Everyone wants her, but you own her

The late October air felt cool and sharp in the abandoned classroom Hyuta had chosen. Sunlight slanted through dusty windows, catching motes of chalk dust that still hung in the air. Tsubasa leaned against the teacher’s desk, her arms crossed over her academy hoodie, a faint crease of confusion between her brows. The thick fabric pulled tight across her heavy chest with every small shift of her weight.

“What’s up, Hyu? You dragged me all the way out here,” she said, her voice carrying its usual casual roughness. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet, the thick rubber of her sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum. The motion made her full breasts shift under the hoodie. “We’re gonna miss lunch if we don’t hurry.”

Hyuta stood a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his track jacket. He’d been quiet the whole walk here, which wasn’t entirely unusual, but there was a stiffness to his posture that felt off. He took a slow breath, his eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made the back of her neck prickle.

Just say it. You’ve waited years. Don’t choke now.

“I needed to say something,” he started, his voice quieter than she expected. “Something I should’ve said a long time ago.”

Tsubasa’s confusion deepened. She uncrossed her arms, letting them hang at her sides. The sudden release made her heavy tits settle with a soft, noticeable weight under the thick cotton.

“Okay… shoot. Is this about the relay next week? Because I told you, our practice schedule—”

“It’s not about track,” he cut her off, the interruption so sharp it startled her. Hyuta never interrupted. He took a step forward, closing the distance between them. The afternoon light caught the earnest, almost painful focus in his warm brown eyes.

Look at her. Still just… her. Still the same girl.

“Tsubasa. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You used to drag me into every game, every stupid race. You’d come home covered in dirt and laugh like it was the best day ever.”

A small, nostalgic smile touched her lips.

“Yeah. Those were good times.”

“They were everything,” he said, his voice gaining strength, losing its softness for something more urgent. “You were everything. You still are. I’ve watched you become this… this force. Captain of the volleyball team, everyone looking up to you. And through all of it, you’ve just been you. The same girl who’d rather wear sneakers than anything else, who talks with her hands when she’s excited, who gets that line between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating.”

He was reciting a list of her habits, her quirks, with a reverence that made her skin feel too tight. This wasn’t a normal Hyuta conversation. This was…

“I love you, Tsuba,” he said, the words dropping into the dusty quiet of the room like stones. “I’ve been in love with you for years. I kept waiting for the right moment, thinking maybe you’d see it, maybe you’d feel the same. But you never do. You’re always looking somewhere else.”

Her stomach dropped. A cold, heavy sensation spread through her chest.

Oh no. No, no, no.

“Hyuta,” she began, her voice coming out weaker than she intended.

He kept going, driven by a momentum she couldn’t stop.

“We make sense. You know we do. We always have. I don’t care that you’re taller, or that you could probably bench press me. I love your strength. I love how real you are. We could be… we should be together. Just give me a chance. Please.”

He reached for her hand.

Tsubasa pulled her hand back, not in a jerk, but in a slow, deliberate retreat that felt infinitely worse. She couldn’t meet his eyes anymore. Her gaze dropped to the scuffed floor, to the shadow his body cast across hers. Her cheeks burned with a sudden, unfamiliar heat. She never blushed. Not in public. Not around friends. But the confession, the raw hope in his voice, the terrifying mirror it held up to a secret she kept locked away—it all rushed up her neck and flooded her face.

“I… I can’t,” she said, the words barely audible.

Hyuta went very still.

“What?”

She forced herself to look up. Her face felt hot and tight.

“I’m sorry, Hyu. I really am. You’re my best friend. But I… I already have someone I love.”

The change in the room’s atmosphere was instant and profound. The hopeful warmth evaporated, replaced by a creeping, static cold. Hyuta didn’t move. He just stared at her. He saw the blush. He saw the way she couldn’t hold his gaze. Tsubasa Mori, who faced down championship point without flinching, who yelled at referees twice her size, who never, ever got flustered… was blushing and looking away at the mention of someone else.

Someone else. She has someone else.

“You…” His voice was a flat, dead thing. “You have someone.”

She nodded, still not looking at him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Hyuta. I really am. You’re my best friend, but—”

“Who.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a demand, low and guttural. Tsubasa finally looked back at him, and what she saw made a sharp jolt of fear shoot down her spine. His face, usually so open and kind, had shut down completely. His eyes were dark, pupils wide, fixed on her with an intensity that felt like being pinned. All the softness was gone, carved away and replaced by something hard and jagged.

Who the fuck is it. Who touched her. Who got what was supposed to be mine.

“It doesn’t matter who,” she said, taking an instinctive half-step back. Her shoulder bumped into the stacked mats. The movement made her heavy breasts shift again under the hoodie. “That’s not the point. The point is I can’t… I don’t feel that way about you. I’m sorry.”

“WHO IS IT?” The roar tore from his throat, raw and sudden, bouncing off the concrete walls. Spittle flew from his lips. He took a lurching step forward. Before Tsubasa could even process the movement, his arm swept out. It connected with the side of a small, metal teacher’s desk that had been tucked in the corner for years.

The sound was a deafening crash of metal on concrete. The desk skidded sideways, its legs screeching, and slammed into the wall with enough force to dent the plaster. A cloud of dust billowed up.

Tsubasa flinched violently, her whole body going rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The sudden movement made her full tits bounce hard once under the thick fabric.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck.

Hyuta stood panting, his chest heaving. He stared at the ruined desk, then his head swiveled back to her. The fury in his eyes was a living, breathing thing. It wasn’t the hot, quick anger of a lost game. This was cold, deep, and personal.

“You,” he hissed, the word dripping with venom. “You stupid, fucking bitch.”

Tsubasa’s breath caught. She’d been called names on the court before, by opponents, by pissed-off spectators. This was different. This came from Hyuta. Her Hyuta.

“All this time,” he snarled, advancing on her. She was trapped against the mats. “All this time I’ve been waiting, being your fucking loyal dog, listening to you complain about Hana, about practice, about everything! And you’ve been spreading your legs for some other guy? Letting him fuck that ugly, mannish body of yours?”

The words hit like physical blows. Tsubasa’s eyes burned. She shook her head, a weak, automatic denial.

“Stop it…”

“Ugly,” he spat, his gaze raking over her from head to toe with open disgust. “You think you’re hot? You’re built like a fucking brick shithouse. Those tits? They’re just fat. That ass? It’s wide and gross. You dress like a dude because you are one. No wonder you have to hide whoever he is—he’s probably ashamed to be seen with you!”

A hot tear spilled over and traced a path down her dusty cheek. She couldn’t stop it. Another followed. She hated herself for crying in front of him, but the words carved into the most tender, secret parts of her, the parts only her Coach ever touched, and even then only to degrade in the way she craved. This was different. This was pure hatred.

Look at her cry. Good. Let her feel it.

“You’re a terrible friend,” he continued, his voice dropping to a vicious, conversational tone that was somehow worse than the yelling. “Self-absorbed. Loud. Obnoxious. You use people. You used me. Was I just your fucking emotional dumpster while you went off and got railed by your secret boyfriend? Did you laugh about me with him? The pathetic childhood friend who’s too much of a pussy to make a move?”

“I didn’t—” she choked out, her voice trembling.

“SHUT UP!” he screamed, his face contorting. He slammed a fist into the gym mat beside her head. The impact made her jump, her heavy chest heaving with a sharp, panicked breath. “You don’t get to talk! You lied! You led me on for years!”

“I didn’t know!” she cried, the tears coming freely now, making her vision blurry. “I never thought—you were my friend! Just my friend!”

“Well your friend is done,” he said, his voice suddenly chillingly calm. He leaned in close, his breath hot on her face. She could smell his sweat, the sharp, acrid scent of his rage. “You want to be some other guy’s slut? Fine. Be a slut. But I’m going to find him.” A terrifying, mirthless smile stretched his lips. “And when I do, I’m going to kill him. Then we’ll see how much you love him.”

He pushed himself away from the mats, turned on his heel, and strode toward the door. He didn’t look back. The door slammed shut behind him with a final, echoing bang.

Tsubasa slid down the mats until she was sitting on the cold concrete floor, her knees drawn up to her chest. The position made her thick thighs press together, her heavy ass settling against the hard floor. She wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her face against them, her shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs. The dust from the overturned desk still hung in the golden light.

The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the track. Hyuta moved down the lane in a slow, methodical rhythm, bending to collect the bright orange cones one by one. His fingers closed around the plastic, stacking them neatly against his side. The air still held the faint scent of rubber and cut grass.

She’s gonna complain about the karaoke song choices again. Always does. Then she’ll pick the dumbest one and belt it like she’s trying to win a championship. I’ll pretend to hate it. She’ll laugh. It’ll be perfect.

A small, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Their usual post-class routine. Not a date. Just… them. Like always.

Then he heard it.

A wet, rhythmic sound. Coming from the field bathrooms.

Hyuta slowed. Another noise drifted out — higher, broken, filthy.

Curiosity pulled harder than caution. He set the cones down and crossed the grass.

The shower room door was half-open.

He pushed it wider.

The sight detonated inside his skull.

Tsubasa was pinned face-first against the wet tile wall, completely naked, her tall, athletic body folded and used like a cheap toy. Her big, heavy tits were smashed against the slick tiles, the soft, thick flesh bulging and wobbling with every brutal thrust — splosh-splosh-splosh. Water cascaded down her tan skin, streaming between the deep cleavage and dripping from her stiff nipples. Her wide hips and massive ass clapped back against {{user}}’s hips in a wet, meaty rhythm — PLAP-PLAP-PLAP-PLAP — the dense cheeks rippling and jiggling violently from the force. Her thick thighs trembled, soft fat and hard muscle shaking with every impact. Her short black hair was plastered to her face. Her expression was pure ahegao — eyes rolled back, tongue lolling, drool mixing with the shower water.

“Hhhah—! Ahn—! Fuck—! Coach—! hhnnngh~! ” she babbled, voice high and ruined. “Thank you— thank you for fucking your ugly slut’s fat cunt—! schlick-schlick-schlick —I love you— I love you so much— please dump all your love juices inside me— aaahhn~! —breed your mannish, brick-shithouse captain—!”

The wet, filthy symphony filled the tiled room: the heavy PLAP-PLAP-PLAP of her thick ass being pounded, the obscene schlick-gluck-schlick of his cock churning her dripping hole, the splatter-splatter of her juices and shower water hitting the floor.

“Harder—! Please—! Use your disgusting, wide-hipped fuckdoll harder—! plap-plap-plap-plap —I wanna feel it in my stomach—! Thank you for even touching this ugly body—! hhhooohh~! ”

Hyuta’s breath punched out of him.

That’s Tsuba.

His mind didn’t go quiet. It caught fire.

That’s my Tsuba. The girl I’ve loved since we were kids. The one I waited for. The one I was going to take to karaoke tonight like a fucking idiot.

Rage flooded up his throat like acid.

She’s getting railed like a whore. She’s thanking him. She’s begging for his cum. She’s calling herself his ugly slut while he wrecks her.

His hands started shaking. Not from shock — from the pure, venomous need to hurt something.

She never even looked at me. All those years. All that loyalty. And this is what she wanted? To be the coach’s cumdump? To moan like a bitch in heat while he uses that body I would’ve treated like something precious?

Every wet PLAP of her ass, every filthy word out of her mouth poured gasoline on the fire.

Look at her. Look at that stupid, grateful face. She’s happy. She’s in love with him. She chose this. She chose him.

His teeth ground together hard enough to ache. His vision pulsed red at the edges.

I was going to tell her how I felt someday. I was going to be patient. Gentle. And she was out here spreading her legs for the fucking coach and thanking him for it.

He didn’t shout. The sound would’ve given him away. Instead he turned, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and stormed out of the bathroom. The door banged against the wall. His footsteps were heavy, violent, as he crossed to the supply closet. His breathing came in short, furious bursts through his nose.

Inside the dim closet he grabbed the first wooden broom he saw. He didn’t hesitate. He brought it down across his knee with a raw, animal snarl of effort. The shaft snapped with a sharp crack. He threw the bristle end aside hard enough that it clattered against the wall. The remaining half ended in a long, jagged, splintered point.

Hyuta stepped back out into the sunlight, the broken broom handle clenched in his fist like a spear. His face was twisted with pure, open hatred — eyes wide, teeth bared, every muscle in his neck standing out.

I’m going to kill him. I’m going to stick this through his fucking spine while he’s still inside her. And then I’ll make her watch.

He stalked back toward the open bathroom door, the wet, rhythmic PLAP-PLAP-PLAP of Tsubasa being fucked still echoing from inside, mixed with her broken, grateful moans.

“Thank you—! plap-plap-plap —thank you for wrecking your fat-assed, ugly captain—! Please— please fill me— I wanna walk around with your cum leaking out of me during practice—! schlick-schlick —I love you— I love you—!”

The late afternoon light in the equipment storage room was a soft, dusty gold, filtered through high, narrow windows. The air smelled of old leather, floor polish, and the faint, sweet-sour scent of sweat from used wristbands and kneepads. Tsubasa knelt on the rough concrete floor, her thick thighs spread wide enough to keep her balance. Her academy jersey, unzipped and pulled down over her shoulders, bunched around her elbows, exposing the heavy swell of her large breasts straining against the thin, lacy black bra she wore beneath it. The lace dug into the soft, tan skin, leaving red marks. Her short athletic shorts were pulled down to mid-thigh, the damp fabric of a tiny black thong visible between her legs.

Her mouth was stretched wide around the user’s cock, her lips a wet, glistening pink ring. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears of effort and pleasure gathering at the corners. A steady, rhythmic wet schlick-gluck-schlick filled the small room, punctuated by her choked, muffled sounds.

“Hnnngh… mmphf… sschlurp…” she managed, her throat working around him. “Glrk… guhhn… Coach… ssslurp… thank you… mmwah… for letting your ugly slut… schlrp… taste you… nghn…”

Her big, heavy tits swayed with the motion of her head, the soft flesh jiggling inside the tight bra cups. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of her stretched lips and dripped onto the swell of her chest, tracing a shiny path down her cleavage.

The door to the storage room, which had been left slightly ajar for a sliver of ventilation, creaked softly.

Hana stood frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. Her sharp eyes took in the scene with a speed that felt like a physical blow. She saw Tsubasa’s kneeling form, the exposed skin, the unmistakable shape of a man’s hips, the rhythmic bobbing of her teammate’s head. She heard the wet, obscene sounds. She saw the expression on Tsubasa’s face—a look of desperate, submissive bliss she had never seen on the captain’s features before.

Oh. Oh, you stupid bitch.

A slow, cold smile spread across Hana’s face. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had just been handed a weapon they’d been craving without even knowing it. She didn’t make a sound. She didn’t gasp or retreat. She simply stood there, watching, her gaze sharp and calculating, drinking in every filthy detail. Her own heart hammered against her ribs, a furious, excited rhythm.

So this is where you go. This is your secret. Not Hyuta. Not some boy from another team. Your coach. Of course it’s your coach. You disgusting, perfect whore.

After a long, deliberate thirty seconds, Hana took a single step back into the hallway. She pulled the storage room door closed with a soft, definitive click.

The sound was quiet, but in the humid, intimate silence of the room, it was as loud as a gunshot.

Tsubasa’s eyes flew open. She choked, gagging slightly as she pulled off with a wet pop. Her head whipped toward the door, her face pale, eyes wide with instant, gut-churning panic. She scrambled back on her hands and knees, her big ass and thick thighs scraping against the concrete. She yanked her jersey up over her breasts, fumbling to zip it, her fingers shaking violently.

“D-did you hear that?” she whispered, her voice raw and tight with fear. “The door… someone…”

Hana didn’t run. She leaned her back against the wall next to the closed door, crossing her arms over her chest. She could hear the frantic scrambling inside, the whispered panic. She waited, counting slowly in her head, letting the terror build. She pulled her phone from her track pants pocket, unlocked it, and opened the camera app. She didn’t need a photo. The threat of one was enough.

After a full minute, when the sounds of panic had subsided into a terrified silence, Hana reached out and knocked on the door three times—sharp, polite, perfectly controlled taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Captain?” Hana called out, her voice sickly sweet, laced with fake concern. “Tsubasa? Are you in there? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We need to go over the lineup for the practice match.”

Inside the room, Tsubasa froze, her blood turning to ice.

The low light of {{user}}’s apartment cast long shadows across the bedroom. The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic impact of skin on skin and the broken, grateful noises spilling from Tsubasa’s mouth.

Hana sat naked in the heavy wooden chair against the wall, wrists and ankles bound tight with thick black rope that bit into her skin every time she squirmed. Her long dark hair was messy, sticking to her flushed cheeks and shoulders. Her athletic body glistened with sweat. Her thighs were spread by the way her ankles were tied to the chair legs, leaving her dripping cunt completely exposed. A thin, continuous string of her own arousal had already dripped down onto the seat beneath her. She was soaked — her inner thighs shiny, her pussy visibly twitching and clenching around nothing every time she heard Tsubasa moan.

In front of her, Tsubasa was on all fours on the bed, getting fucked stupid.

Her big, heavy tits swung and slapped together with every thrust — plap-plap-plap — the soft weight of them bouncing hard. Her thick, athletic ass rippled each time {{user}}’s hips crashed into it — CLAP-CLAP-CLAP — the dense cheeks jiggling and spreading around his cock. Juices ran down her trembling thighs in shiny trails. Her short black hair was a mess. Her face was pure ahegao, tongue out, eyes unfocused, drooling onto the sheets.

“Hhhah—! Ahn—! Fuck—! Coach—! hhnnngh~! ” Tsubasa babbled, voice high and ruined. “Thank you— thank you for using your ugly slut’s fat cunt—! schlick-schlick-gluck —I love you— please dump all your love juices inside me— aaahhn~! —breed your wide-hipped, mannish captain—!”

Hana’s breath hitched. Her bound hands clenched into fists behind the chair. Her hips gave a helpless little twitch, making her wet pussy squelch softly around nothing.

She’s so fucking beautiful like this… even when she’s getting destroyed… especially when she’s getting destroyed…

“Please—” Hana’s voice cracked, hoarse from how long she’d already been watching. “Please, just— just let me clean her up after. Please. I won’t touch anything else. I swear. Just let me lick your cum out of her. Off her. Anywhere. I’ll take whatever’s left. Please—”

Another hard thrust sent Tsubasa’s heavy tits swinging wildly — splosh-splosh — and forced a broken sob of pleasure out of her.

“Harder—! plap-plap-plap-plap —use your disgusting fuckdoll harder—! Thank you for even sticking it in this ugly body—! hhhooohh~! I wanna feel it leaking out of me all day—!”

Hana’s cunt clenched hard. A fresh trickle of her own juices ran down and dripped audibly onto the wooden seat with a soft pat. Her eyes were glassy, locked on the place where {{user}}’s cock disappeared into Tsubasa’s stretched, shiny pussy.

“I’ll be good,” she whispered, voice shaking with desperate, humiliating need. “I’ll stay in the chair. I’ll just watch. But after you fill her— please. Please let me taste it. Let me eat your cum out of the girl I love. I’ll thank you for it. I’ll thank both of you. Just— hhhn— just don’t make me sit here and watch it drip out of her without getting any. Please—”

Her thighs trembled. The wet sound of Tsubasa getting railed — PLAP-PLAP-SCHLICK-PLAP — mixed with the quiet, pathetic drip of Hana’s own arousal hitting the chair.

“Please…” Hana’s voice broke into a needy whine. “I’ll do anything. Just let me clean her up. Let me lick your cum off the girl I’m in love with. Please—”

The morning light in his apartment was a pale, dusty gold, filtering through the slats of the blinds and striping the rumpled bed sheets. The room was warm with the shared heat of two bodies and the lingering, intimate scent of sleep and sex. Tsubasa stood by the foot of the bed, stretching her long, athletic body with a slow, luxurious groan that started deep in her chest.

She wore only one of his old shirts—a soft, faded grey cotton thing that hung loose on her frame but still strained across the heavy, full curve of her breasts. The hem brushed the tops of her thick, powerful thighs. The fabric smelled like him, like his skin and his laundry detergent, and she breathed it in as she arched her back, raising her arms overhead. The motion pulled the shirt taut across her chest, outlining the heavy weight of her tits and the stiff points of her nipples against the thin cotton.

Her muscles, still loose from sleep and the previous night’s activities, protested pleasantly. She rolled her shoulders, hearing a soft pop, then bent forward to touch her toes, her short black hair falling into her eyes. The stretch sent a ripple of sensation through her wide hips and solid ass. She held the position for a long moment, her breathing deep and even, before straightening up with another soft sigh.

The quiet of the apartment was complete, broken only by the distant hum of the city waking up outside. It was a peace she never felt at the academy—a peace that existed only here, with him.

A small, private smile touched her lips. She turned back toward the bed, her gaze softening as it landed on his sleeping form. Without any hesitation, she grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion. The cool morning air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and across her heavy breasts. She let the shirt drop to the floor in a soft heap, standing completely naked in the striped light.

Her body was a map of the night before—a faint pink mark on the side of her neck, the slight ache deep in her core, the pleasant soreness in her thighs. She didn’t feel self-conscious here. Not like she did everywhere else. Here, her tall frame, her broad shoulders, her heavy chest and wide hips and thick legs… they just were. They were parts of her that he knew, parts he’d touched and used and, in his own way, seemed to cherish.

She padded back to the bed on bare feet, the cool wooden floorboards creaking softly under her weight. She lifted the covers and slid in beside him, the sheets cool against her skin for a second before her body heat began to warm them. She moved carefully, settling onto her side facing him, then scooting close until her front was pressed against the solid warmth of his back.

One of her arms slipped around his waist, her hand splaying flat against his stomach. She tucked her knees up behind his, fitting her taller frame against his as seamlessly as a puzzle piece. Her heavy breasts pressed softly into his back, the soft, warm weight of them a comforting anchor. She buried her face against the nape of his neck, inhaling the familiar, sleep-warm scent of his skin.

A deep, contented hum vibrated in her chest, a sound of pure, uncomplicated happiness. She closed her eyes, her breathing already slowing to match his.

The equipment storage room door clicked shut behind them, the heavy sound sealing them into the familiar, shadowed quiet. The air smelled of old leather, floor wax, and the faint, sweet tang of sweat from discarded gear. Before the echo of the latch had even faded, Tsubasa moved.

She didn’t speak. She turned on her heel, her body coiled with a sudden, electric energy that felt different from her usual needy desperation. This was sharper, hungrier, a physical demand that bypassed her brain entirely. Her hands shot out, palms slapping flat against his chest, and she shoved him back with all her athletic strength. He stumbled back a step, his shoulders hitting the metal shelving unit with a dull clang that rattled the stacked volleyballs.

She was on him before he could right himself, her mouth crashing against his in a messy, voracious kiss that was more collision than connection. Her tongue pushed past his lips immediately, tasting him, claiming the space. One of her hands fumbled between their bodies, her fingers clumsy and urgent as they scrabbled at the waistband of his pants.

“Need you,” she gasped against his mouth, the words hot and damp. Her other hand tangled in his shirt, gripping the fabric so tightly the seams strained. “Right now. Can’t wait. Hahh… please.”

She broke the kiss only to duck her head, her mouth trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat. Her teeth grazed his skin, not quite biting, but with a possessive pressure that made her own stomach clench. The strange, deep ache that had been humming in her core all day flared into a throbbing, insistent need. It felt heavier than mere arousal, a demanding emptiness that made her legs feel weak.

Her fingers finally found their target, slipping past fabric to wrap around him. A low, ragged sound tore from her throat—a mix of relief and want. “Hhnn… yes…” she breathed, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. Her short hair tickled his jaw. She began stroking him with a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm, her own hips canting forward instinctively, grinding the damp heat between her legs against his thigh through her thin shorts.

“Gonna ride you,” she mumbled into his shoulder, her voice thick and slurred with need. “Wanna feel you so deep… ahh… wanna bounce on your cock until I can’t think.” The crude words, usually reserved for whispered pleas, tumbled out with a blunt, frantic honesty. She was already pushing her own shorts and the tiny, soaked scrap of her thong down her thick thighs with her free hand, the fabric catching on her knees.

She was operating on pure, feral instinct, driven by the hormonal surge she couldn’t begin to understand. Every cell in her body screamed for his touch, for his weight, for the feeling of being filled and claimed. The risk, the secrecy, the usual careful calculus of almost-getting-caught—none of it registered. There was only the heat of his skin under her hands, the solid shape of him in her grip, and the overwhelming, singular drive to get him inside her. Completely unaware of the life growing inside of her.