The double doors of the Westke High gymnasium part before me like the Red Sea. Music hits me first—some trap remix of a song that was popur when we were freshmen—followed by the collision of scents: fake flowers, hormones, hair product, and desperation.

  "Holy shit," Tyler breathes beside me, his hand finding the small of my back as we step into our school gym. "They really went all out on this Arabian Nights thing."

  Sweet, simple Tyler Davidson, whose fingers are currently pressing against the precise spot where my dress cutout reveals a slice of skin and the faint gold chain beneath.

  "It's Midnight Harem, actually," I correct him, allowing my body to sway just enough that his hand slips from my back. "Not Arabian Nights."

  The decorating committee (which mysteriously became entirely female in the st month) has transformed our garbage gymnasium into something from another world. Purple and gold silk banners cascade from the ceiling. Cherry blossom branches create archways despite having no connection to the supposed theme. Lanterns with stylized symbols cast a golden glow that makes everyone look airbrushed.

  And at the far end, elevated on a ptform that definitely wasn't in the original budget proposal, stands a throne-like seating area draped in red curtains.

  "Whatever, it looks badass," Tyler says, oblivious to the subtle wrongness. "You look badass too. I mean, beautiful. Stunning."

  I smile reflexively, a well-practiced curve of lips that doesn't quite reach my eyes. My dress—a custom white-gold creation with strategic cutouts and gold cord detailing—ripples around me with each movement, the high slit offering fshes of thigh as I walk. The bodice pushes my tits up and together, creating cleavage so deep you could lose your phone in it.

  "You don't look so bad yourself," I reply, a bone thrown to his puppy-dog eagerness. It's true—in his bck tux with royal blue accents, Tyler cuts an impressive figure. Quarterback shoulders, perfect jawline, eyes that have been fixed on me since freshman year. Eight weeks ago, I would have considered him a catch. A rebound from Chad, maybe. A teral social move.

  My eyes scan the growing crowd for my girls.

  There—at the punch table, Chelsea in that red qipao, thigh slits high enough to qualify as pelvic ventition. She catches my eye, taps her watch twice, and nods toward the east hallway.

  By the DJ booth, Megan's checking her phone, scrolling through what I know is the color-coded Google Sheet titled "Refreshment Schedule."

  "Hey," Tyler's voice pulls me back. His hand finds my waist again, more deliberately this time. "You want to dance? DJ's actually pying something decent for once."

  I allow him to guide me toward the dance floor, his hand burning against my side. Poor Tyler. He's been texting me non-stop since I agreed to be his date, clearly thinking this is his big chance now that Chad and I are ancient history.

  "I'm so gd you said yes to coming with me," he says. "I've been wanting to ask you out since sophomore year."

  His hands settle on my waist as we begin moving to the music. There's genuine hope in his eyes, the delusional optimism of a boy who thinks catching a falling star means he gets to keep it.

  "I've been going through some changes tely," I say. "Reprioritizing."

  Tyler nods eagerly. "I noticed. The way you handled the whole Chad and Jessica thing was really mature. Most girls would have gone scorched earth."

  I bite back a smile. If he only knew what "scorched earth" actually looks like.

  "And I've been wanting to tell you..." His voice drops lower, leaning in slightly. "I always thought you were too good for him anyway."

  Before I can respond—not that I have any interest in discussing Chad's numerous inadequacies—I spot Tiffany entering in her baby blue magical girl-inspired gown, space buns bobbing as she practically bounces through the door. She's supposed to be positioned at Entrance C for the dance number in twenty minutes.

  "Sorry, Tyler," I say, extracting myself from his grip. "Cheer captain duty calls. We've got a surprise dance performance, and I need to make sure everyone's in position."

  His face falls slightly, but he recovers with a nod. "Sure, yeah. I'll grab us some drinks. Non-spiked for you, right? You haven't been drinking tely."

  Observant boy. Just not observant enough.

  "Perfect," I say with a smile.

  As I navigate the growing throng of hormonal teenagers, I note who's arrived and who hasn't. No Jessica yet, though that's by design—she's making a te entrance for maximum impact. No Amber, which is... concerning. She should have been here fifteen minutes ago.

  My phone buzzes against my thigh where it's strapped in a custom garter holster.

  ??JESSICA??: Positions in 10. Tiffany just arrived. Chelsea reports punch is safe (Peterson tried to spike it but she "accidentally" spilled it and refilled with our batch).

  I smile, typing back one-handed while nodding at various cssmates who part before me like I'm Moses himself.

  Me: Amber?

  ??JESSICA??: No sign. Did she fke?

  A flicker of concern passes through me. Amber has been increasingly distant over the past weeks, hurt by my sudden friendship with Jessica and my vague excuses for canceled pns.

  Me: I'll handle it. East Wing status?

  ??JESSICA??: Ready for service. First appointment at 9:15 (Megan). His Majesty arrives at 9:00 sharp.

  I continue my circuit through the growing crowd, stopping to compliment dresses, accept compliments on mine, and exchange air kisses with people whose relevance to my existence has declined precipitously in recent weeks. The social performance is automatic, muscle memory from years at the top of Westke's hierarchy.

  "Bir!"

  I turn to see Chelsea approaching.

  "Everyone's almost in position," she says, lowering her voice. "Megan thinks Coach Wilson is suspicious—he cornered her by the bathroom asking about the championship game again."

  The infamous championship game, where half our squad was mysteriously "ill" and the football team suffered their worst defeat in school history. The same day that Oliver had demonstrated a particurly impressive stamina breakthrough.

  "What did she tell him?" I ask, adjusting one of Chelsea's hair sticks that's slipped slightly out of pce.

  "The food poisoning story again. But he's not buying it." Chelsea shifts her weight, one hand unconsciously moving to rest on her lower abdomen for a fraction of a second.

  "We just need to get through tonight," I remind her. "After graduation, none of this matters anyway."

  Chelsea nods, her eyes darting toward the east hallway. "Tiffany's getting nervous about her first... refreshment period. She's never done it at a public event before."

  "Tell her to breathe and remember the techniques I showed her. Start slow, focus on the head."

  Chelsea departs with a nod, and I continue circuting. I spot Brandon watching me from near the photo booth, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He's been collecting little oddities like a conspiracy theorist—the missed games, the theme change, the cheerleaders' new lunch habits. None of the pieces fit in his football-addled brain, but he's trying.

  My phone buzzes again. A text, but not from Jessica or any of my girls.

  BASEMENT TROLL ??: The queen looks radiant tonight.

  A shiver runs down my spine, nipples immediately hardening against the structured bodice of my dress. He's watching. Somewhere, somehow, he's watching.

  I don't respond—that's not part of the protocol—but I allow my posture to shift slightly, emphasizing the curves beneath my dress, knowing he'll notice and appreciate the acknowledgment.

  "Bir."

  I turn to find Amber standing behind me, and my heart actually skips a beat. She looks... good. Her soft pink A-line dress with tulle overy and sparkle details make her look especially innocent and pure.

  "Oh my god," I say. "Amber, you look incredible."

  She doesn't smile. "Do I? Because you'd hardly know it from how you've been avoiding me."

  Guilt stabs through me. In my efforts to protect her, I've been a shit friend.

  "I haven't been avoiding you," I lie smoothly. "Things have just been crazy with... everything."

  "Everything meaning Jessica?" Amber's normally gentle voice has an edge I rarely hear. "You two hated each other three months ago, and now you're besties? After she stole your boyfriend?"

  I resist the urge to expin that nobody "stole" anything—that Chad is as relevant to my life now as st season's Prada bag—but that would require expnations I'm not ready to give.

  "It's complicated. People change. Priorities shift."

  "And I'm not a priority anymore?" The hurt in her voice cuts through my carefully constructed armor.

  "You're the most important friend I have," I tell her. Jessica is my co-conspirator, my fellow priestess, but Amber is... Amber. My best friend since fifth grade when she shared her lunch with me after Madison Peters dumped milk on my pizza.

  Before Amber can respond, the opening beats of our performance music begin to pound through the speakers. The DJ—another mysteriously recent anime fan—gives me a thumbs up.

  "I have to go," I say, squeezing Amber's hands. "Cheer performance. But please, stay right here. We'll talk after, I promise."

  Hurt still lingers in her eyes, but she nods, stepping back to give me space. As I turn to head toward our starting positions, I feel a stab of something that feels like foreboding.

  The dance floor clears as our pre-arranged announcement pys: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome a special performance from your Westke Wolves Cheer Squad!"

  The gym lights dim dramatically, spotlights converging on our formation. I stand at center, chin high, shoulders back, the perfect picture of cheerleader confidence. My white-gold dress catches the light, making me glow like some kind of corrupted angel.

  Ms. Abernathy hovers at the edge of the crowd, arms folded, brow furrowed. She can't quite put her finger on why this is making her teacher-senses tingle.

  My eyes scan the crowd one st time. Tyler watching from the punch table, one hand in his pocket, smiling like a puppy who thinks he's getting a treat ter. Chad and his football cronies lounging against the back wall, trying to look too cool to care. Principal Howard adjusting her gsses, already uncomfortable with our costumes despite them technically meeting dress code.

  And somewhere in that mix, Amber. My sweet, innocent best friend.

  The music starts—bass heavy with those anime vocal samples we specifically requested from DJ Kenny, who was surprisingly eager to help once Jessica bent over his equipment table to "check the setup."

  We begin with our formation perfectly aligned, my girls in their positions like we've practiced a dozen times. Five points of a star with me at the center, the supporting squad arrayed behind us. Our opening poses are textbook cheer—one hand on hip, other extended in a fist, legs in a wide stance that just happens to pull our dresses tight across our asses.

  "OMG, you guys seen those weird ANIME shows?" I call out to the crowd, voice dripping with mock disgust. "You know the ones... where some TOTAL LOSER somehow gets ALL the hot girls? Like, WHY would we ever...?"

  Tiffany bounces forward. "But Bir! They're sooooo dreamy!" she coos, batting her eyeshes so hard I worry she might achieve liftoff.

  I ugh, tossing my head back with practiced disdain. "Dreamy? More like CREAMY! And not in the good way! So freaking PALE!"

  The crowd ughs, eating up the performance.

  We unch into the first synchronized sequence—standard cheer moves with subtle modifications. Our hip pops send ripples through our dresses, skirts fring to reveal dangerous glimpses of thigh. When we extend our arms for the shimmy, our tits bounce and jiggle with such perfect synchronization you'd think we'd been practicing that specific movement for weeks.

  And you'd be right!

  "ANIME BOYS, ANIME BOYS!" we chant in unison. "WHAT'S THE DRAW OF ANIME BOYS? MESSY ROOM AND MOUNTAIN DEW! WHY WOULD WE DATE YOU-KNOW-WHO?"

  The high kicks come next, and I make sure to lead with my right leg—the one with the dress slit that goes practically to my hip bone. The crowd gets a fsh of gold against my inner thigh as my leg extends to perfectly vertical. The weight of my dress whips through the air, creating a fluttering sound like butterfly wings as my leg comes down.

  We all turn to show our profile silhouettes, then bend forward at exactly 45 degrees—not so obvious as to get us stopped, but enough that every girl's ass pops out perfectly, dress fabric pulling tight across valleys of teenage curves. I feel my tits strain against my bodice, gravity creating a deeper shadow of cleavage that the spotlight catches dramatically.

  The finger wag on the st line sends a ripple effect through our entire bodies, synchronized like we're a single multi-breasted organism.

  As we transition to the second sequence, I catch sight of Ms. Abernathy's face—she's gone from concerned to armed, whispering frantically to Mr. Peterson, who's too busy staring at Megan's ass to pay attention.

  Section two begins with Megan stepping forward, her goth-inspired bck dress with strategic cutouts making her look like a succubus. She runs a hand down her body.

  "But wait... have you seen what's hiding..." she purrs, then gestures vaguely downward with both hands, "...in those baggy shorts?"

  Chelsea joins her, the dragon embroidery on her red qipao seemingly pointing directly to her cleavage as she fans herself dramatically. "I heard a RUMOR about someone at school..." she says, before making an expanding gesture with her hands that starts small and grows to anatomically impossible proportions. "...who's packing more than LUNCH!"

  The crowd's reaction splits along gender lines—guys hooting, girls giggling behind their hands, faculty beginning to shift uncomfortably.

  We unch into our next cheer. "SIZE MATTERS, YES IT'S TRUE! MAYBE HE HAS SOMETHING NEW! NOT HIS WALLET, NOT HIS CAR, SOMETHING BETTER BY FAR!"

  The paired body rolls begin, Chelsea and I facing each other so close our tits nearly touch at the apex of each undution. Her eyes lock with mine — we're absolutely fucking killing this. My body moves like liquid, spine articuting one vertebra at a time in a wave that travels from my neck to my pelvis. The gold cord details on my dress catch the light with each roll, creating the subtle illusion of restraints across my bodice.

  We spin together, presenting our backs to the audience. My dress, with its cleverly engineered weight distribution, clings to each asscheek as I pop my ass in precisely timed movements, each muscle group isoting in sequence to create a ripple effect. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tyler's mouth actually hanging open, drink forgotten in his hand.

  The wave formation comes next, girls dropping to the floor one by one from one end of the line to the other, creating a human ripple that just so happens to thrust our chests forward as we go down.

  We nd in splits - because, you know, flexibility is a cornerstone of cheerleading — before transitioning to floor work.

  The crawling formation is where we really push boundaries, moving on all fours from center to edges, backs arched like cats in heat. I lead the "THE MEASURE" move we were originally going to avoid—hands starting close together before moving progressively further apart, indicating an impossible length while we all maintain expressions of wide-eyed innocence.

  Krista, her orange "fox spirit" dress riding up dangerously high on her thighs, pces her hands over her heart in mock innocence. "I just think he's nice, that's all!" She winks at the audience, then adds, "The way he FILLS my every need!"

  On that cue, we all make that subtle cupping gesture near our mouths, muscle memory from countless hours on our knees. The crowd ughs and cheers, thinking it's just a provocative dance routine pushing school boundaries.

  We all wink and giggle, transitioning to our next formation with a perfectly synchronized hair flip that sends a wave of different colored hair—my blonde, Chelsea's bck, Megan's purple streaks—fluttering through the air in a rainbow of hotness.

  The music shifts to a heavier bass beat as we enter Act Three—the conflict sequence. This is where it gets really interesting.

  I march to center stage, hands on hips, chin raised in a perfect queen bee pose.

  "Listen up! I saw him FIRST! His special... TALENTS... quench my thirst! Back off girls, he's ALL for me! I'm the QUEEN, can't you see?"

  As I deliver the lines, I perform my signature booty pop sequence—an eight-count routine that isotes each muscle group in my much-more-jiggly-than-a-few-weeks-ago ass. The girls gather behind me, arranged in a perfect fan with their hands extended toward me like I'm a goddess they're paying homage to.

  BAM!

  The music cuts dramatically as the gym doors burst open, and every head turns to see Jessica entering through a cloud of strategically timed smoke effects (thank you, AV club). Her emerald gown catches the light, copper hair whipping around her face as she strikes a pose in the doorway that would make any anime vilin proud.

  She struts down the makeshift runway formed as our formation splits, each step an exaggerated hip sway that sends the emerald fabric unduting like ocean waves.

  "New girl's here to take the crown! Think again, I'll shut you down! That special... GIFT... you think is yours? Honey please, you're A-MA-TEURS!"

  Jessica reaches center stage, and we begin our twerk battle—facing off with less than a foot between us. My thigh slit reveals fshes of the gold chain running along my leg, while Jessica's dress, with its clever front panel, occasionally gapes to show the red and bck strappy lingerie beneath.

  The girls split into Team Bir and Team Jessica, chanting: "BATTLE TIME! BATTLE TIME! TWO QUEENS FIGHTING OVER ONE! WHO WILL WIN? WHO WILL LOSE? WHO GETS ALL HIS SPECIAL... JUICE?"

  Yeah, that line was a little risky.

  On "SPECIAL JUICE," all of us make that subtle drinking motion—a quick tip of the head back with hand near mouth—that would be innocent enough in another context but takes on a whole new meaning given what we've all swallowed in the past few weeks.

  Principal Howard is now frantically whispering to Coach Wilson. But it's too te to stop us without making an even bigger scene.

  Jessica and I circle each other like predators, fake anger on our faces as we perform exaggerated chest pops while maintaining intense eye contact. Her emerald eyes fsh with the same hidden amusement I feel bubbling in my chest—we're getting away with performing what amounts to an eborate mating ritual in front of the entire school, and no one can stop us.

  "This battle's on, prepare to lose!" I call out.

  "Just one girl gets to choose!" Jessica fires back.

  The music drops to a whisper, and all the girls except Tiffany do a coordinated floor drop that actually makes some of the audience gasp. Little Tiffany stands alone in her baby blue dress, the picture of innocent suggestion.

  "But... what if we didn't fight?" she asks, voice soft but perfectly audible in the sudden quiet.

  Chelsea rises next, the red qipao shifting to reveal the dragon's head positioned strategically over her left breast. "What if there's enough to go 'round?"

  Megan follows, her bck dress with its hardware details clinking softly as she stands. "His... RESOURCES... seem quite vast!"

  All the girls perform that measuring gesture with increasingly excited expressions. The guys in the audience ugh, thinking it's an exaggeration, not realizing we're referring to an actual statistical outlier we have seen with our very eyes.

  Krista completes the rising wave, giggling as she delivers her line: "Enough to make us all... satisfied!"

  The music builds dramatically as Team Bir and Team Jessica merge in a complex formation shift that looks like rival gangs making peace.

  Jessica and I perform our mirror dance routine, moving in perfect sync as if we're reflections of each other rather than former rivals. The choreography involves eborate arm patterns that just happen to push our tits together and create maximum cleavage, all while maintaining eye contact.

  "HAREM DREAMS! HAREM DREAMS! MAYBE NOT SO BAD IT SEEMS! ONE FOR ALL AND ALL FOR ONE! SHARING IS THE MOST FUN!"

  As we chant, all the girls briefly touching our stomachs in a gesture too quick for most observers to process consciously.

  For our final pose of this section, all girls form a circle facing outward, hands linked behind our backs.

  Ms. Abernathy is now actively trying to get to the sound booth, but finds her path mysteriously blocked by a series of "accidental" obstacles—a punch bowl that nearly spills on her shoes, a group of seniors who won't seem to move out of the way, a banner that comes partially untacked from the wall.

  We unch into our finale. My body moves with perfect precision, every isoted muscle group under my complete control as I lead the girls in the final routine.

  "ANIME BOYS! ANIME BOYS! NOW WE SEE THE HIDDEN JOYS! WHAT ONCE SEEMED GROSS IS NOW SO FINE! WHAT'S HIS IS YOURS AND WHAT'S YOURS IS MINE!"

  Our formation ripple creates a wave effect across the stage as we execute synchronized booty pops at different heights—some girls dropping low, others staying high, creating a staircase effect of bouncing asses. We transition to body rolls in alternating directions, creating that "snake" effect that makes our entire bodies undute like a single organism.

  Jessica and I take center stage, standing back to back for our duet moment.

  "CO-QUEENS RULING SIDE BY SIDE!" I call out."PLENTY OF HIM TO GO INSIDE!" Jessica responds, then quickly corrects with exaggerated innocence: "I mean AROUND! TO GO AROUND!"

  Then we giggle uncontrolbly. The crowd ughs too, not understanding the joke is literally on them.

  For our grand finale, we all line up for "THE PENETRATION"—a jump split nding with arms thrust forward that, from the right angle, looks exactly like what the name suggests. From our nding position, we rise to perform our exaggerated bow-legged walk while delivering the final chant:

  "WHO NEEDS ONE WHEN YOU CAN HAVE ALL? BIG AND SMALL, SHORT AND TALL! BUT MOSTLY BIG! LIKE REALLY BIG! THE KIND THAT MAKES YOU WALK LIKE THIS!"

  The wobble walk gets the biggest reaction of the night—guys howling with ughter, girls shrieking with scandalized delight, faculty in various states of shock and horror. Jessica and I perform our mirror twerk facing each other, then pivot to present it to the audience in perfect unison. My ass bounces with such perfection that I can feel the weight of each cheek independently, muscles firing in sequence to create maximum cp noises.

  Our final pose hits with perfect timing on the st beat—all girls in a kneeling worship formation around Jessica and me as we stand back-to-back, hands on hips, chins raised imperiously. On the absolute final beat, we all blow a synchronized kiss to the audience.

  The music cuts, leaving us frozen in our provocative tableau as the gym erupts in chaotic reaction. Guys are losing their minds, whistling and cheering, the basketball team actually chest-bumping each other like they just won something. Girls are a mixture of scandalized, impressed, and confused. Faculty are in crisis mode, Ms. Abernathy finally breaking through to the sound booth too te, Principal Howard adjusting her gsses like she can't believe what she just witnessed.

  As we hold our final pose, my eyes scan the gym one st time, looking for the reaction that matters most.

  A shiver runs through me, nipples hardening against the structure of my bodice. I maintain the pose a moment longer than necessary, ensuring he sees me at the center of this tableau, his queen leading his harem in worship.

  Then the moment breaks as Tiffany suddenly bounces forward, waving to the crowd with exaggerated cheerfulness.

  "Hope you enjoyed our special performance! Have an AMAZING prom night, everyone!"

  We break formation with practiced precision, girls dispersing into the crowd that immediately envelops them with questions, comments, and in the case of the guys, poorly disguised attempts to see if the choreography transted to personal interest.

  Jessica slides up beside me, her copper hair slightly disheveled from the performance but her makeup still perfect. "He's here," she murmurs, though she doesn't need to tell me what I already know.

  "First appointment?" I ask.

  "Megan, east wing, five minutes." Jessica smooths a hand down her emerald dress, adjusting the front panel to ensure the magnetic csps are secure. "She's been practicing that technique you showed her."

  I nod approvingly. "Make sure Chelsea drinks water before her slot. She was looking a little flushed during the second sequence."

  "On it. You handle Tyler? He's looking at you like you hung the moon, poor delusional boy."

  I gnce over to where Tyler is indeed watching me, like he's not sure whether to be turned on or terrified by what he just witnessed.

  "I'll manage him," I tell Jessica. "Just make sure everyone sticks to the schedule. No deviations, no extended sessions until after the crowning."

  Jessica nods, already scanning the crowd for our next girl in the lineup. "Tiffany did well for her first major performance."

  "She's a natural," I agree. "A little too bouncy on the floor drop, but she'll learn control with practice. And with the right incentives."

  Before Jessica can respond, Ms. Abernathy finally breaks through the crowd, her face flushed with either exertion or moral outrage, probably both.

  "Bir! Jessica!" she hisses, grabbing both our wrists with surprising strength for an English teacher. "What was THAT? That was not the routine approved by the prom committee!"

  I adopt my most innocent expression, eyes wide with confusion. "What do you mean, Ms. Abernathy? That was our satirical commentary on anime tropes and female empowerment, just like we discussed."

  "Empowerment?" she sputters. "That was practically—it was essentially—" She struggles to find words that won't get her fired if quoted out of context.

  Jessica jumps in smoothly. "It was a feminist deconstruction of how anime objectifies women, presented through the lens of ironic performance art."

  "Exactly," I add. "We're reciming our bodies and challenging patriarchal narratives through satirical embodiment of the very stereotypes we're critiquing." Thank you, Feminist Theory elective I took senior year.

  Ms. Abernathy blinks rapidly, clearly thrown by our academic jargon. "But the gestures—the movements—"

  "Were carefully choreographed to highlight the absurdity of these exact tropes," I finish for her. "By performing them ourselves, we're removing their power to define us." I lean in, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "It's actually quite subversive. Several colleges now offer entire courses on performative deconstruction of media stereotypes."

  I can practically see the wheels turning in her head—caught between wanting to shut down what was obviously an inappropriate performance and not wanting to appear culturally insensitive or academically narrow-minded.

  "Well," she finally says, releasing our wrists, "I still think some of those movements were inappropriate for a school function."

  "We're sorry if it came across that way," Jessica says with perfect contrition. "We were really just trying to start a conversation about media literacy and feminine agency."

  Ms. Abernathy sighs. "Just... stick to regur dancing for the rest of the night, please."

  "Of course, Ms. Abernathy!" we chorus in perfect sync, all innocence and respect.

  As she walks away, Jessica and I exchange the briefest of gnces—mission accomplished. The opening salvo of our grand pn executed fwlessly, the next phase already in motion as Megan casually makes her way toward the east hallway, checking her phone with practiced nonchance.

  I scan the gym again. A shiver runs through me at the thought of what's happening in our specially prepared janitor's closet, now equipped with soundproofing, a surprisingly comfortable futon, and a small table with water bottles and towels.

  But before I can dwell on it, Tyler appears at my side, his expression a mixture of awe and confusion.

  "Bir, that was... wow." He runs a hand through his carefully styled hair, messing it up in a way that would have been adorable to me a few months ago. "I mean, I didn't know you were into anime and stuff."

  "There's a lot you don't know about me, Tyler," I say, patting his chest. "But I'm really gd you enjoyed the performance!"

  "It was amazing. You're amazing." His hand finds my waist again. "You want to dance? DJ's actually pying something decent for once."

  Over his shoulder, I see Amber watching us, her pink dress making her look like a rose among thorns as she stands alone near the refreshment table. Guilt twists in my stomach.

  "Actually," I say, gently removing Tyler's hand from my waist, "I need to talk to Amber. Girl stuff, you know? Rain check on that dance?"

  His face falls slightly, but he recovers with a nod. "Sure, yeah. I'll grab another drink."

  As I make my way toward Amber, I feel a familiar buzz against my thigh. I slide my phone from its garter holster, gncing at the screen.

  A hot pulse of something primal runs through me—anticipation, submission, hunger. I slip the phone back, adjusting my expression to one of friendly concern as I reach Amber.

  "Hey," I say, taking her hands in mine. "I promised we'd talk. Let's find somewhere quieter, okay?"

  I lead Amber away from the pulsing heart of the prom toward the darkened hallway by the art cssrooms. Away from the noise, the crowd, the constant performance. My heels click against the polished linoleum, echoing off metal lockers like a countdown.

  "Here," I say, stopping in a little alcove by the water fountains. "We can talk here."

  Amber looks almost otherworldly in the low emergency lighting, her soft pink dress capturing what little illumination there is.

  "So talk," she says. "I'm listening."

  I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. The weight of everything is momentarily overwhelming.

  "I haven't been avoiding you," I begin.

  "Bullshit." The word sounds wrong coming from Amber's mouth, like hearing a kindergarten teacher curse. "Total bullshit, Bir. You've canceled on me six times in the st month. You ignore my texts for hours. You leave lunch early with Jessica—Jessica!—who you've hated since freshman year."

  My carefully prepared expnations dissolve like cotton candy in rain.

  "It's complicated," I try.

  "Oh my god." Amber throws her hands up. "Complicated? That's what you're giving me? After twelve years of friendship?"

  "Things have been weird tely—"

  "You think I haven't noticed?" Her voice cracks. "Everyone's noticed, Bir! The whole cheer squad acting like some weird cult, the missed games, the sudden friendship with Jessica, dumping Chad, the way you all disappear randomly..."

  I stand straighter, defensive armor clicking into pce. "If you already know everything, why are we having this conversation?"

  "Because I thought you'd tell me!" Amber's eyes are shining with unshed tears now. "I thought whatever it was, you'd trust me enough to tell me! I'm your best friend, Bir. At least I thought I was."

  The pain in her voice hits me pretty hard.

  "Of course you are," I say, reaching for her.

  She pulls away. "Don't. Just... don't. If I'm your best friend, why am I finding out secondhand that you tore up your Cornell acceptance? That you're suddenly pnning to go to community college? That you and Jessica have been looking at houses together?"

  My heart stops. "How did you—"

  "Doesn't matter how! What matters is why I had to find out from Chelsea's little sister instead of my supposed best friend!" A tear spills down her cheek, leaving a glistening trail through her careful makeup. "Do you know how that feels? To have everyone talking about what Bir's doing, and I'm standing there like an idiot because I don't know either?"

  I swallow hard. "I didn't want to drag you into this."

  "Into what?" Another tear falls, then another. "What's so terrible you couldn't tell me? I've stood by you through everything, Bir. When your parents were fighting, when that Jennifer Lawrence haircut was a disaster, when you got your period during white uniform day. I was there when Chad got too drunk at Brandon's party and threw up on your shoes. I held your hair back when you got food poisoning from that sketchy sushi pce."

  Her voice breaks on the st sentence, and something cracks inside me too.

  "I know."

  "So why?" She's really crying now, shoulders shaking. "What did I do wrong? Why does Jessica get to be in your life now and I don't?"

  "It's not like that," I whisper.

  "Then what's it like? Because I feel like I've been repced." Amber wipes furiously at her cheeks, smudging her mascara. "Like I wasn't good enough or cool enough or whatever enough for your new life. Like twelve years of friendship just... didn't matter anymore."

  My carefully constructed walls crumble at the sight of her tears. This is Amber—who brought me soup when I had mono sophomore year, who stayed up all night helping me finish my Spanish project, who never once judged me even when I was being the absolute worst version of myself.

  "I was trying to protect you," I admit softly.

  "From what?" she demands. "From your sudden BFF-ship with Jessica? From whatever weird thing is happening with the cheer squad? I don't need protection, Bir! I need my best friend to actually be my friend."

  "You don't understand."

  "Because you won't tell me!" Amber steps closer, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. "And don't use the 'it's complicated' excuse again. We survived your parents' divorce, my mom's cancer scare, and the great Lauren Hitchens backstabbing of junior year. We can handle complicated."

  I bite my lip.

  "I saw you, you know," she continues, her voice now eerily calm despite the tears still flowing. "Last weekend. Going into Oliver Tanaka's house. With Jessica."

  My blood turns to ice water in my veins. "Amber—"

  "At first I thought maybe it was a prank or some mean girl thing. But then I saw Megan go in. And Chelsea. And two days ter, I saw you go back." She looks me dead in the eyes. "You were wearing sweatpants, Bir. You haven't worn sweatpants in public since seventh grade."

  I stare at her, speechless.

  "So what is it? Drugs? Some weird study group? A fight club?" Her voice cracks again. "Whatever it is, why couldn't you just tell me instead of shutting me out?"

  The look on her face—hurt, betrayal, confusion—makes my chest physically ache. I spent so much energy trying to keep her away from all this, trying to preserve one normal retionship in my increasingly abnormal life. And all I've done is hurt her.

  "I thought..." I struggle to find the right words. "I thought I was keeping something bad from touching you. That I was being a good friend by keeping you out of it."

  Her face crumples. "A good friend would have given me a choice. A good friend would have trusted me."

  And there it is—the truth id bare under the harsh fluorescent lights.

  "You're right," I whisper, tears finally springing to my own eyes. "I fucked up. I've been a terrible friend."

  "I don't want you to say you're a terrible friend," Amber whispers back. "I want you to tell me what's going on right the fuck now! I want to understand! I want—"

  Her voice breaks completely, and suddenly she's sobbing—not the pretty, cinematic tears from before, but ugly, gulping sobs that make her whole body shake.

  "I thought we told each other everything," she chokes out between breaths. "I thought I mattered to you."

  I close the distance between us, pulling her into a hug she initially resists before colpsing against me.

  "You do matter," I tell her, my own tears falling into her hair. "You matter so much I was afraid of losing you when you found out."

  "Found out what?" she mumbles against my shoulder.

  I take a deep breath. This is it. The end of Amber's innocence. The possible end of our friendship.

  "It's not what you think," I say, pulling back to look her in the eyes. "It's so much worse."

  Amber stares at me, mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes puffy and red, looking more vulnerable than I've seen her since her mom was in the hospital.

  "Whatever it is," she says with quiet determination, "I'd rather know the truth than keep feeling like I've lost my best friend."

  I nod, wiping my own tears away. "Okay. The truth is—"

  My phone buzzes violently against my thigh. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession—our emergency signal.

  ??JESSICA??: CODE RED. East wing NOW.??JESSICA??: Chad and Brandon followed Megan??JESSICA??: They found HIM

  "Fuck," I mutter, staring at the screen. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

  "What? What is it?" Amber asks, panic edging into her voice.

  I look at her tear-stained face, then back at my phone where more messages are appearing.

  "Then come with me. Right now," I grab her hand.

  She hesitates only a second before nodding.

  "Okay."

  I sprint through the darkened hallways, Amber struggling to keep up in her heels behind me. The decorative lights fade as we move deeper into the school's east wing, leaving only the eerie glow of emergency exit signs to guide our way.

  "Bir, slow down!" Amber hisses. "Where are we going?"

  "You wanted the truth," I call over my shoulder, not slowing my pace. "You're about to get it."

  As we round the corner to the service corridor, I see Jessica pacing around, her emerald dress catching the dim light as she moves.

  "Thank fuck," she breathes when she sees me. "They followed Megan."

  "Who followed Megan?" Amber asks, finally catching up.

  Jessica's eyes widen when she registers Amber's presence. "What is SHE doing here?"

  "She's with me," I say firmly. "What happened?"

  Jessica runs a hand through her hair, messing it up further. "Chad and Brandon saw Megan leaving. They got suspicious and followed her back here. Now they're—"

  A crash from inside the closet interrupts her, followed by male voices.

  "Open this fucking door!" Chad's voice booms, followed by another bang. "I know someone's in there!"

  "Is it locked?" I whisper urgently.

  "I locked it from the outside as soon as I saw them coming," Jessica confirms, pulling the small key from her cleavage. "But they're going to break it down if they keep that up."

  "Is that... Chad?" Amber asks, her face scrunching in confusion. "What's going on?"

  Before I can answer, Brandon's voice filters through the door.

  "Yo, are you in there, you fucking weirdo? Why are you hiding in a closet at prom? Watching the girls or something?"

  Another bang against the door.

  "Who's in there?" Amber demands, her voice rising. "Bir, what is going on?"

  "Shhh!" I cmp my hand over her mouth. "Keep your voice down!"

  I can hear Chad's ughter—that cruel, jock-pack sound that used to make my stomach flutter.

  "Come on, Tanaka, we know you're in there!" Chad calls through the door. "What are you doing, jerking off to pictures of the cheer squad? Got your little anime figurines in there too?"

  I feel sick.

  "I have to go in," I decide, reaching for the key in Jessica's hand.

  "Are you crazy?" Jessica hisses, pulling it back. "You'll expose everything!"

  "Bir," Amber grabs my arm, her eyes wide with confusion and growing anger. "Tell me what's happening RIGHT NOW."

  I look at my best friend—her perfect pink dress now slightly rumpled from our sprint, her makeup smudged from tears, her face a mixture of hurt and demand.

  "That's Oliver in there," I tell her quietly. "And I need to get Chad and his goons away from him before they do something stupid."

  "Oliver? Oliver TANAKA?" Amber's voice rises again before she catches herself. "What is he doing in a janitor's closet at prom?"

  Jessica snorts. "More like who is he doing."

  "Jessica, not helping," I snap.

  Another bang on the door, followed by Tyler's voice. "Guys, come on. Let's just go back to the dance. This is weird."

  "No way," Chad argues. "I want to know why Megan was coming out of here all flushed and weird. And why other cheerleaders keep disappearing down this hallway."

  "Yeah," Brandon adds. "Something fucked up is going on, and I bet this creep knows what it is."

  Amber's eyes dart between Jessica and me, the pieces visibly trying to connect in her brain.

  "Later," I promise, squeezing her hand. "First, I need to get those guys away from that door."

  I smooth down my dress, adjust my cleavage for maximum impact, and run my fingers through my hair to create that perfect tousled look. Game face on.

  "You two stay here," I instruct. "I'll handle this."

  Before either can protest, I stride down the hallway toward the commotion, my heels clicking authoritatively.

  "Hey boys," I call out, my voice honey-sweet with just enough authority to make them all turn. "Looking for something?"

  Chad, Brandon, and Tyler freeze. Chad has his shoulder pressed against the door, clearly preparing to ram it. Brandon's got his phone out, fshlight activated, while Tyler hovers behind them, looking uncomfortable.

  "Bir?" Chad straightens immediately, trying to look casual and failing miserably. "What are you doing back here?"

  "I could ask you the same thing," I say, sauntering closer, making sure my dress catches the light in all the right pces. "Seems like a weird pce for the football team to hang out during prom."

  "We saw Megan come out of this closet," Brandon expins, looking less embarrassed than Chad. "She was acting weird. And we know other cheerleaders keep disappearing to the East Wing."

  "And you thought, what?" I arch an eyebrow. "That you'd py detective? I'm sorry to break it to you, Nancy Drew, but there's no crime."

  Chad puffs up his chest. "We heard someone in there. It's that weird anime guy, Tanaka." He raises his voice, addressing the door again. "We know you're in there, Hentai Boy! What were you doing, hiding in the closet to peek at cheerleaders?"

  Brandon snickers. "Probably recording for his spank bank."

  "Yeah, Tanaka!" Chad pounds on the door again. "Bet you loved that anime dance, huh? Got your little tentacle porn fantasy going?"

  Tyler shifts uncomfortably. "Guys, seriously..."

  I step between Chad and the door, pcing a perfectly manicured hand on his chest. "Oh honey," I coo, my tone dripping with condescension wrapped in sugar. "Is that what you think is happening?"

  "Then what is?" Chad challenges, though I can already see him responding to my touch, his anger momentarily derailed by proximity to my epic tits.

  I ugh, the sound musical and deliberate. "We're pnning the after-party surprise, you dummies. It was supposed to be a secret."

  "After-party?" Brandon repeats.

  "Mmmhmm," I nod, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. "Why do you think the cheerleaders have been disappearing? We're taking turns organizing the details."

  "But we heard someone in there," Chad insists, though with less conviction. "And Megan looked all... weird when she came out."

  "Megan always looks weird," I roll my eyes. "And yes, Oliver's helping us with the technical aspects. He's good with... equipment."

  I deliberately let my gaze drop to Chad's belt buckle on the word "equipment" before looking back up through my shes. Couldn't help myself.

  "You know how it is... some guys are just good with their hands. All those hours pying video games."

  Jessica materializes beside me, right on cue. "There you are! We need help with the—" She stops, feigning surprise at seeing the boys. "Oh... hey."

  "They caught us," I sigh dramatically. "They know about the after-party."

  Jessica doesn't miss a beat. "The one at Vanessa's ke house?"

  "Mmmhmm," I nod meaningfully.

  "Oh..." Jessica's face shifts into a perfect pout. "Now it won't be a surprise."

  Brandon immediately backpedals. "Hey, we won't tell anyone!"

  "Yeah," Tyler adds eagerly. "We can keep a secret."

  Chad is still focused on the door. "So Tanaka is in there doing... what exactly?"

  "Setting up the pylist and light sequence," I improvise smoothly. "Since everyone knows he's a total tech nerd. We're connecting it remotely to Vanessa's pce."

  "Through the janitor's closet?" Chad looks dubious.

  "It's... where the school's main router access is," I reply. "Right next to the cleaning supplies. Super convenient for hacking in."

  "Hacking?" Tyler's eyes widen.

  "Obviously, we have permission," Jessica jumps in. "Ms. Abernathy signed off on the whole thing."

  I slide an arm through Chad's, pressing my body against his side. "Now, weren't you going to get me a drink before King and Queen announcements? I'm absolutely parched after that performance."

  The physical contact does exactly what I knew it would—short-circuits whatever suspicion circuits were actually functioning in Chad's football-addled brain.

  "Yeah, sure," he says, visibly forgetting all about the door and Oliver.

  Krista appears at the end of the hallway, as if summoned by telepathy (or more likely, our group chat).

  "There you all are!" she calls, her fox-ears headband bobbing as she bounces toward us. "The DJ's about to py your request, Chad! You know, that song you said reminds you of winning state st year?"

  Chad's eyes light up. "Oh shit, really? I gotta get back!"

  "Nothing more important to Chad Thompson than hearing his own song," I tease, patting his arm. "Go on, we'll catch up."

  "You sure?" he asks, already edging toward the main gym.

  "Positive," I smile. "Just keep the after-party a secret, okay? We want most people to be surprised."

  "Totally," Brandon nods eagerly. "Our lips are sealed."

  As they turn to leave, I call after them: "Oh, and boys? Next time you want to know what the cheer squad is up to, just ask. No need to go all stalker mode. It's not attractive."

  They ugh, properly chastised but still pumped about being "in the know" regarding the fictional after-party.

  I watch them disappear around the corner, Tyler casting one st curious gnce back at us before they're gone.

  The moment they're out of sight, I exhale dramatically. "Jesus fucking Christ."

  Jessica already has the key out. "That was close."

  Amber, who's been watching this entire exchange with increasing bewilderment, steps forward. "Okay, what the hell is actually going on? Because even I can tell there's no after-party at Vanessa's ke house. Her family sold it st summer."

  Jessica and I exchange a look.

  "You wanted the truth," I say, taking Amber's hand.

  Jessica pushes the door open, and immediately a wave of scent hits us—rich and biological, a smell that I've come to associate with comfort but that makes Amber physically recoil.

  "What is that STINK?" she whispers, hand flying to cover her nose.

  "That," I say, gently pulling her inside, "is the smell of cum."

  The utility shelves once filled with cleaning supplies now hold packs of water bottles, stacks of towels, baby wipes, and an array of lotions. Christmas lights have been strung along the ceiling, casting everything in a soft multicolored glow. The floor is covered with overpping yoga mats topped with a queen-sized futon that takes up most of the avaible floor space.

  And on that futon, looking both startled and irritated by our entrance, sits Oliver.

  He's completely naked, his chubby body gleaming with a sheen of sweat under the fairy lights. Beads of moisture dot his forehead and his multiple chins. One hand holds an open can of Mountain Dew, the other rests on his soft stomach. His thighs are spread wide, and between them—lying heavily against one thigh like some resting predator—is his obscene cock.

  Even soft, it's a monstrosity—thick and veiny, with the head partially visible beneath the foreskin. A glob of something pearly white clings to the tip, evidence of a recent deposit.

  I hear Amber's sharp intake of breath.

  "What the fuck?" she whispers, frozen in pce.

  The wall behind Oliver catches Amber's eye—a rge whiteboard has been mounted where cleaning schedules once hung. Now it dispys a neat table with all the cheerleaders' names down one side, time slots across the top, and a system of color-coded check marks, stars, and other symbols. A legend at the bottom expins it all:

  ? = Serviced ★ = Creampied ? = Confirmed Pregnant ? = Currently Ovuting

  Several names already have check marks next to them from tonight. Megan has both a check and a star.

  "Oh my god," Amber says, her eyes darting between the board, Oliver, and me. "What IS this pce?"

  "We call it the Service Station," Jessica says, closing and locking the door behind us.

  "Bir," Amber's voice shakes, "please tell me this isn't what it looks like."

  Before I can answer, there's a soft knock at the door. Jessica checks her phone.

  "It's Tiffany," she says. "Her appointment's not for twenty minutes but..."

  "Let her in," I decide. "Amber needs to see how this works."

  Jessica opens the door just enough for Tiffany to slip inside. The cheerleader has fixed her space buns from the performance, but her baby blue dress is wrinkled around the hem where she's been clutching it nervously.

  "I'm early, I know," she says breathlessly, her cheeks already flushed. "But I couldn't wait anymore. The performance got me so—" She stops when she notices Amber. "Oh! Um, hi Amber?"

  Amber looks like she's been struck. "Tiffany? What is going on here? This—this pce is disgusting!"

  Objectively, it is.

  Now that my eyes have adjusted to the dimness, I can see how revolting it must look to someone not acclimated to our activities. The fairy lights illuminate suspicious stains across the futon cover—crusty yellowish patches in various stages of drying. The air is thick with the reek of stale cum and sweat, so potent you can practically see it hanging in the air like a miasma. In one corner, a small trash can overflows with used tissues, wipes, and a discarded pair of panties.

  Oliver's naked body is even more grotesque in this lighting—his belly folding into distinct rolls as he sits, dark patches of sweat staining the futon beneath his ass and thighs. His skin has a cmmy gleam to it, and tufts of wiry hair sprout randomly across his chest and shoulders like someone pnted them haphazardly.

  "Heyyy, Oliver-sama," Tiffany coos, dropping her little star-shaped purse on a nearby shelf. "I know I'm early, but I just couldn't stop thinking about you after that dance." She giggles, a high-pitched sound like tinkling gss. "My panties got so wet I had to take them off!"

  To prove her point, she reaches under her dress and pulls out a wadded ball of blue fabric, tossing it casually toward the already overflowing trash.

  Amber's face has gone chalk-white. "Tiffany? What the fuck?"

  But Tiffany barely acknowledges her, already moving toward Oliver with the focused intensity of an addict approaching their fix. "I've been practicing that technique Bir showed me," she tells him, her voice dropping to what she clearly thinks is a sexy whisper. "You know, with the tongue flicking?"

  "Jesus Christ," Amber whispers, grabbing my arm. "Bir, we need to stop this. She's—this is—"

  "Consensual," I finish for her. "Everyone here is eighteen, Amber. Everyone knows exactly what they're doing."

  "But it's... I can't believe it's OLIVER TANAKA!" she hisses, as if he can't hear her despite being ten feet away. "Look at him!"

  Oliver belches softly after taking another swig of Mountain Dew, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He still hasn't acknowledged our presence, his eyes fixed on Tiffany's approaching form with zy focus.

  "Yes, Amber. Look at him," I murmur.

  And there it is—that momentary widening of Amber's eyes, the subtle hitch in her breath as her gaze nds on Oliver's cock. Even fccid, the thing just commands attention. The shaft is mottled with veins thick as earthworms, the head partially visible beneath the foreskin, its piss-slit winking open to expel a fresh pearl of precum that bubbles up before stretching into a glistening strand that connects to his thigh.

  Tiffany lets out a little moan at the sight, hands already lifting the hem of her baby blue dress as she approaches. "You just finished with Megan and you're already making more yummy cummies for me!"

  "Oh my god," Amber whispers. "This can't be happening."

  But it absolutely is.

  Tiffany reaches Oliver's knees, dropping into a crouching position that makes her baby blue dress puff around her like a fairy tale character. But the look on her face is pure pornography—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, tip of her tongue visible as she pants.

  "I've been thinking about your fat yummy cock all day, Oliver-sama," she purrs, her voice an octave lower than her normal chirpy tone. "My poor little pussy has gotten sooo sloppy!"

  To demonstrate, she lifts her dress higher, revealing that she is indeed pantyless, her smooth pussy lips visibly slick with arousal, a glistening thread of girl-juice stretching between her thighs when she spreads her knees.

  Oliver's cock twitches again as it continues to swell.

  Amber takes a step back, bumping into me. "Bir, this is insane. We need to get out of here. We need to help Tiffany. She's clearly been... been..."

  "Given more orgasms in the past month than most women have in their lifetimes," Jessica finishes, sliding onto a pstic chair in the corner. "Trust me, no one's keeping Tiffany here against her will."

  Tiffany lets out a girlish giggle and crawls onto the futon, positioning herself between Oliver's spread thighs. Her small hands look even tinier as they wrap around the base of his rapidly hardening cock.

  "Look how thirsty he is," she coos, rubbing her cheek against the shaft. The contrast is jarring—her perfect cheerleader face with its anime-doll features pressing against the veiny monstrosity that's now fully erect. "So THIRSTY for my tight little hole."

  Oliver says nothing, but his hand—those fat sausage fingers with bitten nails and visibly dirty cuticles—reaches out to grab Tiffany's left breast through her dress. Not a gentle caress or a tentative cop, but a full GRASP, his entire hand engulfing the small mound and SQUEEZING until the flesh bulges between his fingers like pizza dough.

  "Nnnghhh!" Tiffany moans, arching into his grip. "Yes! Pull on my titty, Oliver-sama!"

  He uses her tit-meat as a handle to yank her toward him.

  Tiffany gasps, scrambling to keep her bance as he drags her face to his. Their mouths collide in what can only be described as a feeding rather than a kiss—his lips mashing against hers, tongue immediately pushing into her mouth while saliva pools at the corners and dribbles down their chins.

  "Mmmmphhhghhh!" Tiffany moans into his mouth, her small body practically vibrating with need.

  The sound of their kiss is revolting—wet SCHLURPS and SMOOSHES as they devour each other, punctuated by the obscene GLURKS of her gagging slightly when his tongue pushes too deep.

  Amber's hand flies to her mouth. "I'm going to be sick."

  "Bet you never thought little Tiffany enjoyed being manhandled, did you?" I ask quietly.

  Tiffany breaks the kiss, a thick rope of shared saliva connecting their mouths for a moment before she wipes it away with the back of her hand. "I want you to BREED me, Oliver-sama," she pants, her voice raw with need. "I want your fat cock to split me open and pump me full of babies! I want you to fucking knock me up and wreck my life, make me a fat-bellied breeder!"

  "Take off the dress."

  Tiffany squeals with delight, scrambling to obey. She practically tears at the delicate blue fabric in her rush to remove it, sending one of her carefully pced star-shaped hairpins flying across the room.

  Within seconds, she's naked except for her thigh-high stockings and blue heels, her body just as perfect as you'd expect from a cheerleader—tight, toned, barely a hint of body fat except for the perky swells of her tits and the rounded curve of her ass.

  "Jesus, Tiffany!" Amber takes a step forward. "What are you doing? You're valedictorian! You're going to UCLA!"

  Tiffany barely spares Amber a gnce. "Fuck UCLA. I got a better offer." She runs her hands down her naked torso, bringing them to rest over her ft stomach. "Right here."

  "A baby?! You're barely eighteen!"

  Tiffany ughs, the sound so normal and Tiffany-like that it's jarring in this setting. "God, Amber, will you rex? Oliver's cock is worth it."

  To prove her point, she wraps her small hand as far around the shaft as it will go—which isn't far—and gives it a firm stroke from base to tip. A fresh bead of precum bubbles up, thicker and cloudier than before.

  "See how much cummy he's making just for me?" she coos, using her thumb to spread the fluid around the swollen purple head. "He's gonna fill me up so good!"

  Oliver, his expression a mixture of awkward discomfort and raw lust, grabs Tiffany's shoulders and flips her onto her back on the futon. The movement is surprisingly forceful coming from someone who looks like they'd get winded walking up a flight of stairs.

  "Eeeek!" Tiffany squeals in pure delight.

  Oliver looms over her, his body casting her in shadow. The contrast is bizarre—this pale, doughy, sweating mass hovering over a tight, tanned cheerleader body. His belly hangs down, brushing against her ft stomach. Sweat drips from his chest, nding on her perky tits.

  "Unngh," he grunts, positioning himself between her eagerly spread thighs.

  His monstrous cock looks even more obscene now—a thick battering ram poised at the entrance to her vulnerable little snatch. The size difference is absurd—the head alone wider than four of Tiffany's delicate fingers pressed together.

  "Oh my god," Amber whispers, her eyes locked on the junction where Tiffany's smooth little pussy lips are already stretching. She doesn't look away.

  I feel a familiar heaviness in my lower belly, a pulse between my legs that makes me shift my weight. Beside me, Jessica unconsciously licks her lips, her eyes gzed.

  Oliver nudges forward, the massive purple head pressing against her opening. For a moment, it seems physically impossible—like trying to fit a baseball through a keyhole. Tiffany's tiny hole stretches around the intrusion, the delicate pink tissues turning white at the edges from the strain.

  "Nnnnghaaaaaa!" she keens, her back arching off the futon. "It's so BIG! Too fucking HUGE!"

  Her slender fingers dig into the sheets on either side of her head, knuckles white with tension. Her toes curl so hard her blue heels fall off, cttering to the floor beside the futon.

  POP!

  The sound is audible—the moment when the fat cockhead finally breaches her fully, her stretched lips snapping around the ridge with a wet suction noise. Tiffany's eyes instantly roll back, mouth falling open in a perfect ahegao face straight out of hentai.

  "FFFUUUUUUCK!" she wails, her entire body vibrating like she's being electrocuted. "I'M CUMMING ALREADY! JUST FROM THE HEAD!"

  And she is—I can see it happening, her stomach muscles contracting visibly under her skin, thighs trembling, a fresh gush of fluid squirting around Oliver's cock to soak into the already-stained futon.

  "Holy shit," Amber breathes, unconsciously pressing her thighs together. "That's not... that can't be normal."

  "It's not," I agree softly. "That's why we're all here."

  Oliver pushes forward again, working another inch into Tiffany's straining channel. His face is a study in concentration—brows furrowed, lips pressed together, sweat beading on his forehead and dripping onto Tiffany's heaving chest. Every few seconds, his eyes dart to her face, checking her reaction before continuing.

  He adjusts his grip on her hips. "I need... more."

  The contrast is stark and hypnotic—Tiffany's tiny, tanned body with its perfect gymnast proportions having her insides reshaped by this pale, hairy monstrosity of a man. Her ft stomach visibly distends as he pushes deeper, the outline of his cockhead creating a bulge that travels upward toward her navel.

  Another inch disappears inside her. Tiffany's eyes snap open, pupils blown so wide her irises are just thin rings of blue.

  Oliver groans, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, forcing another inch into her with less care than before.

  "GYAAAAH!" Tiffany screams, her voice cracking.

  Her legs wrap around his waist, ankles crossing just above the shelf of his ass. The position leaves her completely open and vulnerable, allowing Oliver to sink even deeper.

  "This isn't happening," Amber whispers. Her eyes are locked on that obscene bulge, watching as it travels slightly higher with each incremental advance.

  I feel my mouth actually watering, my own pussy clenching with sense memory. I know exactly what Tiffany is feeling—that impossible fullness, the pressure on organs that should be untouchable, the sense that you're being fucked down to the CELLULAR level.

  Tiffany's head thrashes from side to side, her space buns completely undone now, blonde hair spread across the futon like a halo. "More! More! Give me all of it! PLEASE!"

  SQUELCH! SCHLORP! SQUILCH!

  Her pussy makes these desperate sucking noises with each advance, like it's trying to pull him deeper even as it struggles to accommodate what's already there.

  "Fuck, I need it," I hear myself whisper, too quiet for Amber to hear.

  Jessica nods, her hand unconsciously rubbing her lower belly. "He just gets better every day."

  Oliver's hips finally meet Tiffany's, his soft belly pressing against her ft one, his thighs flush against the backs of hers. He's fully sheathed, every monstrous inch buried inside her slender body.

  For a moment, they both freeze—Oliver trembling with the effort to remain still, Tiffany's mouth open in a perfect O of shock and pleasure. Their bodies are completely joined, her legs locked around him, his hands now braced on either side of her head, caging her beneath his bulk.

  Under the twinkling fairy lights, they look like some bizarre art instaltion—"Beauty and the Beast: The Biological Imperative."

  Then Oliver begins to move.

  He withdraws slowly, the shaft reappearing inch by glistening inch, now coated with Tiffany's juices. The head catches at her entrance, stretching it outward slightly before he thrusts back in with more force than before.

  SLAP!

  The sound of his hips connecting with her ass rings out in the small space, followed immediately by Tiffany's high-pitched squeal.

  "HARDER!"

  Oliver's entire demeanor changes. Gone is the awkward, shy otaku, repced by something primal and focused. His hips pull back and sm forward again, the impact jiggling both his gut and Tiffany's small tits.

  SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!

  The rhythm builds quickly, each thrust forcing little "Ah! Ah! Ah!" sounds from Tiffany's throat. Her hands scrabble around, finally tching onto his forearms, nails digging into the pale flesh.

  "She's going to get hurt," Amber says, suddenly stepping forward. "He's too big, he's going to—"

  "Puh-leaze!" Jessica giggles. "AS IF she's not having the time of her FUCKING LIFE?"

  Tiffany's entire body spasms, back arching again as another orgasm rips through her. "CUMMING!" she wails, legs tightening around Oliver's waist. "CUMMING ON YOUR FAT FUCKING COCK!"

  Amber stares, transfixed. "That's... that's not..."

  "Not what you were taught about female orgasms?" I ask quietly. "Welcome to the revolution."

  Oliver maintains his brutal pace, sweat now pouring off him in rivulets that trace the contours of his soft body. His movements ck the smooth coordination of someone athletic. Sometimes he pushes too far to one side, or loses his rhythm, or forgets to support his weight properly.

  But what he cks in technique, he makes up for in raw, animal enthusiasm.

  SLAP-SCHLOPP-SLAP-SQUELCH-SLAP!

  "You're all insane," Amber says, her voice tight. "This is... this is SICK. You're letting this... this THING use you like... like..."

  "Like the best fuck I've ever had?" Jessica supplies, tilting her head. "Because trust me, there's a reason we're all lined up for this."

  "But it's OLIVER TANAKA!" Amber says. "He's gross! He's weird! He has no social skills! He—"

  "Has a cock that makes my cerebellum leak out my ears when I cum," I cut in. "Has made me squirt so hard I've passed out. Has made me orgasm just by nutting in my face."

  Tiffany's face is a mess—mascara streaming down her cheeks, lipstick smeared across her chin from their earlier kiss, drool pooling at the corners of her mouth. Her perfect cheerleader appearance has been utterly demolished, repced by the raw, animal ecstasy of a female being thoroughly bred.

  "AH! AH! AH! FUCK!" she cries out, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. "GONNA—CUM—AGAIN—AAAAHHHH!"

  "Bir, listen to yourself!" Amber grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look away from the scene on the futon. "This is INSANE! You're talking about giving up Cornell—your DREAM—to... to become a fuck toy for OLIVER TANAKA?"

  I meet her eyes, seeing the genuine fear and concern there. "Not just a fuck toy," I say quietly. "A breeder."

  Amber's face drains of color. "What?"

  "I'm pregnant, Amber," I tell her softly.

  "No," she whispers, shaking her head. "No, no, no. You can't be. You wouldn't. You're too smart for this!"

  SPLAP-SPLAP-SPLAP-SPLAP!

  Tiffany is moaning continuously now, the sound rising and falling in pitch like some pornographic opera.

  "They've all lost their minds," Amber mutters, releasing my shoulders to pace in the small open area. "There has to be something in the water. Or drugs. Or... or hypnosis or something!"

  "Nothing so dramatic," Jessica says, leaning against the wall. "Just the most life-altering orgasms you can imagine. The kind that make you rethink your entire existence."

  "This is a CULT!" Amber shouts, her composure finally cracking. "You've all lost your fucking minds! You're TEENAGERS! You can't just... just BREED like animals!"

  Oliver's rhythm falters at her outburst, his head turning slightly our way. Tiffany whines in protest, her hips bucking up to maintain contact.

  "It's not a cult," I try to expin. "It's a mutual arrangement that benefits all of us."

  "BENEFITS?" Amber's voice cracks. "How does getting knocked up by the school WEIRDO at eighteen 'benefit' anyone? You're RUINING your lives!"

  "I thought you'd understand," I say, hurt creeping into my voice. "I thought you of all people would see that we've found something special."

  "Special? SPECIAL?" Amber gestures wildly toward the futon, where Oliver is now jackhammering into Tiffany with renewed vigor, her little legs filing in the air with each impact. "This is DISGUSTING! You're letting that sweaty, unwashed FREAK ejacute inside you! ON PURPOSE!"

  SLAP-SLAP-SLAP-SQUELCH-SLAP!

  "He's not a freak," Jessica snaps, suddenly defensive. "He's just different."

  "Bir, please. This isn't you. This can't be what you want for your life!" Amber's face is red now, her eyes bright with angry tears.

  On the futon, Oliver's movements grow more erratic, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. Tiffany seems to sense the change, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders.

  "Yes! Yes! Do it!" she cries. "Cum inside me! Knock me up! MAKE ME A MOMMY!"

  "Oh god, he's actually going to..." Amber covers her mouth, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and unwilling fascination.

  Oliver's entire body tenses, his back arching slightly as he drives forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt inside Tiffany.

  "CUMMING!" he growls, the word torn from somewhere deep inside him.

  SPLOOORT! BLURRT! SPLORCH!

  The sounds are audible—wet, thick pulses as his cum erupts inside her. Tiffany's eyes roll back so far only the whites are visible, her mouth falling open in a silent scream that quickly becomes very much NOT silent.

  "AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!" she wails, her entire body convulsing beneath him.

  I can see Oliver's cock pulsing, each throb visible even through Tiffany's stretched tissues. Her lower belly visibly flexes with each pulse.

  "That's fucking DISGUSTING," Amber chokes out, but her eyes are locked on the scene, pupils dited.

  "I was like you once," I tell her quietly. "Grossed out. Confused. But once you feel it..." My hand drifts unconsciously to my own lower belly, where Oliver's spawn is already growing. "Once you experience it..."

  Tiffany has gone completely limp beneath Oliver, her eyes unfocused, a blissful smile spread across her face despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks. Oliver remains buried inside her, supporting his weight on trembling arms as the st of his deposit pumps into her.

  "I can't," Amber whispers, finally tearing her eyes away. "I can't watch this anymore."

  "You don't have to watch," Jessica says, a strange gentleness in her voice. "You could experience it yourself."

  Amber's head whips toward her. "Are you fucking KIDDING ME? You want me to... to join this SICK breeding program? You want me to let HIM—" she gestures violently toward Oliver, who's now carefully extracting himself from Tiffany, his softening cock making a wet SCHLORP as it exits her body "—raw dog me like I'm some kind of ANIMAL?"

  "Yes."

  SPLURT! GLORRRP! SPLOOSH!

  Tiffany's well-used hole gapes open, a flood of white cum immediately gushing out to form a puddle on the futon. She moans weakly, one hand drifting down to press against her belly.

  "So full," she mumbles, looking drunk with pleasure. "So much baby juice inside me."

  "Filled her up good," Jessica comments with casual approval. "That should take."

  Amber backs away, shaking her head. "I don't know who you are anymore," she says, her voice breaking. "You're all sick. You need help. Professional help."

  Oliver has retreated to the far corner of the futon, gulping from his Mountain Dew as if nothing unusual just happened. His cock lies against his thigh again, still impressively rge even soft, glistening with a mixture of cum and Tiffany's juices.

  Tiffany stretches nguidly, completely unconcerned with her nakedness or the cum still leaking from her. "That was AMAZING, Oliver-sama," she sighs. "I can practically feel your little swimmers finding my eggs!"

  "Oh my god," Amber chokes, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "I can't... I can't be here anymore."

  "Amber, wait—" I reach for her, but she flinches away from my touch.

  "Don't." Her voice is ice cold now. "You're all sick!"

  She turns and fumbles with the door, struggling with the lock in her haste to escape.

  "Amber, please—" The words die in my throat as she finally yanks the door open and rushes out into the hallway, leaving it swinging behind her.

  Jessica sighs, pushing off the wall to close it. "Well, that could have gone better."

  On the futon, Tiffany sits up, cum squelching audibly beneath her as she shifts. Her inner thighs glisten with it, more pearly fluid bubbling up from her well-used hole with each movement.

  "Is it someone else's turn?" she asks, dazed but already reaching for something under the futon.

  She pulls out what looks like heavy-duty bike shorts made of some shiny rubber material. They have a distinct bulge in the front, designed to cup around the pussy and seal it tight.

  Tiffany slides them up her legs, wiggling her ass to get them positioned correctly. When they're in pce, she presses the front panel firmly against her mound, creating a vacuum seal with a soft SQUELCH sound.

  "Perfect," she sighs, patting her lower belly. "Not a drop wasted."

  She stands on slightly wobbly legs, retrieving her dress from the floor. Her movements are nguid, dreamlike, as she slowly redresses herself, smoothing the wrinkles from the blue fabric with casual unconcern.

  "Thanks for the cummies, Oliver-sama," she says, dropping a quick kiss on his sweaty forehead. "My slutty little eggs are so happy right now!"

  Oliver nods, still not saying much, but there's a small, satisfied smile on his face as he watches her dress.

  Tiffany checks her reflection in the small mirror we've hung by the door, attempting to fix her space buns. "Does everyone know it's my turn for cleanup duty tomorrow morning?" she asks, giving up on her hair and settling for a messy ponytail instead.

  "It's on the schedule," Jessica confirms. "Bring extra Lysol wipes. Chelsea went through almost a whole box yesterday."

  Tiffany giggles, a sound so normal and cheerleader-like it's jarring in this cum-soaked closet. "I'll bring two boxes. Especially after the grand finale tonight!"

  ---

  The main gym is a swirl of activity when I return. The DJ has switched to slower songs, couples swaying together on the dance floor beneath the twinkling lights. The punch table is crowded with students refilling gsses and gossiping in tight knots.

  My eyes scan the room for Amber, but there's no sign of her.

  Chelsea materializes at my elbow, her red qipao slightly rumpled now, one of her gold hair sticks missing. "Crisis averted with Coach Wilson," she murmurs, handing me a cup of punch. "Told him we're doing a special slideshow for the seniors during the coronation."

  "Good," I nod, sipping the non-alcoholic punch.

  "Megan says the AV setup is ready," Chelsea continues, her eyes darting around the room. "Jessica texted that His Majesty is getting dressed?"

  "Yes. He'll be here soon." I scan the dance floor again, noting the positions of our girls—Krista by the DJ booth, Vanessa near the stage, Tiffany already back and chatting with some junior boys who have no idea what she was doing ten minutes ago.

  "Have you seen Amber?" I ask, unable to help myself.

  Chelsea's expression softens slightly. "Bathroom, I think. Looked upset."

  I wince. I should go find her, try to expin again. But I have responsibilities.

  "There you are."

  I turn to find Tyler approaching, his earlier puppy-dog enthusiasm repced by confusion and mild irritation. His tie is slightly loosened, his hair mussed from dancing or running his hands through it.

  "Hey," I smile.

  "Where have you been?" he asks, keeping his voice low. "I've been looking everywhere for you. I thought we were going to dance?"

  Chelsea melts away, leaving us to our conversation.

  "I got caught up with... cheer stuff," I say, the lie automatic by now.

  "Cheer stuff." Tyler's eyes narrow slightly. "Right. You've been disappearing all night for 'cheer stuff.'"

  "Sorry." Tyler's a good guy. None of this is his fault.

  "What's going on, Bir?" He steps closer, his cologne—too much, but decent quality—washing over me. "I thought tonight was... I mean, I was hoping..."

  "Tyler, you're a great guy," I tell him gently. "But I've made other commitments."

  His face falls, the hope in his eyes dimming. "What does that mean?"

  "It means I'm not avaible. Not for dating, not for hooking up, not for anything."

  "Is this because of Chad? Because I would never—"

  "It has nothing to do with Chad," I interrupt. "Or you. I've just... found something else."

  Tyler's brow furrows. "Something else? What, like a monastery? You taking holy orders or something?"

  I ugh despite myself. "Not exactly."

  "Then what?" He gestures frustratedly. "Because I've been waiting YEARS to ask you out, Bir. Three years! And now that we're finally here together, you're being all mysterious and disappearing every twenty minutes."

  What am I supposed to tell him?

  Sorry, Tyler, but your perfectly adequate quarterback dick can't compare to the monster cock that's transformed my life?

  Sorry, but I'm already carrying another guy's baby, and I just helped our valedictorian get impregnated too?

  Sorry, but I've discovered that my true calling in life is to serve as harem queen to the school's resident otaku?

  Instead, I step closer, keeping my voice low and personal.

  "Do you want to know the truth, Tyler? The real, honest truth?"

  He nods eagerly, hope flickering in his eyes again.

  "I've outgrown all this," I say, gesturing around at the prom, the decorations, the dancing couples. "Football pyers, homecoming kings, prom dates. It's all... child's py."

  "We're literally eighteen," he points out. "We ARE children, basically."

  "Not anymore," I say, my hand drifting unconsciously to my lower belly. "Some of us have moved on to more... adult arrangements."

  Tyler's confusion is written all over his face. "What does that even mean?"

  "It means," I continue, "that I've discovered what I really need, and it's not a high school boyfriend with a varsity jacket and a trust fund."

  "Bir, you're not making any sense."

  "You py football," I say, closing the distance between us even further. "You're strong, athletic. Girls want you. Colleges recruit you. Your father cps you on the back and tells his friends about your touchdown passes."

  Tyler shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, so?"

  "But at the end of the day, what does it get you? A schorship that might disappear with one bad injury? Four more years of being a big fish in a slightly bigger pond? Then what? An office job, a mortgage, two-point-five kids?"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing," I smile. "Nothing at all. But I've discovered something... wilder."

  "What, like... drugs?"

  I ugh again, the sound bitter even to my own ears. "No, Tyler. Not drugs. Life. Real life. The kind that cracks you open and rebuilds you from the inside out."

  The opening notes of "Announcement in Five" py over the speakers—our prearranged signal that the coronation is about to begin.

  "I need to go," I say, already backing away. "Good luck with everything, Tyler. I mean that."

  "Bir, wait—"

  But I'm already gone, disappearing into the crowd, making my way toward the stage where Principal Howard is setting up the microphone.

  Jessica finds me near the steps, her copper hair slightly frizzed at the edges, lipstick freshly applied but slightly crooked.

  "How'd it go with football boy?" she asks, smoothing down the front of her emerald dress.

  "I was kind of a bitch," I admit.

  She grins. "Good. Gotta break those ties clean." Her eyes scan the crowd. "His Majesty just arrived. Side entrance."

  I follow her gaze and there he is—Oliver, standing awkwardly by the gym doors, looking both uncomfortable and strangely regal in his new attire.

  The purple suit—carefully selected and tailored by Megan's mother who works at Nordstrom—fits his rge frame surprisingly well. The subtle gold pinstriping catches the light when he moves, and the deeper purple waistcoat adds a richness that elevates the entire look. His hair has been styled—actually styled, not just left to its own devices—and he's wearing new gsses, sleeker frames that better suit his face.

  He looks like... a person. A real person, not just the sad otaku we all ignored for years.

  "Showtime," Jessica murmurs as Principal Howard taps the microphone.

  "Good evening, students!" Principal Howard's voice echoes through the gym. "I hope you're all having a wonderful time at this year's prom!"

  Cheers and appuse break out, the crowd already buzzing with excitement.

  "It's now time for the moment you've all been waiting for—the announcement of your Prom King and Queen!"

  More cheers, feet stomping, the basketball team whooping from their corner.

  Ms. Abernathy joins Principal Howard on stage, holding two small boxes containing the crowns. She still looks flustered from our dance performance earlier, her face pinched with distrust as she surveys the crowd.

  "Before we announce the winners, I want to remind everyone that these titles are the result of a democratic vote by the senior css," Principal Howard says, her voice taking on that 'I'm warning you' tone teachers perfect. "And we will treat the results with the respect they deserve."

  I exchange a quick gnce with Jessica. The results had indeed been democratic—with a bit of extra encouragement, under the guise of a "joke".

  "First, your Prom Queen—" Principal Howard opens the envelope with theatrical slowness. "Jessica Porter!"

  The crowd erupts in appuse and cheers. Jessica feigns surprise, pressing a hand to her chest as she makes her way to the stage.

  I cp along with everyone else, unbothered. We'd agreed Jessica would take the official title—I had my own role to py ter.

  Jessica ascends the steps, accepting the small silver tiara from Ms. Abernathy with a gracious smile. She takes the microphone, delivering a perfectly scripted speech about how honored she is, how much she loves Westke High, how she'll cherish this memory forever.

  Standard prom queen fare, nothing to raise any suspicions.

  "And now," Principal Howard says, reciming the microphone, "your Prom King!" She opens the second envelope, her expression faltering as she reads the name. "Oh. Um. Oliver Tanaka!"

  The gym falls silent for a split second, then erupts—not in cheers, but in confusion and disbelief.

  "WHAT?" Chad's voice rings out from the back. "No fucking way!"

  Laughter ripples through the crowd, growing louder as Oliver begins his slow, awkward walk toward the stage. His movements are stiff, his eyes fixed on the floor, shoulders hunched slightly despite the well-fitted suit.

  "This has to be a mistake!" someone calls out—I think it's Brandon. "Check the votes again!"

  "Recount! Recount!" several football pyers begin to chant, joined quickly by their various hangers-on.

  Oliver continues his walk, seemingly deaf to the growing mockery around him. But I can see the tension in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hands.

  "The only crown that freak deserves is King of the Incels!" Chad shouts, his voice carrying over the general noise.

  More ughter, crueler this time. Oliver's head hunches lower, but he doesn't stop walking.

  "SILENCE!" Principal Howard's voice cuts through the chaos, amplified by the microphone. "This behavior is completely unacceptable!"

  But it's too te—the football team is fully committed to their bullying now, making exaggerated bowing motions and fake retching sounds as Oliver passes. Tyler stands slightly apart from them, not participating but not stopping them either.

  Principal Howard's face is red with anger. "Whether you agree with the vote or not, we will show respect to ALL our students! Anyone who continues this behavior will be escorted out immediately!"

  The mockery subsides slightly, but now it's just whispers and poorly suppressed snickers as Oliver finally reaches the stage steps.

  Jessica, still standing at the microphone, extends her hand to him with a gentle smile. "Congratutions, Oliver."

  The gesture—so unexpected from the school's new It Girl to the resident outcast—sends another wave of confused murmurs through the crowd.

  Oliver takes her hand, allowing her to guide him to the center of the stage. Ms. Abernathy approaches with the crown, her expression a mixture of professional politeness and personal discomfort as she pces it on his head. It's slightly too small, perching awkwardly on his thick hair.

  I catch his eye from my position near the front of the crowd and give him the subtlest nod. He returns it, almost imperceptibly, then turns to face the sea of hostile, confused faces before him.

  Principal Howard presents him with the microphone. "Would you like to say a few words, Oliver?"

  Oliver stares at the microphone like it might bite him. For a terrifying moment, I think he's going to freeze completely.

  Then he clears his throat. "Thank you."

  That's it. Just two words, delivered in a voice barely above a whisper. He hands the microphone back to Principal Howard and takes his pce beside Jessica on the throne-like chairs we arranged at the back of the stage.

  The students exchange gnces, clearly unsure how to react to such a brief speech. There's some scattered, reluctant appuse, quickly drowned out by renewed whispers.

  "Well," Principal Howard says, trying to regain control of the situation, "congratutions to our Prom King and Queen! And now, as is tradition, a special slideshow has been prepared to honor our royal couple!"

  On cue, the gym lights dim further, and the rge projection screen lowers from the ceiling. Krista gives me a thumbs up from the DJ booth—she's successfully blocked Ms. Abernathy from interfering with the AV equipment again.

  The first few images are innocent enough—standard photos from various school events throughout the year. The football team victory against Central. The winter formal. The spring carnival. All carefully selected to lull the faculty into a false sense of security.

  Then the screen goes bck, and a new slide appears:

  "THE MYSTERIES OF WESTLAKE HIGH: EXPLAINED"

  The murmurs grow louder, students craning their necks to see better.

  A video begins to py—shot on someone's phone in what's clearly Oliver's bedroom. The camera pans across his unmade bed, showing a collection of cheerleaders in uniform, lounging around like they own the pce. Megan is painting her nails on his desk. Chelsea is sprawled across his beanbag chair, scrolling through her phone. Tiffany is perched on the window sill, eating what appears to be homemade cookies.

  And in the center of it all, Oliver sits on the edge of his bed, controller in hand, pying some video game on his massive TV. He looks completely at ease, focused on his game, seemingly unbothered by the flock of hot girls invading his space.

  The camera zooms in on Chelsea, who looks up with a smirk.

  "Wonder where we were during the championship game, Coach Wilson?" she asks, her voice pyfully mocking.

  The camera pans to Megan, who's now moving to sit behind Oliver, her hands sliding onto his shoulders to massage them.

  "Sorry," she says with an exaggerated pout, "we had more important positions to fill."

  The other cheerleaders giggle, and then Tiffany bounces into frame, offering Oliver a cookie which he accepts without looking away from his game.

  "Oliver-sama takes such good care of us," she says, her voice sweet and sincere. "We just want to take care of him too!"

  The camera moves to capture Oliver's expression—still focused on his game, but with a small, satisfied smile pying at the corners of his mouth as the cheerleaders fuss over him, fixing his hair, bringing him drinks, one even fanning him with a magazine.

  It's not overtly sexual—there's no nudity, no explicit content—but there's something undeniably intimate about the scene. These girls, the most popur, desirable girls in school, doting on the resident outcast like he's their collective boyfriend.

  "What the FUCK?" Chad's voice carries through the stunned silence of the gym.

  Then, the next clip starts pying.

  It's the cheerleaders again, but this time in Oliver's living room. They're dressed in practice uniforms, but several are in the process of stripping them off, pulling sports bras over their heads and shimmying out of their spandex shorts.

  "Fuck these sweaty uniforms," Megan says, now down to just a bck thong and mesh bralette. "Coach worked us too hard today."

  "Not as hard as Oliver-sama's gonna work us," Chelsea purrs, unhooking her bra entirely, her perfect tits bouncing free as she tosses it aside. She's turned just enough away that the audience can't see her nipples.

  The camera pans to show Oliver on the couch, still pying video games, but now with Krista curled against his side in just her underwear, her hand casually trailing across his chest.

  The football pyers in the audience are on their feet now.

  "What the FUCK is this SHIT?" Brandon shouts, his face contorted with rage.

  On screen, Tiffany skips into frame wearing nothing but baby blue panties, her perky tits bouncing with each step. She plops herself directly into Oliver's p, blocking his view of the game.

  "Oliverrrr," she whines pyfully, wiggling her ass against him. "Pay attention to meeee."

  Oliver's hand—those same pudgy fingers that look so out of pce against the cheerleaders' perfect bodies—reaches up to casually grab Tiffany's right ass cheek, SQUEEZING it possessively without taking his eyes off the game.

  "Later," he mumbles, making the other girls giggle.

  The gym erupts into chaos.

  "BULLSHIT!" Chad roars, shoving his way toward the front. "This is all FUCKING FAKE!"

  On screen, Chelsea approaches Oliver from behind the couch, leaning over to wrap her arms around his neck, her bare tits pressing against his head. Again, no visible nipple.

  "Remember when the football team was begging us to come to their stupid championship game?" she asks, her lips close to his ear.

  "Bunch of losers," Megan snorts, now sprawled across an armchair in just her thong, legs spread carelessly. "Like we care about watching them py with their balls when we could be pying with something MUCH bigger."

  All the girls dissolve into giggles as Oliver continues gaming, a small smile pying at his lips, his hand still kneading Tiffany's ass like it's his personal stress ball.

  Principal Howard is frantically signaling to Coach Wilson and Mr. Peterson to shut down the projector. They rush toward the AV room door, only to find it locked from the inside.

  "OPEN THIS DOOR!" Coach Wilson bellows, pounding his fist against it.

  Inside, we can just make out Vanessa's giggle through the small window.

  The video on screen suddenly cuts to bck, and the crowd's shouting dies down, anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

  Then a new image appears—a point-of-view shot of someone sitting on a bed, the camera tilted slightly downward as if held in p or propped on a pillow.

  My heart stops.

  It's me.

  I'm standing in Oliver's dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by a desk mp and the blue glow of his computer monitors. Unlike the cheerleaders in their tiny uniforms and lingerie, I'm dressed in baggy gray sweatpants and an oversized Westke Athletics t-shirt—the kind of comfortable, completely unsexy outfit I would NEVER let anyone see me in.

  My hair is pulled into a messy bun, loose strands falling around my face. No makeup. No filters. No performance.

  Just Bir, raw and unguarded.

  The Bir on screen shifts her weight from one foot to the other, eyes locked on the camera with an expression I've never shown publicly.

  "I got your present," video-me says, voice low and intimate. "Want to see me in it?"

  The gym is deadly silent now, two hundred pairs of eyes fixed on the screen, collective breath held.

  Video-me takes a step closer, hips swaying gently. There's something almost predatory about the movement, a slow stalking approach like I'm hunting rather than being hunted.

  "It's beautiful," I continue, fingers pying with the hem of my shirt. "No one's ever given me anything like it before."

  I begin to lift the shirt, exposing a strip of tanned stomach inch by tantalizing inch. My belly button appears, then the subtle lines of my abs—not gym-rat defined, but softly athletic from years of cheerleading.

  The shirt rises higher, revealing the underside curves of my tits, then stopping just below the nipples—a tease, drawing out the moment.

  Then, in one fluid motion, I pull the shirt over my head and toss it aside.

  "Holy FUCK," someone whispers, the sound carrying in the silent gym.

  My tits are barely contained in what can only be described as golden imprisonment—a pentagram harness made of delicate chains that cross over my nipples, digging into the flesh just enough to create little valleys and peaks of breast-meat straining against the metallic restraint. The gold hardware gleams in the dim light, catching on the curves and slopes of my body.

  It's obscene, pornographic, NOTHING like the PG-13 Bir Williams everyone knows.

  The camera angle shifts slightly as on-screen Bir crawls onto the bed, moving toward the lens on all fours. The position forces my tits to hang down, swaying pendulously with each movement forward. The chains bisect my breasts, creating these perfect globes of flesh that DANGLE heavily, occasionally brushing against each other with a soft PLAP.

  From this angle, the sheer WEIGHT of them is unmistakable—not the perky cheerleader boobs enhanced by sports bras and push-up cups, but real, heavy female flesh with natural movement that no one at Westke has ever seen before.

  I pause halfway across the bed, arching my back which makes my ass rise higher and my tits hang lower. Then, deliberately, I SHIMMY my shoulders, creating a hypnotic side-to-side swing of my breasts. They FLOP against each other with audible soft spping sounds, the chains jingling slightly with each movement.

  "You like what you see?" video-me purrs, looking directly into the camera through my shes. "You want to see the rest of your present?"

  I rise to my knees, hands going to the waistband of my sweatpants. Slowly, teasingly, I begin to slide them down my hips, revealing the matching gold pentagram bottom half—high-waisted chains that form an inverted star over my mound before disappearing between my legs.

  The pants slide lower, exposing my smooth pussy lips, visibly SPLIT by the central chain that runs directly between them. The delicate gold disappears into the cleft, reappearing between my ass cheeks at the back. The chain is actually INDENTING my swollen bia, which glisten with obvious arousal in the dim light.

  "It's FAKE!" Chad's voice suddenly cuts through the stunned silence of the gym. "This is all fucking AI BULLSHIT!"

  On screen, I'm now completely naked except for the golden pentagram harness, still on my knees, hands running down my body in slow, sensual exploration.

  "He's a fucking computer nerd!" Brandon shouts, backing Chad up. "He deepfaked all of this! No WAY would Bir or any of the cheerleaders go near that disgusting freak!"

  The football team starts booing and jeering, their voices drowning out the audio from the video where I'm now saying something directly to the camera, my hands cupping my tits and offering them forward like a gift.

  "Turn this shit OFF!" Chad demands, storming toward the stage where Oliver still sits in the throne-like chair, Jessica beside him looking completely unbothered by the chaos.

  Tyler follows, along with several other members of the football team, their faces twisted with rage.

  "You sick FUCK!" Chad yells, coming up the stairs to the stage. "Hacking the votes, making disgusting fake videos of our girlfriends? You're fucking DEAD, Tanaka!"

  Principal Howard tries to intercept them, but she's too far away, still struggling with the locked AV room door.

  The jocks surround the throne area, Chad reaching for Oliver's colr. "I'm gonna fucking END you!"

  That's when I begin walking toward the stage.

  My white-gold dress catches the light, my heels clicking with precise, measured strikes against the gym floor. The crowd parts before me, conversations dying as I pass. My face is calm, almost serene, as I mount the steps.

  "Bir!" Chad calls, momentarily distracted from his assault on Oliver. "We're taking care of this sick fuck. He made fake videos of you! Of all the cheerleaders!"

  I say nothing, continuing my approach, hips swaying slightly with each step.

  "I mean, come on!" He gestures wildly at the screen where my naked body is still dispyed, now kneeling with gold chains digging into my flesh. "Like YOU would ever wear some anime-porn getup like that!"

  A ripple of nervous ughter runs through the crowd.

  "Hell," Chad continues, gaining confidence from the audience response, "she wouldn't even wear her CHEERLEADER outfit for me in bed! Miss Prude 2023 over here! It's obviously fake!"

  More ughter, the crowd rallying behind their quarterback as he mocks both Oliver and the idea that Bir Williams—perfect, pristine Bir—would ever debase herself this way.

  I reach the center of the stage, directly between Chad and Oliver. The spotlight catches my face, illuminating what I know is an expression none of them have ever seen before.

  "Is that right, Chad?" I ask, voice carrying across the now-silent gym. "You think I'd never wear something so... degrading?"

  My hands go to the side of my dress, finding the hidden zipper. With one smooth motion, I pull it down.

  "What are you doing?" Chad asks, face contorting in confusion.

  The white-gold dress pools at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but my ptform heels and the EXACT SAME golden pentagram harness from the video.

  The chains glint under the spotlight, bisecting my tits, disappearing between my pussy lips, creating a pornographic tableau right there on the Westke High prom stage.

  Someone screams. Several people gasp. I hear at least one phone ctter to the floor.

  "Oh my GOD," Tyler whispers, his face pale with shock.

  Chad's mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air. His eyes bulge, fixed on the gold chain disappearing between my legs.

  "That video isn't fake," I announce, my voice clear and confident despite my near-nudity. "None of the videos are fake. Oliver didn't hack the vote. He didn't deepfake anything."

  I take a step closer to Chad, my tits bouncing slightly with the movement, the chains jingling softly.

  "The truth is, Chad, you were never man enough to get me to wear the cheerleader outfit because you were never man enough to make me cum. Not even once."

  His face goes from shock to rage to humiliation in rapid succession. "You told me—"

  "I FAKED IT!" I decre, loud enough for the entire gym to hear. "Every. Single. Time."

  Someone in the back of the room whistles, followed by scattered, shocked ughter.

  "Bir, put your dress back on," Principal Howard finally finds her voice, hurrying toward the stage. "This is completely inappropriate!"

  I ignore her completely, strutting across the stage like it's a runway, making sure everyone gets a full view of what the golden chains do to my body—how they separate my ass cheeks, how they split my pussy lips, how they dig into the flesh of my tits creating these perfect mounds of squeezable flesh.

  "You want to know what's been happening at Westke this semester?" I ask, addressing the stunned crowd. "Why the cheerleaders missed games? Why we changed the prom theme? Why the vote mysteriously went to Oliver?"

  I grab the microphone from its stand, the movement making my tits sway heavily, catching everyone's attention.

  "It's really quite simple. We discovered something better than popurity." I point to Oliver, still sitting in his throne. "Much, MUCH better."

  On cue, the projector screen changes to show the East Wing supply closet from earlier tonight. The timestamp in the corner shows it was filmed less than an hour ago.

  Megan is bent over the futon, her bck dress bunched around her waist, Oliver behind her. His massive cock drives into her with brutal force, her ass rippling with each impact. The camera angle is positioned to show her face—eyes rolled back, makeup smeared, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

  "Megan Thompson," I narrate into the microphone, strutting around the stage in just my golden harness. "National Merit Schor. Harvard early admission. Gave it all up after one ride on Oliver's cock."

  Megan's body convulses on screen, her back arching as she clearly experiences a massive orgasm.

  "While you were all drinking spiked punch and taking prom photos, Oliver was working his way through the cheer squad. One by one. Impregnating us all."

  I pause directly in front of Chad, whose face has gone from red to ashen white.

  His jaw drops, eyes darting to the screen where the video has changed to show Tiffany—sweet, innocent, valedictorian Tiffany—being absolutely RAILED on the futon, her legs around Oliver's waist, her back arching off the mattress.

  "Tiffany Zhao," I continue, my voice taking on the cadence of a museum tour guide. "Perfect SAT score. Full ride to UCLA. But as of two hours ago, she's just another cum-drunk cheerleader carrying Oliver's baby."

  On screen, Oliver pins Tiffany's wrists above her head, his bulk completely covering her tiny frame as he pounds into her. The audio is muted but we can clearly see her mouth forming the words "BREED ME!"

  The football team is frozen in shock, unable to process what they're seeing.

  "You might be wondering how this happened," I say, turning in a slow circle so everyone can see my body from all angles. "How the entire cheerleading squad fell for the school otaku. It's simple, really."

  I point to Oliver's crotch with the microphone. "He's got something none of you will EVER have."

  The video changes again, this time showing Chelsea riding Oliver reverse cowgirl, her red qipao pushed up to her waist, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

  "Chelsea Moore," I narrate. "Stanford-bound engineering major, dating Brandon for three years. She was the third to fall. Couldn't get enough. Started skipping csses to service Oliver's cock."

  Brandon makes a choked sound, his eyes fixed on his girlfriend's bouncing ass as she enthusiastically rides Oliver on screen.

  "We tried to keep it quiet at first," I continue, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that the microphone carries throughout the silent gym. "But word spread among the squad. One by one, we all needed to experience it. And once we did..."

  I let the silence hang dramatically.

  "Well, there's no going back from that."

  The video shifts to show Krista on her knees, Oliver's monstrous cock disappearing down her throat, her eyes watering but expression blissful.

  "Krista Johnson. Northwestern early decision. Pnning to be a doctor." I chuckle softly. "Now she'll be the mother of Oliver's fourth child."

  Several cheerleaders have joined me on stage now, arraying themselves around Oliver's throne in a tableau straight out of a harem anime. Jessica sits on one arm of the throne, her hand casually stroking Oliver's hair. Chelsea kneels at his feet, looking up at him adoringly. Megan stands behind, her hands on his shoulders.

  "We synchronized our cycles," I reveal, walking a slow circle around the throne. "With some herbal supplements and a bit of pnning, we arranged for every single girl on the cheer squad to be ovuting this week."

  On screen, the video changes to show a rapid-fire montage of Oliver cumming inside different cheerleaders—each shot carefully angled to show the moment of ejacution, the girls' expressions of ecstasy, the flood of white seed that follows.

  SPLOOORT! Vanessa's eyes roll back as Oliver pins her to the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist.

  BLURRRRT! Krista arches off the futon, her mouth open in a silent scream as Oliver looms over her.

  SPLURCH! Chelsea colpses forward, Oliver behind her, his cock pulsing visibly as it delivers its load deep inside her.

  The montage speeds up, showing girl after girl receiving Oliver's seed, the video now synced to a pounding beat that makes the visual impact even more intense. It's literal pornography, pying on the Westke High prom screen.

  "We've secured a house near Westke Community College," I expin, running my hands down my torso, fingers pying with the gold chains. "Our sorority—Omega Tau Alpha—will be the center of our new life together."

  The video changes to show architectural pns for a rge house with individual bedrooms surrounding a massive master suite.

  "All those college acceptances? Torn up. All those pns to leave this town? Canceled. We're staying right here, with our king, raising his children together."

  I turn to Oliver, dropping to one knee before his throne, my head bowed in a gesture of submission that makes the entire gym gasp.

  "Many of you are probably wondering WHY," I say, gncing back at the crowd. "Why would Bir Williams, queen of Westke High, give up Cornell and her perfect future for... this?"

  I stand again, walking to center stage, making direct eye contact with various stunned audience members.

  "Because for the first time in my life, I found something REAL. Something that cracked through all the fake, pstic perfection we've been chasing. Something that made me feel alive."

  The video screen switches to me again—this time on my back on Oliver's bed, legs spread wide, his massive cock driving into me while my back arches off the mattress, my face contorted in what can only be described as transcendent pleasure.

  "I've never faked an orgasm with him," I say, my voice softening. "I've never had to. In fact, I've had more orgasms in the past month than I had in my entire life before him."

  On screen, my body convulses violently, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream as Oliver continues pounding into me.

  "So yes, Chad," I turn back to him, his face now a mask of utter humiliation. "I WOULD wear this for him. I would do ANYTHING for him. Because he's given me something none of you pathetic jocks ever could—pleasure so intense it rewired my fucking brain."

  I drop to my knees before Oliver's throne, perfectly centered on the stage for maximum visibility. His face has that same calm, quiet intensity I've come to recognize—slightly awkward, slightly shy, but eyes burning with undeniable dominance.

  "Let me show you exactly what I mean," I purr, reaching for his zipper.

  Principal Howard screams something unintelligible, teachers scrambling toward the stage, but it's too te. My perfectly manicured fingers tug his zipper down with practiced ease, reaching inside to extract the monster that changed my life.

  It flops out heavily, already half-hard, making several students in the front row audibly gasp. Even in its semi-fccid state, it's a sight to behold—thick as my wrist, veins bulging, the head purple and angry-looking.

  "THIS is why we're all pregnant or about to be," I announce to the stunned crowd, my hand wrapping around the shaft, not even close to encircling it. "THIS is what we gave up our futures for."

  I lean forward, maintaining eye contact with the audience as I part my lips, tongue extending to give the head a slow, deliberate lick. The act is so obscene, that for a moment it doesn't even register as real to the onlookers.

  Chad makes a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a scream.

  I take the head into my mouth, my cheeks hollowing as I apply suction, my free hand cupping his heavy balls.

  The gym erupts into complete chaos—students screaming, phones recording, teachers frantically trying to get onto the stage, football pyers in various states of rage and shock.

  Jessica ughs beside the throne, the sound musical and triumphant. "Better take a good look, boys! This is what REAL masculinity looks like!"

  GLUK-GLUK-GLUK!

  I take him deeper, my throat opening to accommodate his girth, eyes watering slightly as the head brushes the back of my mouth. My tits sway with each bob of my head, the gold chains catching the stage lights, creating fshes of brilliance that draw even more attention to my performance.

  The st thing the audience sees before the lights suddenly cut out is me—Bir Williams, former queen bee, current harem leader—on my knees before the school outcast, my heart-shaped ass resting on my heels, my head bobbing enthusiastically as I worship Oliver Tanaka's cock in front of the entire senior css.

  ---

  "Pass the paprika," I tell Jessica, one hand stirring the massive pot of pasta sauce on the stove, the other resting on my swollen belly.

  She waddles over from the pantry, her own pregnancy even more advanced than mine—twins, as we discovered at the st ultrasound. Her copper hair is pulled into a messy bun, a streak of flour across her cheek from the bread she was kneading earlier.

  "God, my feet are killing me," she compins, handing me the spice. "These babies are going to be basketball pyers or something."

  I ugh, adjusting my position to relieve some of the pressure on my lower back. "At least you're almost done. I've got another two months of this."

  The kitchen of Omega Tau Alpha sorority house is bright and spacious, professionally designed with an enormous isnd, double ovens, and a commercial-grade refrigerator. It needs to be—feeding fifteen pregnant cheerleaders plus Oliver requires serious kitchen capacity.

  From upstairs, we hear a rhythmic THUMP-THUMP-THUMP followed by Chelsea's unmistakable cry of pleasure.

  "Sounds like Oliver's working through today's schedule," Jessica smirks, rubbing her belly. "Chelsea's been extra horny this trimester."

  "At least someone's getting id," I grumble good-naturedly. "Doctor says I have to wait another week."

  "Worth it though?" Jessica nods toward my belly.

  I smile, thinking back to the chaos that brought us here. "Absolutely worth it."

  It's been eight months since Prom Night. The fallout was both worse and better than we expected. The videos should have resulted in arrests, expulsions, and ruined lives.

  Enter Jessica's father, Richard Porter, senior partner at Porter, Whitman & Associates.

  "Still can't believe your dad managed to flip the whole thing," I say, lowering the heat under the sauce.

  Jessica ughs, leaning against the counter. "His face when I told him I was pregnant? Priceless. But once he got over the shock, he went full shark-mode."

  The legal strategy was brilliant. Instead of us facing charges for public indecency and distributing explicit material, Jessica's father turned the tables on the school. His argument: the faculty failed to properly secure and monitor the AV equipment, creating an environment where students could access inappropriate content. The school's security protocols were deemed negligent.

  "Finding out Principal Howard had been warned about faulty locks on the AV room three times was the golden ticket," Jessica says, sampling the sauce from my spoon.

  "And then the school board just wanting the whole thing to disappear..."

  The settlement was substantial—enough to purchase this sprawling house near campus, cover medical expenses for fifteen pregnancies, and establish a trust for each baby. All in exchange for ironcd NDAs and agreement to withdraw from Westke before graduation.

  "Needs more basil," Jessica decides.

  Krista waddles into the kitchen, her eight-month belly leading the way. "Is dinner almost ready? The twins are doing gymnastics on my bdder."

  "Twenty minutes," I tell her. "Where's everyone else?"

  "Tiffany and Megan are studying in the library. Vanessa's napping. Chelsea is..." she gnces toward the ceiling where the thumping has intensified, "occupied."

  The house operates with surprising efficiency for a pce full of pregnant teenagers. We've established routines, divided responsibilities, created a system that works. Most of us are taking online csses through Westke Community College—childhood development, nutrition, business management.

  "Did you see Chad's Instagram?" Krista asks, lowering herself carefully onto a kitchen stool.

  "God, is he still posting those sad gym selfies?" Jessica rolls her eyes.

  "Worse. He's an assistant manager at Starbucks now. Posted a whole rant about how the 'system is rigged against alpha males' or some bullshit."

  We all ugh. The football team imploded after Prom Night—half the pyers transferred schools, the rest lost all social standing. Coach Wilson resigned "for personal reasons," though rumor has it he had a complete breakdown after watching the championship game video for the hundredth time.

  The front door opens, and Tiffany's voice rings out. "We're back! Oliver, we got you those Japanese snacks you like!"

  From upstairs, we hear Chelsea's disappointed whine followed by Oliver's deep grumble. There's a moment of shuffling, some giggles, then a distinct "Oh! On my FACE?"

  A minute ter, Chelsea appears in the kitchen doorway, her hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, wearing nothing but one of Oliver's oversized t-shirts that barely covers her seven-month belly. The most notable feature, however, is the thick, yellowish-white gze coating half her face—a massive facial that runs from her forehead down her left cheek, with several thick clumps caught in her eyebrow and eyeshes.

  "Can someone get me a towel?" she asks, grinning despite the mess. "Someone decided my face needed decorating."

  "Jesus, Chelsea!" Jessica ughs, tossing her a kitchen towel. "At least close your eye, you've got his baby batter dripping into it!"

  Chelsea wipes at the mess, but it's remarkably persistent—thick and paste-like, clinging to her skin in glutinous strands. "He was supposed to finish inside but said he needed to save that load for Megan's scheduled time. I still got three orgasms though, so I can't compin."

  I notice a curly dark hair stuck to her cheek. "You've got a souvenir," I say, pointing to my own face to indicate the location.

  "Again?" Chelsea sighs, plucking the pube from her skin. "Oliver-sama needs to trim more regurly. Found one in my teeth yesterday."

  She shuffles to the kitchen sink, bending awkwardly around her belly to wash her face. The water turns milky as she spshes it against her skin, but the cum is surprisingly resistant—stretching into thin, gooey strands rather than dissolving.

  "This stuff gets thicker every day," she compins, though her tone is more impressed than annoyed. "It's like trying to wash off super glue."

  I dip a finger into a fresh glob sliding down her neck, bringing it to my nose for an experimental sniff.

  "Smells stronger than usual," I note, then pop my finger into my mouth without thinking. The bitter, salty taste explodes across my tongue, oddly compelling despite its objectively disgusting fvor profile.

  "Bir!" Jessica ughs. "You're gross!"

  "What? It's nutritious," I defend myself, reaching for another swipe from Chelsea's chin. "Full of protein. Good for the baby."

  Chelsea giggles, tilting her head to offer better access. "Help yourself. There's plenty."

  "Share with the css," Krista says, waddling over with a spoon she dips directly into the rgest remaining puddle on Chelsea's forehead.

  Jessica shakes her head in mock disgust, but she's already reaching for her own sample. "We're all going to hell."

  "Worth it," I say through a mouthful of Oliver's cum, the texture like tapioca pudding left too long in the sun.

  "What are you animals doing?" Megan's voice cuts through our giggles as she enters the kitchen with a stack of textbooks. She takes one look at Chelsea's face and the impromptu cum-tasting and rolls her eyes. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

  "Oliver-sama was very productive today," Chelsea expins, still struggling to clear the more stubborn deposits from her eyebrow.

  "I can see that," Megan says dryly. "Save some for me, I'm scheduled for eight."

  We hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then Oliver appears in the doorway. Despite his still-substantial bulk, there's something different about him now—a confidence, a presence that fills the room without effort. His hair is damp from a recent shower, his gsses actually clean for once, wearing well-fitted jeans and a casual button-up that's neither anime-themed nor stained.

  "Something smells good," he says, eyes immediately finding the pot on the stove.

  "Bir's making that sauce you like," Jessica tells him, her entire demeanor softening in his presence.

  "With extra basil," I add.

  His eyes take in the scene—Chelsea still scrubbing at her face, the rest of us poorly disguising our cum-sampling adventure. A small smile pys at the corners of his mouth.

  "Sorry about the mess," he says to Chelsea, oddly gentle for someone who just painted half her face with semen. "You kept doing that thing with your tongue, and I got... enthusiastic."

  "I'm not compining," Chelsea grins, finally giving up on her eyebrow and tying her hair back instead. "Though I expect a proper finish during my scheduled time tomorrow."

  "Noted," Oliver nods, then addresses the room. "I was thinking we could watch that new series after dinner? The one with the dragons?"

  Eight months ago, this much unprompted speech from Oliver would have been unthinkable. The Oliver we met in the closet that first day barely strung two words together, all his communication channeled through his cock rather than his voice.

  But living with fifteen girls who hang on his every word has changed him. He's still Oliver—still a bit awkward, still more comfortable with games than people—but he's found his voice. Turns out being the object of absolute female adoration does wonders for a guy's personality.

  "Dragons sound perfect," I agree, my free hand finding the small of his back as he passes behind me to inspect the sauce.

  He hums approvingly at my cooking, then casually rests his hand on my swollen belly. "Active today?"

  "Doing somersaults," I confirm, leaning into his touch.

  There's an easy intimacy between us now that transcends the purely sexual. We've built something strange but genuine—a family structure that makes absolutely no sense to the outside world but works perfectly for us.

  "Tiffany brought those mochi ice creams you like," Megan tells him, already retrieving them from the freezer. "Green tea and red bean."

  "Thanks." He accepts one, his other hand still gently rubbing my belly.

  Jessica watches this exchange with warm amusement. "Remember when he could barely look us in the eye? Now look at our boy, all grown up and talking in complete sentences."

  "I still prefer when his mouth is otherwise occupied," Krista quips, making us all ugh.

  Oliver's cheeks flush slightly, but he smiles. "I have... improved in multiple areas."

  "That you have," I agree, thinking of how much more confident his love-making has become—still that raw, animal power, but now with intention and control behind it.

  The front doorbell chimes, interrupting our banter.

  "I'll get it," Tiffany calls from the living room. We hear the front door open, then a strange silence.

  "Um, guys?" Tiffany's voice has an odd note in it. "You might want to come see who's here."

  We exchange curious gnces. We don't get many visitors—our families are still processing everything, and we've mostly cut ties with our old social circles.

  Jessica, Oliver, and I make our way to the front door, where Tiffany stands frozen in pce.

  Standing on the porch, looking nervous but determined, is Amber.

  Her hair is longer now, her style more mature than the st time I saw her. She's holding what appears to be a homemade cake and a small gift bag.

  "Hi," she says softly, her eyes taking in the sight of my pregnant belly, then Jessica's twins-sized bump. "I... I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

  "Amber," I breathe, genuinely shocked. After Prom Night, she blocked all our numbers, deleted her social media, and completely disappeared from our lives.

  "Nice house," she says awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  "Would you like to come in?" Oliver asks, his voice gentle, surprisingly diplomatic for someone who once could barely speak in front of pretty girls.

  Amber's eyes widen slightly. She hesitates, looking at Jessica and me, then back to Oliver.

  "Yes," she finally says, her voice soft but certain. "I think I would."