lungs so all that came out was a raspy gag. “What are you talking about?”

“Wooow, you’re so intelligent. Did you really think your clothes just decided to turn you into a girl?”

“But how did you…”

“I just put magic labels on your clothes. Not a big deal really.”

“I don’t believe you.” Mike shivered violently, ice water trickling down his spine.

“She doesn’t believe me,” Robyn said. “Isn’t that so sensible of her?”

“Quite sensible,” said Mike’s shoes.

“This is all my fault,” said the thong. “I didn’t make her horny enough.” The satin began to swish around Mike’s crotch, nibbling at his clit and pulling up deep inside his pussy.

“Mmm,” Mike said, the sound warbling out of his mouth before he had time to stop it. He crossed his legs tighter, heavy thighs clamping against the smooth thong. It wriggled free, sliding against the inner parts of his sex until syrup began to drip from some secret spot within his folds.

Okay I believe you!” Mike shouted huskily, watching heads swiveling in his direction. His areolae contracted into bumpy launching pads for his nipples as they slowly swelled and hardened, erupting from behind his shirt. He frantically tried to pull the thong out of his snatch but only drove it deeper between his quivering thighs.

“That’s just great, Megan. Your name is Megan from now on by the way.”

“What are you saying?” he said, stuttering, gasping. The thong kept teasing his crevices like a wet, slobbery tongue sliding along every inch of his glistening privates. He ground his pussy against his chair, leaving wet streaks on the hard, yellow plastic.

“Your name is Megan,” Robyn said, still not raising her voice, seemingly unaware that a hush was sweeping across the cafeteria, conversations dying, words drying up.

“Okay, okay! Just make it stop.” Mike closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths, but his insistent panting only grew higher and more desperate as little gurgling moans kept escaping his tight throat.

“Say it. My name is Megan.”

He gripped the sides of the chair, the white tips of his fingers tingling, juice squirting out of his pussy pooling on the discolored, grey tile beneath him. “My name is Megan!” he screamed, the world exploding around him. The only sounds in the cafeteria were his own orgasmic cries. He was aware of nothing but the warm, sticky waterfall of pleasure cascading through his genitals. Slowly, the contractions of his pussy began to slow, and as they faded, the sounds of faint giggling filled his ears. The laughs crescendoed into jeering and whistling as he opened his eyes, becoming aware that the entire cafeteria seemed to be doubled over with mirth. Robyn sat across from him, arms folded across her chest, and finally, a faint, smug grin glimmering across her features.

“We’re going to have such fun together,” she said.

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