W

You wake because your body won't let you sleep any longer. The clock on the nightstand reads 8:04, and the light coming through the blinds sits at that low horizontal angle that means you've lost the whole morning. Your cock is already up, hard before your eyes are open, the sheet pitched off it like a tent pole. It aches. Not the good kind of ache — the other kind, the pressure behind the root, the thing that makes your jaw clench and your thighs flex against nothing. Twelve times yesterday and your body woke up wanting more like none of it happened. You lie there a second trying to breathe it down. It doesn't go down. It never does.

You pull on yesterday's boxers — the ones still on the floor by the bed — and they do nothing to hide it. You go down the stairs two at a time because standing still makes it worse, and the wood is cold under your feet, and you can hear both of them in the living room before you see them.

Nat's on the couch with her coffee, ponytail lopsided from sleep, tank top and loose shorts, one bare foot tucked under her. Cassie's cross-legged on the other end in nothing but one of Nat's old t-shirts and a pair of shorts that barely qualify, honey-blond hair a wreck around her face. They're mid-laugh about something you didn't catch.

Both of them look up when you hit the last step, and both of their faces change at once.

"Dylan." Nat sets the mug down. "What's wrong. Are you dizzy? Are you seeing the tunnel?"

"I'm not dizzy." You stand there with your hands at your sides because there's nowhere to put them that doesn't look like what it is. "I'm — I think I'm so horny I can't control it."

Cassie snorts into her coffee.

Nat's already on her feet, practical, moving the way she moves in a crisis. "Okay. Okay. Do what you have to, and we'll contain it."

"Can I do whatever I want?"

They look at each other. Something passes between them that you're not supposed to see and see anyway — Cassie's eyebrow going up, Nat's mouth doing that little twist. Then they both look back at you.

"Yes," Nat says.

"Yes," Cassie says, half a beat behind her, and she sounds like she means it more than Nat does.

You don't think after that. You cross the room in three steps and you're on Nat before she can sit back down. Your hands find the hem of her tank top and you haul it up over her head in one pull, and her tits come free heavy and warm and you put your face straight into them, mouth open on the underside of one, nose buried in the crease, breathing her in. She makes a startled sound that turns into a laugh that turns into a breath when you suck her nipple in hard. Your hands are under her thighs and you lift her — she's not light, she's all of her, and it doesn't matter — and you drop her onto the couch cushions on her back, and she lands with an *oof* and a grin that's already gone soft at the edges.

You get her shorts and her underwear in one grip and pull them down her legs, and she lifts her hips to help, and then she's bare from the waist down and the couch smells like coffee and like her, and you're not shy, there's no room left in you for shy. You shove your boxers down, step out of them, and you're inside her before either of you says a word.

She's wet — not ready-wet, *soaked*, like she'd been thinking about this before you came downstairs — and you go in to the root in one push and she arches up off the cushion and grabs the arm of the couch over her head. You pull back and drive in again, hard, and the whole couch frame jumps against the wall with a *thump*. Again. *Thump*. You get a rhythm fast — you're not being careful, you're not being anything, you're just moving — and you can see the couch walk itself backward across the floorboards an inch at a time with every thrust.

"God — Dylan —" Her voice comes out in pieces between the sounds you're pushing out of her.

You don't answer. You put your hands on the backs of her thighs and press her knees up toward her chest and fuck her deeper, and she stops trying to talk and just moans, one long note that breaks on every stroke. Her tits are moving with the thrusts. Her ponytail's come loose against the cushion. When you come the first time you don't slow down — you feel it go, hot and thick, and you keep going through it, and she feels it and her whole body clenches around you and she says your name like a curse.

You're still hard. You don't pull out.

You get her ankles up on your shoulders — one, then the other, hooking them there — and you lean your weight forward so she's folded almost in half under you, and you fuck her like that, hard and fast, and the angle makes her go loud. Not a word. Just noise, rising on each thrust, her hands scrabbling at the cushion by her head, one heel slipping off your shoulder and you catching it and putting it back.

"Harder," she gets out. "Don't stop — don't —"

You don't stop. You come the second time still folded into her, and she takes it with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth open and nothing coming out, and when you finally ease her legs down off your shoulders she's breathing like she ran here.

You don't pull out. You turn her. Hands on her hip and her shoulder, rolling her onto her side on the couch, and she goes with it, boneless, one arm flung out, and you slide back into her from behind and start again. Sideways like this you can see her face in profile, mouth slack, cheek mashed into the cushion, and you can watch her tits swing with every stroke and reach around and get a handful of one. She grabs your wrist and holds it there. The third one builds slower and comes harder; you feel her pussy flutter around you before you go, and you empty into her a third time and she makes a low sound into the cushion that isn't a word.

You're still hard.

You pull her onto her back again and push her knees up and this time you get her ass up off the couch, hips tilted, and you fuck her down into it, and she's given up on words entirely, just that rising moan getting louder every time your hips slap into her. The fourth one goes into her and you don't even slow. Her hand finds yours on her hip and her fingers lace into yours and grip hard, and you keep going, and the fifth one comes so close behind the fourth that you can't tell where one ended.

By the sixth she's shaking. You lay her flat on her back and get both her feet in your hands and spread her wide and hold her there, and you fuck her as hard as you have all morning, and she comes apart under you — you feel it, the long clench, the way her heels press into your palms — and you come the sixth time into her and hold there, buried, until the last of it's out.

Cassie has not moved from the other end of the couch the whole time. She's sitting with her coffee gone cold in her hand, watching, and she hasn't said one word, and when you finally pull out of Nat and turn your head, she's already setting the mug down on the floor.

You're still hard.

You cross the two feet of carpet to her and she doesn't wait — she stands up into you and lets you strip the t-shirt off her, and then the shorts, and she's bare under them, and she steps out of the clothes at her feet and looks up at you with those sharp blue eyes and says, "Well. Get on with it, then."

You put her on her back on the floor, on the rug, and she hooks one leg around your hip to pull you in, and you go into her in one push and she's wet and hot and tight and she gasps and grins at the same time. Then you do to her what you did to Nat — the same long hard rhythm, the same fold, the same roll onto her side, the same ass-up angle, the same spread-wide finish — and she takes every one of them without looking away from your face once, watching you the whole time like she's cataloguing it, and she comes twice on her own somewhere in the middle of your count.

You come six more times, one into her for each one you gave Nat, and when you finally pull out of her and the last of it runs down the inside of her thigh, you're standing there in the middle of the living room with your chest heaving and your cock finally, *finally* going soft, and the pressure behind your ribs is gone.

Nat's still flat on the couch where you left her, one arm over her eyes.

"Wow," she says, into the crook of her elbow. "That's a roller coaster. And we were worried we couldn't take it." She moves her arm and looks at you, and then at Cassie on the floor, and starts to laugh. "Let's do it again if you're that horny."

Cassie, still on her back on the rug, grinning up at the ceiling, lifts one hand and gives a thumbs-up.

"Agreed," she says.

They both laugh. You stand there between them, wet and spent and twenty-two years old, and you laugh too, because there's nothing else to do with it — and because somewhere in the last twenty minutes you stopped being the guy who needed help and became something else, and all three of you know it, and none of you is going to be the one to say it out loud.

Nat sits up, swings her legs off the couch, and reaches for her cold coffee.

"Okay," she says, businesslike, like she's calling the end of a meeting. "Breakfast. Then we talk about the rest of the day."

Cassie's still on the floor. She hasn't moved to get up yet, and she's watching you, and she hasn't stopped smiling.

You eat standing up at the counter because sitting still isn't in the cards yet. Nat scrambles eggs in the pan and Cassie perches on the stool next to you with her heel hooked on the rung, and the two of them keep going — Nat telling Cassie about the time a plumber came to the house and Dylan's cock tented the towel he was wearing and the plumber asked if everything was okay, and Cassie laughing so hard she almost slides off the stool, and then Cassie telling Nat about her ex and how he never once made her come in six years and how yesterday she came twice before breakfast. They look at you when they say it. Both of them. Every time. Like the punchline is you and they're both in on it.

You finish the eggs. You drink a glass of water. Your body is quiet for the first time since you can remember — not the good quiet, the heavy quiet, the kind you get after a meal that was too big. Nat stacks the plates. Cassie wipes the counter with a rag and puts her whole hip into it in a way that isn't about the counter. You watch them both and you feel the pull in your chest — not the pressure, something else, something that makes you want to stay in the room even though there's nothing left to do in it.

But your legs are heavy and your eyes keep closing on you and you're done.

"I'm gonna go lie down," you say.

Nat looks up from the sink. "Yeah. You earned it."

Cassie doesn't say anything. She just smiles at you the way she's been smiling since she got off the floor, and that smile is a whole sentence, and you take it upstairs with you.

You fall asleep the second your head hits the pillow. No dreams. No drifting. Just the drop.

When you open your eyes, the light through the blinds is coming in at the opposite angle and the clock says 8:04 again — same time, different day, or maybe the same day, you can't tell. Your cock is up before you're awake, hard enough to hurt, the sheet pitched off it, the head slick against your stomach. Not the slow morning burn from yesterday. This is worse. This is a fist closing around the base and squeezing. Your jaw aches from clenching in your sleep. Your thighs are shaking against the mattress and you haven't moved yet.

You throw the sheet off and get up and the floor is cold and your cock bobs in front of you like it doesn't belong to you. You don't bother with boxers. You go down the stairs with one hand braced on the rail and your teeth set, and by the time you hit the third step you can hear them in the living room, and by the time you hit the last one you know you must look like something that crawled out of a hole.

Nat's on the couch with her coffee. Cassie's cross-legged at the other end in the t-shirt again. They both turn when you come down and both of their faces change at the same time — Nat's mouth opening, Cassie's eyebrows going up, both of them reading you in a half second.

"Dylan." Nat's already setting the mug down. "What's wrong. Are you dizzy? Are you seeing the tunnel?"

"I'm not dizzy." Your voice comes out low and rough. "I'm just — I think I'm so horny I can't control it."

Cassie snorts into her coffee. Nat looks at you for a second and then nods, the way she nods when she's already decided.

"Okay," she says. "Do what you have to. We'll contain it."

"Can I do whatever I want?"

They look at each other. That same thing passes between them — Cassie's eyebrow, Nat's mouth doing the little twist — and then they both look back at you.

"Yes," Nat says.

"Yes," Cassie says, half a beat behind her, and she sounds like she means it more.

You don't give yourself a second to think about it. You're across the room and on Nat, hands already moving, and you get the tank top off her in one motion and put your face straight into her chest — mouth open on the underside of her tit, nose buried in the crease between them, and you breathe her in, soap and coffee and skin, and you bite down just enough that she hisses through her teeth. Her hands come up into your hair and grip.

"Okay — okay, then," she says, and it comes out unsteady.

You don't answer. You get your hands under her ass and lift her off her feet — she makes a startled sound and grabs your shoulders — and you carry her two steps and put her down flat on the couch, and the cushions give under her and she lands looking up at you with her ponytail fanned out and her mouth open on a question she doesn't get to ask. You hook both thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and her underwear together and drag them down her legs, and she lifts her hips to let you, and then she's bare and you can smell her from here, that heavy wet smell, and she wasn't expecting this either but her thighs are already slick when you get a hand between them.

You shove your boxers down and step out of them and you're inside her before either of you takes another breath.

She's soaked. You go in to the root in one push and she arches up hard enough that the back of her head comes off the cushion, and her hands fly out and grab the arm of the couch over her head. You pull back and slam in again and the whole frame jumps off the wall with a *thump* that rattles the lamp on the end table. Again. *Thump*. You find a rhythm fast and ugly and you don't slow down for anything, and you can see the couch walking itself backward across the floorboards an inch at a time under you — you can see it, actually see the rug bunching up behind the back legs.

"Dylan —" Her voice comes out in pieces, chopped by the thrusts. "Dylan, god —"

You don't slow. You put your hands on the backs of her thighs and press her knees up toward her ribs and fuck her deeper, and whatever she was going to say next gets swallowed by a moan that climbs a note higher on every stroke. Her tits are moving with it. Her ponytail's come all the way loose now, hair stuck to her cheek. You feel the first one coming up through you from way down behind your balls and you don't hold it and you don't pull out — you come inside her and keep going right through it, and she feels it happen and her whole pussy clenches down around you like a fist and she says your name like she's mad at you.

You're still hard. You don't pull out.

You get both ankles up on your shoulders one after the other, hooking them there, and you lean your weight forward until she's folded almost in half under you and the angle changes everything. The drag of your cock on the way out tightens, catching on something inside her that makes her whole body jerk, and you go back in to the root and she makes a sound that isn't a word or a name or anything but air being pushed up out of her. You fuck her like that, hard and fast, and every stroke lands with a wet slap that echoes off the ceiling.

"Harder," she gets out between her teeth. "Don't stop — don't you dare —"

You don't stop. You come the second time still folded into her, and this one's thicker than the first, and she takes it with her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth open and nothing coming out of it, and when you finally ease her legs down off your shoulders she's breathing like she ran here from the car.

You don't pull out. You turn her. Hands on her hip and her shoulder, rolling her onto her side on the couch, and she goes with it, boneless, one arm flung out over the edge of the cushion, and you slide back into her from behind and start again. Sideways like this you can see her face in profile, mouth slack, cheek mashed into the fabric, and you can watch her tits swing with every stroke and reach around and get a handful of one. She grabs your wrist and holds it there, nails biting into your forearm.

"That's it," she says, low, almost to herself. "That's it, that's it —"

The third one builds slower and comes harder. You feel her pussy flutter around you before you go, that fast pulse that means she's right at the edge too, and you empty into her a third time and she makes a low sound into the cushion that isn't a word. You don't pull out. You pull her onto her back again and push her knees up and this time you get her ass up off the couch, hips tilted, and you fuck her down into it, and she's given up on words entirely, just that rising moan getting louder every time your hips slap into her.

The fourth one goes into her and you don't even slow. Her hand finds yours on her hip and her fingers lace into yours and grip hard, and you keep going, and the fifth one comes so close behind the fourth that you can't tell where one ended. Her hair's plastered to her forehead. There's sweat in the crease under her tits. Her eyes keep rolling back and coming down and rolling back.

You put her on her back on the floor, on the rug, and she hooks one leg around your hip to pull you in, and you go into her in one push and she's wet and hot and tight and she gasps and grins at the same time. You do to her what you did to Nat — the long hard rhythm, the fold, the roll onto her side, the ass-up angle, the spread-wide finish — and she takes every one of them without looking away from your face once, watching you the whole time like she's cataloguing it, and she comes twice on her own somewhere in the middle of your count.

You come six more times, one into her for each one you gave Nat, and when you finally pull out of her and the last of it runs down the inside of her thigh, you're standing there in the middle of the living room with your chest heaving and your cock finally, finally going soft, and the pressure behind your ribs is gone.