The bench was cold. That was the first thing her palms knew—cold wood, worn smooth by years of other people's hands, and she flattened both palms against it and spread her fingers and did not look back. Behind her, the locker room was quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent light and the drip of the shower stall she hadn't turned off all the way. She could hear him. Not footsteps, exactly. The softer sound of bare feet shifting on wet tile, the drag of a towel being dropped, the small wet click of his mouth. Her heart was going so hard she could feel it in her throat, in her ears, in the backs of her knees.

She bent. Not because he'd told her to bend, though he had, in that flat voice that didn't rise or hurry. She bent because her body had already decided, the same way it had decided to strip, to kneel, to take him into her mouth without a single word of permission from her mind. Her chin-length hair swung forward and stuck to her cheek where it was still damp with spit. The bench edge pressed into the soft underside of her belly, just above her hips, and her toes barely touched the floor on the other side.

He stepped close enough that she felt the heat of him before she felt anything else—a wall of warmth at the backs of her thighs, at the curve of her ass, and the smell of him flooded her: sweat and metal and something expensive, and under all of it the raw animal smell of a body that had just been in her mouth. She bit her lip. She did not look back. Looking back would make it real in a way she wasn't ready for.

Then his hand closed over her hip, thumb digging into the soft meat above the bone, and she felt the first one slide up the inside of her thigh.

It was slick—wet with her own spit, gliding over the crease of her leg, and she shuddered and clenched her jaw and told herself to breathe. The head of it nudged her cunt, blunt and fat and impossibly warm, and her whole body flinched forward an inch, hips knocking the bench, and a sound came out of her that she hadn't meant to make. Something small. Something high.

"Easy," he said. Not gentle. Just a fact.

And then the other one—the lower one—slid down, lower than she was ready for, and pressed against the tight ring of her ass.

Her breath stopped. Both of them. Both ends of her, at the same time, both slick and hot and huge, and she felt her body do the arithmetic it had been refusing to do since she first saw him in the shower light: two of him, one in each hole, and no way to make that fit. She shook her head against the bench, cheek scraping the wood. "I don't—" she started, and didn't finish, because she didn't know what she was asking for. Him to stop. Him to keep going. Both.

"You do," he said, and pushed.

The upper cock went in first—not all at once, a slow thick slide that stretched her open around every inch of him, and her mouth fell open against the bench and stayed open. She could feel herself giving way, walls parting around the head of him, wetness flooding out of her and running down the inside of one thigh. He was bigger than Ethan. He had always been bigger than Ethan, she'd known that from the moment she took him in her mouth, but knowing it and feeling it were different countries, and she was in the new one now, and her cunt was gripping him like a fist.

"There," he said, low, almost to himself. "That's it."

Then the lower one pressed in.

She cried out—not a word, just noise, muffled into the bench, and her fingers scrabbled against the wood and found no purchase. The ring of muscle resisted, and he didn't force it, he just held there, patient, the fat head of him pressing and pressing, and her ass clenched and unclenched around nothing and then—gave. The slide of him into her was so slow she felt every ridge, every pulse, the way his skin dragged against her insides, and her eyes went wide and wet and she stared at the gray locker door in front of her and did not see it.

Full. She was full. Both holes, both cocks, and there was no room left in her for anything else—not for thinking, not for Ethan, not for the fluorescent hum or the dripping shower or the cold wood under her hands. There was only the stretch of him, doubled, his two cocks moving against each other through the thin wall of her body, and she could feel them both at once, the upper one buried in her cunt and the lower one deep in her ass, and the pressure of them against each other made her see white at the edges of her vision.

"Breathe," he said.

She tried. It came out a whimper. Her hips tilted, an involuntary little rock, and both cocks shifted inside her at once and she made another sound, longer this time, and the sound embarrassed her even now, even full of him, even bent over a bench in a locker room with her hair stuck to her face.

He gave her two breaths. She counted them, because counting was something her mind could still do. One. Two. And on the second one his hands closed on both her hips, fingers digging in, and he pulled her back onto him.

The first thrust stole the air out of her. He pulled back until both cocks were almost out—she felt the awful hollow emptiness of it, the wet drag, the way her body chased him—and then drove back in, both at once, and her whole body jolted forward and her elbows locked and her mouth opened on a sound she'd never made before. The slap of it. Skin on skin, his hips against her ass, wet and loud in the empty locker room, and then again, and again, a rhythm that was slow at first and then not slow at all.

"Fuck," she heard herself say. She never said that. She said it now.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice was still flat, still certain, but there was something under it now, a thickness, a heat. "Take it."

She took it. Her hips rocked forward against the bench edge with every thrust and then back onto him, because her body had learned the rhythm faster than her mind, and the lower cock dragging in the tight channel of her ass made the upper one feel deeper in her cunt, pressing up against something inside her that made stars fizz behind her eyes every time he bottomed out. She dripped down her thighs. She could feel it, the wetness running, her own slick and his spit and the wet slap of him pulling out and pushing back in, and the sound of it filled the room and she was making most of it, the little broken noises punched out of her with every thrust.

His hand left her hip and slid up her spine, over her back, and gathered her hair into a loose fist at the nape of her neck. Not pulling. Just holding. Just keeping her there, bent, open, and she felt her throat close and her eyes sting and she didn't know if it was the stretch or the shame or something worse than both.

"You're going to come on both of them," he said. "Aren't you."

"I don't—" she gasped, and her arms were shaking now, elbows locking and unlocking, palms slipping on the wood.

"You will."

He changed the angle—a small tilt of his hips, a different line of attack—and the upper cock dragged over that spot inside her cunt, over and over, and her whole body seized. Her cunt clamped down around him, hard, a long rolling clench that started at her core and rolled out through her thighs and up into her chest, and she came with her mouth open and no sound coming out at all, her vision going white and then gray and then nothing, and she was distantly aware of her own wetness gushing around him, of the slap of skin going faster, harder, of his breath breaking its rhythm for the first time.

"There," he said, through his teeth. "There it is."

And she felt them both swell—two heartbeats inside her, two thick pulses, and then he came, and she felt it in both holes at once. The upper cock pumping into her cunt, hot and heavy and endless, pulse after pulse of it spilling deep where she couldn't stop it; the lower one flooding her ass, so much of it that she felt the pressure of it building, felt it backing up around him, and then starting to leak out around the base of him, running down between her legs and over her clit, and she whimpered and shook and pressed her forehead to the bench and stayed there.

He held her hips until the last pulse was done. Then he pulled out.

The sound was obscene—wet, dragging, both cocks sliding free at once, and she felt the rush of it following them, cum spilling out of both holes and running down the insides of her thighs and onto the tile, and she couldn't make herself move. Her legs were shaking. Her arms gave out and her cheek went down onto the bench and she lay there, ass still up, dripping onto the floor, and stared at the gray locker door.

Behind her, she heard him pick up the towel. She heard the soft sound of him wiping himself off, unhurried, like he'd just finished a set of drills.

"You're not on anything," he said. It wasn't a question.

She shook her head against the wood. Her voice came out small. "No."

"Hm." A pause. "Risky."

She knew. God, she knew. She'd been counting days in the back of her head the whole time, the way she always did, and she was right in the middle of the window, the worst days, and he'd just pumped a load into her unprotected cunt like it was nothing, and she could still feel it in there, warm and thick and moving when she clenched. She pressed her thighs together and felt more of it run out and her cunt twinged, empty and sore and still hungry, and she hated that she noticed the hungry part.

"I have a place off campus," he said. He was pulling his clothes on now. She could hear the rustle of fabric, the zip. "If you want more."

She didn't answer. She didn't trust her voice.

His footsteps crossed the tile toward the door. They stopped.

"You'll want more," he said.

The door opened and closed. The fluorescent light hummed. The shower dripped. She stayed bent over the bench with her cheek on the wood and her thighs slick and her holes twinging, and somewhere in the front pocket of her duffel, her phone buzzed—once, twice, the familiar rhythm of a good-morning text from a boy who thought they were taking a healthy break—and she didn't reach for it. She lay there and felt him leaking out of her and she knew, with a certainty that sat low and heavy in her belly, that she was going to go to his place.

Her cheek had gone tacky against the wood. When she finally peeled it up, the skin came with a small wet sound and left a faint print of her own face on the bench—sweat and spit and the shine of her mouth—and she looked at it for a long moment before she could make herself move. The gray locker door stared back. She'd been looking at it for so long she'd stopped seeing it, and now, blinking, it came back into focus: dented at the corner, one hinge rusted, a sticker for a taco place half-scraped off.

She pushed up onto her elbows. Her arms complained. Then knees, one at a time, drawn up under her on the bench, and the shift made everything move at once—the cum she'd been holding in with the press of her thighs came loose and ran, warm and slow, down the inside of both legs. She felt it all the way past her knee, past her calf, a thin thread of it reaching the elastic of her sock before it stopped. She made a sound, something between a breath and a laugh, and pressed her forehead to the bench again like a child hiding from a bad grade.

Her phone buzzed a third time in the duffel.

She didn't get up right away. She stayed kneeling on the bench with her ass still lifted and the air cold on her wet skin, and she did the thing she did when she didn't want to know something: she counted. The tiles between the bench and the sink—nine. The lockers on the far wall—twelve. The drips from the shower she'd left running—she lost count at fourteen and started over.

Then she got down.

Her legs didn't want the job. She put one foot on the floor and it held, barely, and the second foot came down and her knees wobbled and she caught herself on the edge of the bench with both hands and stood there, dripping onto the tile, feeling every part of what had just happened to her. Her cunt was sore in a way it had never been sore. Her ass was worse—a hot, stretched, used ache that made her walk like something old, and when she took her first step toward the sink, her whole body told her about it.

The paper towel roll sat on the counter by the mirror, the cheap brown industrial kind that fell apart when it got wet. She pulled off a long strip and it tore crooked. She folded it and pressed it between her legs and the roughness of it made her flinch, and she wiped herself the way you scrub a stain—rough, quick, not looking at what came off on the paper. When the first wad was soaked through she balled it and dropped it in the trash and pulled another. It took four. Four brown wads of paper, dark and heavy, and she dropped the last one in the can and stood there with her hand on the counter and looked at herself in the mirror over the sink.

Her hair was a wreck. Chin-length and stuck to her temples, dried spit on her chin she hadn't wiped off, a red mark along her jaw where the bench had pressed. Her eyes were glassy and her mouth was still swollen. There was a small purple bruise blooming on her hip where his thumb had dug in, and she touched it and it hurt and she didn't move her hand away.

She didn't look like a girl who'd just been taken apart on a bench. She looked like a girl who'd been in a fight and lost. And she was standing in an empty locker room at nine in the morning with her legs shaking, and she was, God help her, still wet.

She turned away from the mirror.

Her duffel was on the floor by the lockers where she'd dropped it, and the phone was in the front pocket, and she crouched—slowly, with a hand on the locker for balance—and fished it out. The screen lit up. Three messages from Ethan, all before seven.

morning! up yet?