The Summer I Became Their God

The summer before senior year changed everything for Marcus Chen.

For seventeen years—no, eighteen, he'd turned eighteen in March—Marcus had been the invisible boy at Westbrook High. Not quite five-foot-six, skinny as a rail, with thick glasses and a face full of acne that seemed to multiply faster than his social skills could develop. He was the kid who got picked last in gym class, the one who ate lunch alone in the library, the one whose locker got stuffed with garbage at least twice a month by the jocks who ruled the school like feudal lords.

His only refuge had been his uncle's martial arts dojo across town, where he'd trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu since he was twelve. Not that anyone knew—he'd kept it secret, afraid that the bullies would find one more thing to mock him about. "Kung Fu Nerd" didn't exactly improve on "Pimple-Faced Loser."

But that summer, something shifted. His Uncle Ray had put him on a brutal training regimen, combining intensive strength conditioning with a nutrition plan that had Marcus eating five thousand calories a day of clean protein and complex carbs. The growth spurt his pediatrician had promised since freshman year finally hit, shooting him up to six-foot-one by July. The acne cleared up thanks to a dermatologist his mother finally agreed to see. And the combination of hormones, heavy lifting, and martial arts transformed his body from scrawny to sculpted.

Marcus didn't recognize himself when he looked in the mirror anymore. The boy who stared back had broad shoulders, a tapered waist, visible abs, and arms that looked like they could actually do damage. His face had lost its baby fat, revealing sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. His dark eyes, once hidden behind thick lenses, now seemed intense and piercing.

He was still Marcus on the inside, though. Still awkward around girls. Still carrying the trauma of years of rejection and humiliation. Still the kid who'd never been kissed, never been on a date, never even held a girl's hand except when forced to in square dancing during eighth-grade gym.

Which was why, on the last Saturday before school started, he found himself standing against the wall at the Starlite Drive-In Theater, wondering what the hell he was doing there.

His mother had practically shoved him out the door. "You're going to be a senior, Marcus! You need to make memories! Go have fun!" As if fun was something you could just decide to have, like choosing between vanilla and chocolate.

He didn't have a car. He didn't have friends to meet. He was just... there. Wearing a tight black t-shirt that showed off his new physique and jeans that hugged thighs that had grown thick and powerful from endless squats and deadlifts. He'd let his black hair grow out a bit, and it fell across his forehead in a way that he hoped looked intentional rather than neglected.

The Starlite was the only entertainment in Westbrook, Ohio besides the bowling alley and the Walmart. On weekends, half the senior class gathered here to drink cheap beer, make out in back seats, and pretend they weren't terrified of the future. Marcus had never been invited to join them. He'd only come tonight because his mother had dropped him off, promising to pick him up at eleven.

He was counting the minutes until he could leave when he heard the engine.

The red Mustang convertible pulled into the lot like it owned the place, thumping bass vibrating the asphalt. Marcus recognized it immediately, and his stomach dropped through the ground. He knew that car. He'd fantasized about that car, and more specifically about the girl who drove it, for three years of tortured adolescence.

Britney Holloway.

Britney was Westbrook High royalty. She'd been head cheerleader since sophomore year, dated the star quarterback, and possessed the kind of face and body that made grown men walk into walls. She was blonde, blue-eyed, and built like a swimsuit model—full, firm breasts that defied gravity, a tiny waist, and hips that swayed when she walked like she was performing for an invisible camera crew. She was also, Marcus knew from painful experience, one of the cruelest human beings he'd ever encountered.

She'd made his life hell for three years. Tripping him in hallways. Calling him "Marcus the Mutt" because of his mixed Asian-Caucasian heritage. Passing notes in class about his acne. That time in sophomore year when she'd convinced him that Sarah Miller wanted to go to homecoming with him, only to laugh in his face when he showed up at Sarah's door with a corsage.

And now she was here. With her best friend. And they were looking right at him.

"Holy shit," said the girl in the passenger seat. "Is that Marcus Chen?"

Marcus froze. The voice belonged to Chloe Devereaux, Britney's best friend and partner in crime. Where Britney was all golden California bombshell, Chloe was her dark, mysterious counterpart—tall and willowy with jet-black hair, porcelain skin, and green eyes that seemed to see right through you. She was the brains to Britney's beauty, the strategist behind every cruel prank and social maneuver. She'd been the one to design the "Marcus the Mutt" campaign, complete with flyers.

Britney leaned over the console to get a better look, her low-cut top gaping open and revealing the deep valley between her perfect breasts. Marcus had seen that view in a thousand fantasies, usually right before he jerked off into a sock in his bedroom, hating himself even as he came to the image of her sneering face.

"Oh my God," Britney said, her voice dripping with that particular blend of amusement and contempt that she'd perfected. "Little Marcus grew up."

She gunned the engine and pulled the Mustang closer, stopping just feet from where Marcus stood. He considered running, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot. Three years of psychological warfare had trained him well—when Britney Holloway focused on you, fleeing only made it worse.

"Hey loser," Britney called out, her glossy lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Whatcha doing here all by yourself? Waiting for your mommy?"

Marcus felt his face heat up. Of course she knew. She always knew everything about her victims.

"Leave him alone, Brit," Chloe said, but there was no conviction in her voice. She was already looking Marcus up and down, her green eyes lingering on his chest, his arms, the way his jeans fit. "He looks... different."

"Different?" Britney laughed, a high, musical sound that had once made Marcus's heart flutter. Now it just made him feel sick. "He looks like he finally hit puberty. What happened, Marcus? Did you finally grow some balls?"

Marcus opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. He was transported back to every humiliating moment, every hallway torment, every whispered insult that had made him want to disappear into the floor.

"Cat got your tongue?" Britney teased. She shifted in her seat, and Marcus couldn't help but watch the way her breasts moved under her thin summer dress. She noticed, of course. She always noticed. "Aww, look at him staring at my tits. You always were a pathetic little perv, weren't you Marcus? Probably went home every night and jerked off thinking about me."

"Britney, stop," Chloe said, and this time there was something different in her voice. She was looking at Marcus with an expression he couldn't quite read—something between curiosity and... pity? No, that couldn't be right. Chloe Devereaux didn't pity anyone.

"Why?" Britney pouted. "It's fun. Look at him, he's practically shaking. Poor little Marcus, all grown up but still the same scared little bitch—"

"Get in the car."

The words came out of Marcus's mouth before he knew he was going to say them. They were quiet, but they cut through Britney's tirade like a knife. She blinked, momentarily thrown off her game.

"What did you say?"

Marcus pushed off from the wall and walked toward the Mustang. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but his training kicked in—controlled breathing, steady gait, projecting confidence he didn't feel. He stopped beside the driver's door and looked down at Britney, making eye contact for the first time.

"I said get in the car. Both of you."

Britney's mouth opened and closed. For a moment, she looked genuinely uncertain. Then her face twisted into a sneer. "Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm the guy who's going to teach you some manners," Marcus said. The words felt foreign in his mouth, like someone else was speaking through him. "You've been tormenting me for three years. Tonight, you're going to make it up to me."

"You're insane," Britney laughed, but it sounded forced. "Chloe, tell this freak to back off before I call my boyfriend."

Chloe didn't say anything. She was staring at Marcus with those piercing green eyes, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. "Get in the back, Brit."

"What?!"

"Get in the back," Chloe repeated, her voice steady. "I want to hear what he has to say."

"You're kidding me."

"I'm not." Chloe opened her door and stepped out, revealing long legs in a short skirt that made Marcus's mouth go dry. She walked around to the passenger side and opened the rear door. "Marcus, get in."

Marcus hesitated. This was insane. This was a trap. This was going to end with him being humiliated on social media, or arrested, or beaten up by Britney's linebacker boyfriend who was probably waiting around the corner.

But something in Chloe's expression stopped him. She wasn't mocking him. She was... challenging him. Daring him.

He got in the car.

Britney was still sputtering in the front seat, but Chloe slid into the back beside Marcus and closed the door. The interior smelled like expensive perfume and coconut sunscreen. Marcus was suddenly very aware of how close Chloe was sitting, her thigh pressed against his, her shoulder brushing his arm.

"Drive," Chloe told Britney.

"Where?"

"Just drive. Head out toward Miller's Pond."

Britney muttered something under her breath, but she put the car in drive and peeled out of the parking lot. Marcus gripped the seat as they accelerated, his mind racing. What the hell was happening? What was he doing? This was Britney Holloway and Chloe Devereaux, the twin terrors of Westbrook High, and he was in the back seat of their car demanding they make up for three years of bullying.

He must have lost his mind.

"So," Chloe said, turning to face him. Her eyes were even more striking up close, flecked with gold and framed by thick dark lashes. "You've changed, Marcus. Really changed."

"People do that," Marcus said, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Not like this." Chloe reached out and touched his arm, her fingers tracing the curve of his bicep through his shirt. Marcus shivered at the contact. "You've been working out."

"Martial arts," Marcus said. "BJJ. My uncle's dojo."

"Interesting." Chloe's hand didn't move. If anything, she pressed closer, her fingers digging slightly into his muscle. "And what exactly did you have in mind for tonight? When you said we needed to make things up to you?"

Marcus looked at her. Really looked at her. The Chloe Devereaux he'd known for three years was cold, calculating, untouchable. But this Chloe—this Chloe was looking at him with something that might have been desire. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breathing had quickened. She was waiting for his answer.

"I want you to apologize," Marcus said. "Properly."

"And what would a proper apology look like?" Chloe asked, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Marcus's brain short-circuited. He hadn't actually thought this far ahead. He'd been running on adrenaline and three years of pent-up rage, and now he was in a car with the two most beautiful girls in school, and one of them was basically offering...

"You're both disgusting," Britney spat from the front seat. She was gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles were white. "This is insane. I'm pulling over and you can both walk home."

"Keep driving," Chloe said, her eyes never leaving Marcus's face. "Or I'll tell everyone about what happened at Tyler's lake house last month."

Britney went very still. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Silence filled the car. Marcus could hear his own heartbeat, the hum of the tires on asphalt, Britney's ragged breathing. He had no idea what had happened at Tyler's lake house, but clearly it was something significant.

"Fine," Britney said finally, her voice tight. "Fine. But this is blackmail, Chloe. We're supposed to be best friends."

"We are," Chloe said softly. "That's why I'm doing this. You need this, Brit. We both do."

She turned back to Marcus, and before he could react, she leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was fierce, demanding, her lips pressing against his with an urgency that took his breath away. Marcus froze for a moment, stunned by the softness of her mouth, the taste of her—mint and something sweeter, like strawberries. Then his body took over, and he was kissing her back, his hands coming up to cup her face, his fingers tangling in her silky black hair.

Chloe made a sound in her throat, something between a moan and a purr, and pressed closer. Her hands slid under his shirt, nails dragging across his abs, making him gasp into her mouth. She was everywhere—her tongue exploring his, her body pressed against his side, her scent filling his nostrils until he was dizzy with it.

"Oh my God," Britney said from the front seat. She sounded horrified. And, Marcus thought, maybe a little intrigued. "Chloe, what are you doing?"

"Showing our friend Marcus a good time," Chloe murmured against his lips. "Isn't that what you wanted? To make it up to him?"

"I never said—"

"You tripped him in the cafeteria last year and he spilled chili all over his shirt. You laughed while everyone took pictures." Chloe's hand had moved lower, tracing the waistband of Marcus's jeans. "You told everyone he had a crush on Mrs. Patterson, the sixty-year-old librarian. You convinced Sarah Miller to pretend to like him and then stood her up at homecoming."

Each word was accompanied by a touch—Chloe's fingers dancing across his skin, her lips brushing his jaw, his throat. Marcus was hard as a rock, straining against his jeans, and he knew they could both see it. He didn't care.

"You're going to make this right," Chloe continued, her voice hypnotic. "Aren't you, Brit?"

"I hate you," Britney said. But she didn't stop the car.

"I know," Chloe smiled. She pulled back just enough to look at Marcus, her eyes dark with arousal. "But you're going to do it anyway. Because you want to know if all his... growth... is proportional."

She let her hand drop to Marcus's lap, her palm pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans. Marcus groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily. He was huge—he'd always been huge, another genetic gift that had been wasted on his awkward teenage years. Now, fully erect and pressed against Chloe's hand, he felt like he might burst through the denim.

"Holy shit," Chloe breathed. Her eyes went wide, and for the first time, Marcus saw something other than cool confidence in her expression. He saw surprise. And hunger. "Britney. Pull over. Now."

They were on a dark stretch of road, trees lining both sides. Britney guided the Mustang onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The only light came from the dashboard and the moon filtering through the leaves.

"Turn around," Chloe commanded.

Britney twisted in her seat, and her eyes immediately went to Marcus's lap, where Chloe was still palming his erection. Her mouth fell open.

"That can't be real," she whispered.

"Why don't you find out?" Chloe challenged. She unzipped Marcus's jeans slowly, deliberately, her eyes locked on Britney's face. Marcus held his breath as she reached inside his boxers and pulled him free.

His cock sprang out, thick and heavy, pulsing with his heartbeat. It was easily nine inches long and thick as a soda can, the head swollen and flushed dark. A bead of precum already glistened at the tip, and Chloe caught it with her thumb, spreading it over the sensitive skin.

"Jesus Christ," Britney said. She couldn't look away. "He's... he's massive."

"And he's been hiding this from us for three years," Chloe said, her voice thick with lust. "All those times we called him names, made him feel small... he was walking around with this monster in his pants."

She began to stroke him, her hand barely able to close around his girth. Marcus threw his head back against the seat, groaning as pleasure shot through him. It was the first time anyone had ever touched him like this, and it was overwhelming—Chloe's soft hand, her firm grip, the way she twisted her wrist on the upstroke.

"Britney," Chloe said softly. "Come here."

"I... I can't," Britney said, but she was already climbing over the console, her movements clumsy with desire. She ended up kneeling on the floor of the back seat, her face inches from Marcus's cock. He could smell her perfume, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her blue eyes were fixed on his shaft, wide and hungry.

"Suck him," Chloe commanded. "Apologize properly."

Britney looked up at Marcus, and for the first time since he'd known her, she looked vulnerable. Uncertain. The queen bee reduced to a supplicant.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry for everything."

Then she opened her mouth and took him inside.

The heat and wet suction made Marcus cry out, his hips jerking upward before he could stop himself. Britney gagged slightly but adjusted, her tongue flattening against the underside of his shaft as she tried to take more of him. She could only manage about half his length, her hand wrapping around the base and pumping what she couldn't fit.

"Good girl," Chloe murmured. She'd shifted position, kneeling on the seat beside him, and now she pulled her dress over her head, revealing a black lace bra that barely contained her small, perfect breasts. She unhooked it and let it fall, her nipples hard and dark against her pale skin. "Look at me, Marcus."

He did, tearing his eyes away from the sight of Britney Holloway bobbing her head in his lap. Chloe cupped her breasts, offering them to him, and Marcus didn't need to be told twice. He leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak.

Chloe gasped, her hands coming up to grip his hair. "Yes," she hissed. "Just like that. Use your tongue."

Marcus switched to her other breast, giving it the same treatment, while his hand found its way between her legs. She was wearing a thong, already soaked through, and he pushed it aside to find her slick and hot and ready. He slid one finger inside her, then two, marveling at how tight she was, how she clamped down on him.

"Fuck," Chloe panted. "Britney, you need to feel this. He's going to split you open."

Britney pulled off his cock with a wet pop, her lips swollen and shiny with saliva and precum. "I want it," she said, her voice rough. "I want him inside me."

"Not yet," Chloe said. She pushed Marcus back against the seat and climbed onto his lap, facing him, her knees on either side of his hips. "I get him first. You can have him when I'm done."

She reached between them and positioned his cock at her entrance, rubbing the head through her folds, coating him in her arousal. Marcus gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, trying to maintain some control but knowing he was seconds away from losing it completely.

"Ready?" Chloe asked, her green eyes boring into his.

"Ready," Marcus managed.

She sank down onto him, slowly, inch by inch, her mouth falling open in a silent scream as she stretched around his girth. Marcus had never felt anything like it—tight, hot, wet, perfect. She was so tight he could feel every flutter of her muscles, every spasm as she adjusted to his size.

"Oh my God," Chloe whimpered. "Oh my God, Marcus, you're so fucking big. I can feel you everywhere."

She bottomed out, her ass resting against his thighs, and paused for a moment, her forehead pressed against his, her breath hot against his face. Then she began to move, rolling her hips in slow circles, grinding down on him.

Marcus's hands moved to her waist, guiding her, helping her find a rhythm. He was trying to hold back, trying to make this last, but the sight of Chloe Devereaux riding his cock, her small breasts bouncing with every movement, her face twisted in ecstasy—it was too much.

"Fuck me," Chloe begged. "Fuck me hard, Marcus. Show me what you've got."

Marcus growled and took control. He lifted her slightly and began to thrust up into her, hard and deep, each stroke making her cry out. The car was rocking now, Britney watching from the side with her hand between her legs, her eyes glazed with lust.

"Yes!" Chloe screamed. "Yes, just like that! Don't stop!"

Marcus didn't stop. He pounded into her, using every technique he'd learned from years of solo practice and endless internet research, angling his hips to hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. He could feel her getting close, her walls fluttering around him, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

"Come for me," he commanded, surprised by the authority in his voice. "Come on my cock, Chloe."

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, Marcus!" Chloe's whole body went rigid, her back arching, her head thrown back as her orgasm crashed through her. Marcus felt her clamp down on him, milking him, her juices flooding around his shaft. He kept thrusting through it, extending her pleasure, until she collapsed against him, trembling and gasping.

"Your turn," she whispered to Britney, sliding off Marcus's lap. His cock sprang free, slick and shiny with her arousal, still hard as steel.

Britney didn't need to be asked twice. She scrambled up, pulling her dress over her head, revealing a body that had fueled a thousand of Marcus's teenage fantasies. Her breasts were everything he'd imagined—full and heavy, with rose-pink nipples that hardened in the cool night air. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her panties were a tiny scrap of lace that she pushed down her legs impatiently.

"Be gentle," she said, climbing onto his lap. "I've never had one this big."

"I'll try," Marcus said, but the truth was, he didn't want to be gentle. He wanted to punish her, to make her feel every ounce of humiliation she'd ever inflicted on him, to fuck her until she couldn't walk straight. He positioned his cock at her entrance and thrust up hard, burying half his length in one stroke.

Britney screamed, her head falling back, her blonde hair cascading down her back. "Oh God! Oh God, it's too much!"

"Take it," Marcus growled, gripping her hips and pulling her down further. "Take all of it."

He thrust again, and again, working himself deeper with each stroke until he was fully seated inside her, his balls pressed against her ass. Britney was sobbing, but they were sobs of pleasure, not pain, her nails raking down his chest as she adjusted to his size.

"Move," she begged. "Please, Marcus, move."

Marcus began to fuck her in earnest, lifting her up and slamming her back down, his cock pistoning in and out of her tight pussy. The wet sounds of their joining filled the car, along with Britney's continuous moaning and Chloe's whispered encouragement.

"That's it, fuck her," Chloe said, watching from the side, her fingers circling her clit. "Make her pay for being such a bitch to you. Make her your little slut."

"Yes," Britney gasped. "Yes, I'm your slut, Marcus. I'm your little fucktoy. Use me however you want."

Marcus used her. He flipped her onto her back on the seat, her legs spread wide, and pounded into her with abandon. He grabbed her breasts, squeezing them roughly, pinching her nipples until she cried out. He leaned down and bit her neck, leaving marks that would last for days.

"Who's the loser now?" he demanded, his voice harsh with arousal. "Who's pathetic now?"

"You were never pathetic," Britney sobbed, her hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. "I was. I was so jealous of you, Marcus. So scared of how smart you were, how good you were at everything. I had to tear you down to feel better about myself. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please don't stop, please don't stop fucking me!"

Marcus felt her orgasm building, felt her walls beginning to flutter around him. He reached between them and found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, and that was enough to send her over the edge. Britney screamed his name, her body convulsing, her pussy clamping down on him so hard he saw stars.

"Marcus! Marcus! Oh my God, Marcus!"

He couldn't hold back anymore. With a roar, he pulled out and stroked himself twice, his cum erupting in thick ropes across Britney's heaving breasts, her stomach, her face. It seemed to go on forever, spurt after spurt, until she was covered in his seed, marked as his.

The three of them collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and sweat and cum, breathing hard, the windows fogged with condensation.

"Holy shit," Britney whispered, wiping cum from her eyelashes. "That was... that was..."

"Just the beginning," Chloe said, her voice smug with satisfaction. "Welcome to your new life, Marcus. You're going to rule this school."

Monday morning, Marcus walked into Westbrook High a changed man.

Word had spread. He didn't know how—maybe Britney had told someone, or Chloe, or maybe it was just the way they looked at him in the hallway, their eyes dropping to his crotch and then quickly away, cheeks flushing. But by the time he reached his locker, he could feel the shift in the atmosphere.

People were staring. Not with the mocking laughter he was used to, but with something else. Curiosity. Interest. Desire.

The jocks who had tormented him for years now stepped aside to let him pass. The girls who had ignored him suddenly found reasons to be near his locker, bending over to tie shoes that didn't need tying, adjusting shirts to show maximum cleavage.

Marcus ignored them all. He had bigger prey in mind.

He found Britney at her usual spot by the trophy case, surrounded by her cheerleader friends. She looked up as he approached, and he saw the color drain from her face, then flood back in a deep crimson blush. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater, he noticed, probably to hide the marks he'd left on her neck.

"Marcus," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Ladies," Marcus said, nodding to the cheerleaders. They giggled and whispered behind their hands, eyeing him up and down. "Britney, I need to see you. Now."

"I... I have class," she stammered.

"Skip it."

It wasn't a request. Britney looked at her friends, who were staring with open mouths, then back at Marcus. Slowly, she nodded.

"Okay."

They walked in silence to the east wing, where the drama department had their practice rooms. Marcus knew they would be empty this period—he'd checked the schedule. He opened the door to the smallest room, the one with the mirrors along one wall, and gestured for Britney to enter.

She stepped inside, hugging her books to her chest like a shield. "Marcus, about Saturday..."

"Take off your clothes," Marcus said, closing the door and locking it.

"What? Here? Now?"

"Now."

Britney hesitated for just a moment, then set her books down. Her hands trembled as she pulled her sweater over her head, revealing a lacy bra that pushed her breasts up and together. She unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, then reached behind her to unhook her bra.

"Slowly," Marcus commanded. "I want to watch."

Britney obeyed, her movements becoming more deliberate, more sensual. She let the bra straps slide down her shoulders one at a time, then cupped her breasts in her hands before letting the garment fall away. Her nipples were already hard, dark pink peaks that begged for attention.

"Touch them," Marcus said. "Show me how you like to be touched."

Britney began to massage her own breasts, her fingers rolling her nipples between them, her head falling back with a soft moan. Marcus watched, his cock hardening in his jeans, enjoying the power he had over her. Three days ago, she would have laughed in his face if he'd demanded this. Now she was putty in his hands, eager to please, desperate for his approval.

"Good girl," he said, and she shivered at the praise. "Now the panties."

She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her thong and slowly pushed it down her legs, stepping out of it. She was completely naked now, standing in the middle of the practice room, her shaved pussy glistening with arousal. Marcus could smell her—sweet and musky and desperate.

"Come here," he said.

She walked to him, her hips swaying, her eyes downcast. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees without being asked, her hands going to his belt.

"Please," she whispered. "Let me serve you, Marcus. Let me make up for how I treated you."

Marcus let her unzip him, pull him free. His cock sprang out, already fully erect, and Britney moaned at the sight of it. She wasted no time, taking him into her mouth with enthusiasm, her tongue swirling around the head, her hands stroking his shaft.

Marcus gripped her blonde hair, guiding her head, setting the pace. He fucked her mouth slowly, deeply, watching in the mirror as her lips stretched around his girth. She looked beautiful like this, he had to admit—on her knees, servicing him, her eyes watering slightly as she tried to take more of him.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw the submission there, the complete surrender. She was his now, body and soul. He could do anything to her, demand anything from her, and she would give it willingly.

"I'm going to cum in your mouth," he told her. "And you're going to swallow every drop. Then you're going to go to class with my taste on your tongue, and you're going to remember who you belong to."

Britney moaned around his cock, the vibration sending pleasure spiraling through him. He began to thrust harder, faster, using her mouth for his pleasure. He could feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening, and then he was cumming, shooting thick ropes of cum down her throat.

Britney swallowed eagerly, her throat working, her eyes never leaving his. She took it all, every drop, then licked him clean, her tongue gentle and thorough.

"Good girl," Marcus said, tucking himself back into his pants. "You can get dressed now."

"Marcus," Britney said, her voice small. "Can I... can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Will you... will you fuck me again? Properly? I need to feel you inside me. I haven't been able to think about anything else since Saturday."

Marcus looked down at her, at her flushed face, her swollen lips, her begging eyes. He should say no, make her wait, build the anticipation. But he was hard again already, and the thought of burying himself in her tight pussy was too tempting to resist.

"Bend over the barre," he said, gesturing to the ballet barre along the mirrored wall.

Britney scrambled to obey, bending at the waist, her hands gripping the wooden bar, her ass presented to him like an offering. She was perfect—flawless skin, heart-shaped ass, the pink folds of her pussy peeking out between her thighs.

Marcus stepped behind her and ran his hand over her ass, squeezing the soft flesh. She whimpered, pushing back against him, eager for his touch. He spanked her once, hard, leaving a red handprint on her pale skin, and she cried out.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Marcus, I need you."

He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust in, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. Britney screamed, her head falling back, her blonde hair cascading down her back. Marcus gripped her hips and began to pound into her, hard and fast, the sound of their bodies slapping together echoing in the small room.

"You're mine," he growled, leaning over her to bite her ear. "Say it."

"I'm yours," Britney gasped. "I'm yours, Marcus. I belong to you. Please, don't stop, please fuck me, please use me!"

Marcus used her. He fucked her mercilessly, his hips snapping against her ass, his cock plunging in and out of her slick heat. He reached around and found her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, and felt her begin to clench around him.

"Come for me," he commanded. "Come on my cock, you little slut."

"Marcus! Oh God, Marcus!" Britney's orgasm hit her like a freight train, her body convulsing, her pussy milking him desperately. Marcus let himself go, filling her with his cum, marking her from the inside out.

They collapsed together onto the floor, breathing hard, Marcus still buried inside her. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, her body trembling in the aftermath.

"I meant what I said," Britney whispered. "I'm yours. Whatever you want, whenever you want it. Just... don't leave me."

Marcus kissed her forehead, surprised by the tenderness he felt. "I'm not going anywhere," he said. "But there's someone else I need to see."

"Chloe?" Britney asked, a hint of jealousy in her voice.

"And others," Marcus said. "This is just the beginning, Brit. I'm going to have everything I was denied. And you're going to help me get it."

Britney nodded, accepting her role. "Yes, Marcus. Whatever you need."

Chloe Devereaux was not where she was supposed to be.

According to the schedule Marcus had memorized, she should have been in AP Calculus, sitting in the front row, taking notes with her perfect handwriting. Instead, he found her in the library, tucked away in the furthest corner, surrounded by books she wasn't reading.

She looked up as he approached, and a slow smile spread across her face. "Took you long enough," she said. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Never," Marcus said, sliding into the chair across from her. "I just had some business to attend to."

"Britney," Chloe said, her eyes knowing. "I saw you two coming out of the drama wing. She looked... satisfied."

"She's taken care of," Marcus said. "But I wanted to talk to you about something else."

"Oh?" Chloe leaned forward, her green eyes sparkling with interest. "What did you have in mind?"

Marcus reached across the table and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, then turned her hand over and kissed her palm, his tongue darting out to taste her skin. Chloe's breath hitched, her pupils dilating.

"I want to know your secret," Marcus said softly. "Why you helped me. Why you wanted this."

Chloe was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she sighed and pulled her hand back, running it through her dark hair. "Because I saw you," she said finally. "Really saw you. While everyone else was laughing at the awkward kid with the glasses, I saw someone who trained six hours a day, who read books in three languages, who was kind to the lunch ladies and helped freshmen find their classes. I saw someone who was going to be magnificent, and I wanted to be there when it happened."

"So you tormented me with Britney for three years?"

"I was stupid," Chloe admitted, her voice thick with regret. "I thought if I was cruel to you, no one would notice how much I liked you. How much I wanted you. It was easier to be Britney's mean best friend than to admit I had a crush on the school outcast."

Marcus stared at her, processing this. All those years of misery, and she'd wanted him the whole time?

"Show me," he said. "Show me how much you want me."

Chloe stood and walked around the table, her movements graceful and deliberate. She stopped beside his chair and, without a word, sank to her knees between his legs. Her hands went to his belt, unbuckling it, unzipping his jeans, pulling him free.

"God, you're beautiful," she whispered, her eyes fixed on his cock. She stroked him slowly, her touch feather-light, teasing. "I've dreamed about this for so long. About having you in my mouth, tasting you, feeling you hard for me."

She leaned forward and took him into her mouth, and Marcus groaned, his head falling back against the chair. She was different from Britney—slower, more deliberate, her tongue dancing along his length in ways that made his toes curl. She took him deep, deeper than Britney had managed, her throat relaxing to accept him, her nose brushing his pubic hair.

"Fuck, Chloe," Marcus gasped, his hands finding her hair. "Where did you learn to do that?"

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips swollen and shiny. "I've been practicing," she said, her voice husky. "On bananas, cucumbers, anything shaped like you. I wanted to be ready."

She went back to work, her head bobbing in his lap, her hand stroking what she couldn't fit in her mouth. Marcus could feel his orgasm building, the familiar tension in his balls, the heat spreading through his groin.

"Stop," he said, pulling her back. "I want to be inside you when I cum."

Chloe stood and hiked up her skirt, revealing that she wasn't wearing any panties. She was already wet, her arousal glistening on her inner thighs. "Then take me," she said. "Right here. Right now."

Marcus pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips, and positioned himself at her entrance. She sank down onto him with a moan, her head falling back, her hands gripping his shoulders.

"Yes," she hissed. "Yes, Marcus, yes. I've wanted this for so long."

They began to move together, Chloe rising and falling on his lap, her breasts bouncing under her blouse. Marcus unbuttoned it, revealing a lacy bra that he pushed aside to access her nipples. He sucked one into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, and felt her clench around him in response.

"Harder," Chloe begged. "Fuck me harder, Marcus. I want to feel you for days."

Marcus gripped her hips and began to thrust up into her, meeting her downward movements with forceful upward strokes. The chair creaked beneath them, but he didn't care. He could feel her getting close, her walls fluttering around him, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Come with me," she pleaded. "Come inside me, Marcus. I want to feel you filling me up."

Marcus couldn't hold back. With a groan, he let go, his orgasm crashing through him as he pumped her full of his seed. Chloe followed seconds later, her body convulsing, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

They stayed like that for a long moment, joined together, breathing hard. Then Chloe rested her forehead against his and smiled.

"Welcome to the rest of your life," she said. "It's going to be incredible."

Marcus's transformation didn't go unnoticed by the faculty.

Specifically, it didn't go unnoticed by Ms. Katherine Blackwell, the thirty-two-year-old English teacher who had been the subject of more than one of Marcus's adolescent fantasies. With her auburn hair, green eyes, and curves that seemed designed to test the structural integrity of her pencil skirts, she was every teenage boy's dream.

She called Marcus to her classroom after school on Friday, her note cryptic but her tone suggesting urgency. Marcus arrived to find her sitting at her desk, her legs crossed, her blouse unbuttoned one button lower than school code allowed.

"Close the door," she said, her voice smoky and low.