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Sierra felt funny when she woke up, but Mom wasn’t in the mood to listen.
“It’s just butterflies,” she said absently, shooing Sierra into the bathroom. “You have that history final today, right? Don’t want to miss it. Come on, honey, you’re going to be late.”
Dad was even less interested in hearing that Sierra felt strange. He waved his hand at her from behind the travel mug he was filling with coffee and, when she tried to explain that her skin was hot and prickly, he just nodded, patted her shoulder and said, “Yes, well, tell your mother,” and hurried down the hall to collect his case by the front door.
Sierra did try to tell Mom again. It completely backfired though, because this time when she said “hot and prickly” Mom paused in the act of zipping her portfolio shut.
“Umm. Hmm. Well.” She reached out a hand, brushed it over Sierra’s forehead, and frowned. “You do feel a little warm. Maybe we should check your levels.”
Sierra jerked back. Checking her levels meant a log entry, which meant she’d miss her own prom. Thanks to the state’s new initiative, nobody was allowed to come to school functions without a week of clean checks following a log entry, even if it was just some nothing temp spike unrelated to your cycle. It was completely unfair, and there were groups trying to get the law overturned because of government overreach or whatever, but after the incident at that one school upstate everybody was chickenshit about taking chances.
“God, Mom, no,” Sierra said hastily, “it’s not like that. How could I even be cycling? I haven’t missed a dose. I just . . . I don’t know, maybe it’s something I ate.”
Mom’s expression smoothed back into absentminded, behind-schedule relief.
“Oh yes, that’s probably it.” She shouldered purse and portfolio, then paused. “Maybe, though, we should check . . .”
“Don’t want to miss the bus, Mom,” Sierra chirped, starting for the door. “I’ll see you tonight okay?”
Before Mom could collect her thoughts and come down on the side of caution over timely departure for work, Sierra had grabbed her own bag from the peg by the door and gone clattering down the steps. She was halfway to the bus stop when she realized that in her haste to escape her mother, she hadn’t even remembered to take her morning dose of anti-cyclicals.
Well, and what of it? Sierra reasoned, joining the huddle at the designated corner. She hadn’t skipped a dose even once since her sixth-grade spring term, when the screening had first come up positive and Mom took her right to the ped for her prescription. But missing one dose wasn’t the end of the world; everybody said so. Some athletes even did it on purpose, to give them an edge on the field. And what were the odds she was actually cycling anyway, when you came down to it? She’d have had to have completely outgrown her prior dosage to come into heat, and how often did that happen?
Okay she didn’t, she realized, actually know how often that happened. But how often could it be?
The bus came to a squeaky, air-braking halt by the curb, and the huddle of waiting kids reformed itself into a squiggle of a line. Sierra went to the back of it.
If outgrowing your dosage were such a common event, she reasoned, you’d hear more about it. You’d have to. That way people would be more careful not to do it.
She put her foot on the bottom step of the bus, buoyed with the confidence of her own impeccable logic.
Yeah. There was definitely nothing to worry about.
Lighter of heart, she boarded the bus.
The stops that ran between Plymouth and Andover Street were the most irksome on Helen’s route. In the morning she stopped there six times to collect kids from all three schools, which was all right, because you could hardly expect the little ones to walk six to eight blocks South to the big intersection at the mouth of the development. Especially not past the play park, with all the condoms people kept finding there. Perfect place to pull over for a fuck, that park, and it seemed like everybody knew it. You couldn’t expect the little ones to walk past that, because you just never knew, right? But in the afternoon, when the elementary kids had all been released early and the two middle school kids from that stretch went to some after school program or other, Helen was of the opinion that it was asinine to track all the way through the side streets of the bedroom community just to drop off a bunch of teenagers who could easily have been let out at the main pick-up point.
Do them some good, she’d tried to argue, to get a little more exercise in. Wasn’t that what they said about kids these days? Didn’t get enough exercise. Heart problems, or something.
Her supervisor, unmoved, had told Helen to take the route as it was or try to get a job with the city instead, if it bothered her so much. Helen, who had not been interested in working for the city, had swallowed her objections and set her resentment to a low simmer instead.
Not like she minded the kids themselves, most days. They could be bratty but there was no real harm in them. The usual sort of suburban kid, overeducated in proportion to their limited life experience, sometimes a little snotty, but mostly not. They were simply entirely capable, Helen was certain, of looking after themselves long enough to get home.
She was still operating in the grip of that belief when she applied the brake and opened the door to admit the usual morning collection. The Harris kids, just little guys, backpacks bigger than their torsos, pulling their own spines out of alignment as they climbed the stairs. Then there was Dina, the quiet one who disappeared behind a book for the whole ride. Now, if that one had been in high school, Helen could have seen the value of providing bus service. She didn’t trust that one not to walk into a lamp post while she navigated the sidewalk with her book upraised.
Then there was Sierra, the only high school student at this stop, the last one on her return trip. Sierra was actually not a bad kid. A little sheltered, sure, and maybe a little more careful of her hair and makeup than she was her grades, according to some of the exchanges Helen overheard en route, but the girl usually looked up from her phone long enough to smile and say hi, and she had never, that Helen could remember, been an asshole to the smaller kids on the bus, which most of the bigger kids seemed to think was some kind of entitlement.
Today Sierra was last on the bus, which wasn’t unusual, but there was something about the way she lingered on the pavement that caught Helen’s attention. She looked different. Was it the hair? Normally there wasn't quite as much wave to it. She had maybe gotten distracted with the iron, or whatever it was she used to tame it. Her color seemed high, too, but not in a way that suggested she had applied it herself. In fact, Helen thought Sierra looked like she had skipped the makeup entirely this morning. So why the impression of a rosy flush on her cheekbones? Her lips looked darker, too. And why was she standing there, just balanced there on the curb, staring at nothing? Baffled, Helen raised her voice and called,
“You coming or not?”
Jerked back to herself with a snap, Sierra jogged up the steps and mustered an apologetic smile for her driver.
“Sorry. Daydreaming.”
Then she started down the aisle toward her assigned seat, but as she brushed past Helen an unmistakable scent caught the older woman’s attention.
Was that . . ? No. It wasn’t possible.
But even as Helen dismissed the idea that Sierra’s parents would ever let her leave the house in such a state, the unmistakable answering tightness caught Helen across the middle.
Jesus Christ. It couldn’t be!
Helen followed the route to the elementary school with mechanical familiarity. The kids all waved and trooped off, then she continued on to the middle school, and then on to drop the high school kids. Sierra was one of the first ones off, the formerly innocuous cut of her shorts suddenly framing what seemed to Helen to be the sweetest, roundest little ass she’d ever seen.
Christ, Helen thought, shaken at having even noticed, what was wrong with her?
Was it Helen herself? Was she the problem? Maybe she had miscalculated her own dosages and skipped one more than was safe. Certainly none of other kids seemed to notice anything amiss with Sierra as they walked off, but then, would they? Inexperience was as much an enemy of understanding as anything else. And these kids would be pretty heavily medicated, too, if their parents were worth anything. Not too many crunchy types in this area, or any religious fundamentalists. Those usually established their own insular communes safely away from larger communities. Their concerns about the chemical poisoning they imagined came of medicine interfering with their precious wee ones’ natural cycles were not appreciated by mainstream culture, especially since their own methods of coping with cycling were usually no more effective than a wish and a prayer. Lot of early marriages, in those communes.
Sierra’s family was not like that. Helen did not know too many details, but she knew that much. The father Helen wasn’t sure about—some kind of employed person in a suit. But the mother was a known name in advertising and the couple times Helen had caught a glimpse, she hadn’t seemed the type to take shit. Definitely not the kind of parent to let her kid go unmedicated.
Which begged the question . . . what the hell?
She hadn’t imagined it. Had she? No, Sierra had definitely tickled her nose in exactly the right way to make Helen’s cock twitch to attention. Not a full blown heat, maybe—more like the delicious half-bouquet of something her dosage had not been adjusted to compensate for. That was easy enough to understand. Even an attentive parent could forget that the dosage needed to be adjusted for weight. Girls in their last year of school certainly tended to fill out in all sorts of ways that a parent might not notice as readily as . . . . well. Other interested parties.
Helen didn’t realize she had been adjusting her slacks to accommodate their swelling contents as she drove until she actually parked the bus and the necessity of standing evoked an involuntary groan. No way could she drive the kids this afternoon, she decided, and headed into the office to request a half day.
Carol, parked behind the desk, was less than accommodating.
“Hmm,” she said, and tapped her pen on the counter. “That’s the Founders’ Park run.”
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” said Carol again, and stared meaningfully. “Been trying to push that one off your plate for a while, haven’t you?”
Helen was conscious of being thought difficult.
“It’s not that,” she said. “I can’t . . . I just can’t, today.”
“Why not?”
“Personal reasons.”
Carol regarded Helen narrowly over her stack of schedules.
“Mm hmm.”
Helen was conscious of being disbelieved.
“You know, Helen,” Carol said, slowly turning one page of the schedule over to inspect its reverse, “it’s going to be difficult for them, when you reapply this summer, not to remember this. They do remember things like this, you know? And this kind of extreme . . . evasion of your assigned route, when remembered, is not likely to make them look favorably on your application.”
Helen’s mouth puckered in frustration. Carol was, quite possibly, correct. More than that, though, Carol really didn’t want to have to go to the trouble of rearranging the roster of sub drivers on a hot afternoon in late June, when she was almost certainly likely to have no joy, and be obliged to double-assign a regular, leading to late students and irate calls from parents and just general misery all around.
And Carol was not above extorting Helen to avoid that headache for herself.
Helen was sorely tempted to just blurt it out: tell Carol why she really couldn’t make the run, and leave Carol to sort it out. But then she’d have to admit the careful math she’d been doing with her own suppressants, which was a violation of her terms of employment, and Carol would definitely be sure to pass that along. Then Helen wouldn’t just be out of a school route, she’d be barred from every other conceivable route there was, from city bus to garbage truck. You didn’t get a job again once you were let go for something like that.
No, telling Carol was out of the question. Which meant . . .
“Well,” she heard herself saying, “of course if you absolutely can’t find a backup . . .”
Carol pounced. “Fantastic. I’ll put in a word for you, Helen.” She retreated behind the glowing screen of her work monitor, and Helen had to try very hard not to notice she was browsing online auction sites.
“See you this afternoon.”
Helen passed the morning in a cold sweat. Would somebody have detected the girl’s condition? Called her parents, had her collected? Not like they could put her in a taxi, smelling so . . . ticklish. But surely a parent—yes, a parent would certainly have had to come collect her. Helen knew, vaguely, that every professional in that building, just like herself, was expected to be on a very strict double protocol of anti-rut meds. She also knew that the professional staff, at least, had an extremely modest copay that allowed them to maintain their correct dosage without financial strain.
Must be nice, she thought bitterly, finishing her sandwich and heading back to the depot. I wouldn’t know.
The elementary run was first, and it was fine. The kids were always keyed up but tired enough that it was short lived. A couple of the littlest ones inevitably fell asleep on the bus and their friends would giggle and poke them awake. It was normal; even pleasantly routine. Helen started to relax.
At the end of her run she turned onto the main boulevard to the high school, almost convinced that she had had been worried for nothing. As they boarded, her confidence soared further as each student who climbed on was, progressively, not Sierra. Of course she wasn’t still here. Somebody had smelled her or checked her or she had told somebody she wasn’t well and they had sent her home safely with—
“Hold up, Helen,” Braden said absently, checking his phone as he climbed the steps. “Sierra’s just coming out of sickroom. She had to grab her shit.”
Helen’s breath went out of her in one single, defeated whoosh.
“Wh-what was wrong with her?” she asked faintly, scanning the bus circle and spying Sierra for herself. The girl was jogging across the pavement, dodging other darting, last-minute figures and waving at Helen to attract her attention; to get her to wait.
“Fuck should I know?” Braden asked affably, finding his assigned seat and disappearing behind his phone with a vengeance. Which was certainly fair.
Helen didn’t even have the heart to scold him for the double profanity. Her mind was racing. She should say something. Even if she had to make something up. She could claim Sierra was flushed, needed her temperature checked. She could say the girl was acting . . . odd, maybe? Helen tried to remember, through her panic, the early signs of heat in a girl Sierra’s age. Did they even mark this early? Or was it just the airborne scent, mostly, and that unwitting come-hither in the expression that let every alpha in working order know that the girl was ready to be broken in? If so, Helen could hardly let on she had noticed that.
Helen was still scrambling for a solution—say something, invent something, just make sure the girl did not get on the bus—when Sierra did, in fact, get on the bus, the aroma of her reached out to wrap around Helen and all rational thought, all problem solving, was replaced by another, eminently reasonable solution.
She could give Sierra a good, hard fuck.
Now why, Helen marveled, didn’t I think of that before?
Humming softly to herself, blood pumping, her cock already hardening its own satisfaction at the plan, she checked the mirrors, threw the bus in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Sierra had been light headed and hot-bellied all day. And, though she would have died rather than admit it to the school nurse, her pussy had been buzzing since lunch time. At last she had begged off afternoon study hall and retreated to the sickroom, claiming vague abdominal issues that had made the nurse tut understandingly, and bring her an ibuprofen.
The ibuprofen barely took the edge off the raging fever that was lifting Sierra’s hair at the very roots. She wrestled uncomfortably on the narrow leather daybed, pawing at the humming sweetness between her legs to absolutely no avail. At first she’d only meant to quiet it, somehow, but the intention rapidly shifted when her palm made contact and she started rubbing against her own fingers, frantic, needy, and desperate to come.
And she did come. So many times. Orgasm exploded after orgasm til her legs were weak and useless and her core ached with the discomfort of abundant pleasure. But it was no use. Every climax she teased out of herself was no satiation—if anything, it only made things worse. The heat mounted steadily, a steamy aching need that had her whimpering into her knuckles by the time the warning bell rang.
She texted Braden as soon as the bell went, and he agreed to ask Helen to wait. Then Sierra stumbled from the sickroom on trembling legs and stared for several minutes into the depths of her locker before she remembered there was no homework this week, because of finals, and she could just leave after all.
The bus was still idling at the curb and she flung herself onto it in a wild-eyed, almost uncomprehending state. She might have thanked Helen for waiting, or not; she couldn’t remember. She did find her assigned seat and curled up into a panting little ball by the window, clutching her backpack to herself and resting her forehead against the blissful coolness of the glass, which steamed and fogged in response to the contact.
The drive home was a blur. Twists and turns and everything around her a background distraction, a buzz of noise that could not hope to eclipse the buzz of her pussy. Her wet, needy, dripping . . .
Wait. The bus wasn’t even moving. They had stopped. They’d been stopped for . . . how long?
She lifted her head, confused, and saw there were no other students left on the bus. Her stop! This must be her—but no. There was shrubbery all around them, and a sign—they were at the play park. The entrance where the splash pad would be running next week. Helen had turned in just before her stop and parked in a little turn-around, currently deserted, totally shielded by a screen of bushes from the view of the road.
“What—“ Sierra said, and looked up.
Helen stood over her, tall and wiry. She had a hand braced on the back of Sierra’s seat and another against the seat in front of her, forming a barrier against the possibility of Sierra’s escape into the aisle. She stared down with an expression that was as foreign as it was unmistakable.
“Oh,” said Sierra, faintly. And then, maybe, “oh no,” but she could never be sure if she had said it out loud.
Not that it mattered anyway.
Not after that.
If Helen had, in fact, suffered any lingering hesitation, it was banished at the sight of Sierra’s face as she lifted her chin to struggle with the questions she was too far gone to ask.
Two rich spots of color stood out high on her cheekbones, and the way those full, red lips parted slightly, and her eyes stared glassily, comprehending purely on instinct what was about to happen as more intellectual reasoning took a comfortable backseat to the need burning in the girl’s body, spoke to Helen’s primal urges in a way nothing had done for a very long time.
“Well you’re sure fucking ready for it,” she muttered, fumbling with the front of her slacks and unzipping them to at last let her cock stand free.
It ached. God it ached. She wanted, above all else, to bury it immediately between the girl’s full, ready thighs and make Sierra learn herself on it. But she still had presence of mind enough to help Sierra move away from the window first, bringing her legs over the side of the seat, and say, hoarsely,
“Take off your shorts.”
Sierra fumbled obligingly at her own front button for a moment before, very belatedly, pausing.
“Uh . . .” she frowned, clearly trying to remember why this had seemed like a good idea. “I don’t think I’m supposed to—“
“Bullshit,” Helen snapped. She put her hand over the girl’s, not roughly, but unyielding, and pressed it to the front of her shorts. “You’re supposed to bare your cunt to me. This is how we do it.”
A lightbulb might as well have flicked on over Sierra’s head, so clearly did this explanation land.
“Oh,” she sighed, “yes. Of course.” And she meekly dropped her shorts and the cotton-and-lace confectionery of her panties (soaked. Helen’s nostrils flared greedily) to puddle around her ankles.
“That’s a good girl,” Helen said gruffly, but sincerely. She meant it. Sierra was clearly willing to please, and there was no point not praising her for it. The sweet ones were easier to break with a little petting.
Sure enough Sierra smiled starrily, big dark eyes lighting with pleasure at having been found pleasing, and her knees half-folded, as if she thought maybe getting down on the ground in front of Helen was the appropriate response to such praise. The hot surge of Helen’s own need made her cock leap and twitch in greedy demand for the submission Sierra had been about to offer.
Get that pussy, her cock seemed to urge. Wrap that sweet little cunt around me right now.
Soon, soon. Soon.
Helen tugged purposefully on it, stroking it to rock hardness, trying to work out how best to accomplish her aim. Threatening the girl, really menacing her, would be unnecessary. She was beyond ready; hell, she was overready. Helen could so clearly picture her pussy as a late summer peach ripened to the bursting of its own sweet, fuzzy skin. Sierra wouldn’t have any trouble accepting this except for the usual grief of inexperience and her need to be pushed firmly past it.
If they’d lived a century and a half earlier, Sierra would have been cloistered in an appropriate ecclesiastical facility to prevent that initiation. Or, if her parents were more of a traditional bent, they would have seen that she was already married off and soaking her alpha’s cock by now. But this was not then, and Helen had to think it through, had to make it clear to the thoroughly untutored girl what she would need to do to signal her submission and preparedness appropriately.
The praise had worked once; better try some more.
“You . . . you have a very pretty pussy, Sierra,” she said hoarsely, and put her hand out to rub it. Her fingers split the sweet, soft lips almost cruelly in their aggression, crushing the crisp, dense curls. Sierra did not seem to mind the rudeness; instead she rubbed blissfully against the grasping hand, her eyes half closed, a dreamy little smile curving those pretty lips up at the corner. Christ, she was humping Helen’s hand.
For a moment, Helen’s entire thought process simply stopped. There was nothing in her head but the sweet blank smile of Sierra’s face and the thick wetness she was dutifully spreading on Helen’s palm as she rutted back and forth in obedience to their compatible need: Sierra’s, to have her pussy stuffed, and Helen’s need to stuff it.
It was that specific thought which won the day. That was the goal, here. Helen pulled her hand away with an almighty effort, and marveled at the slick that glistened on her palm. Thick, clear and spicy-sweet. Beautiful. Well, waste not. She rubbed it slowly along the aching length of her shaft, wetting it with the promise of what was to come. She noticed Sierra’s smile slip into a pout, confused, as her little thrusts at the empty air continued. Poor kid was almost in pain by now, Helen thought, and arousal was tempered with compassion.
She seriously thought of preparing the girl further, trying to make it easier on her somehow, but honestly, there didn’t seem like there was much left to do except give her what she needed more than anything. Helen looked around the bus, shrugged and said, “Get on your knees.”
Sierra dropped. She leaned forward as if she wanted to rub her face in Helen’s pelvis, to kiss her cock in gratitude for simply having been given the chance to kneel before it. Helen rocked her hips forward; let Sierra taste her applied slick on the searing velvet heat of the cock.
“Ohh,” Sierra panted, and Helen couldn’t resist thrusting a little more, letting the girl’s gasp frame her cock’s entrance to her mouth. Then Helen rode the sweet hot wetness of Sierra’s tongue til she choked, startled, and her instinct fractured again. The dominance of her own heat, a new and immature cycle, cracked under the stress of her discomfort and she jerked back off the cock; looked around in real fright.
“What—“ she said, and looked around, blearily struggling to recognize her new situation as the hardness of the floor spoke sharply to her knees and the taste of her own slick worked its magic on her tongue. “No, I don’t—what are you—“
Helen was beyond soothing or cajoling. She caught a fist full of Sierra’s curls along with the nape of her neck, and spun her around to assume the correctly receptive position. Sierra wailed in uncertain dismay as Helen hoisted her up off her knees so her front was pressed onto the vinyl of the bus seat and her legs dangled over the side.
“You’ll only mind it for a minute,” Helen promised, though she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. A new omega was an uncertain thing. Most of them took to it very well, but a few did have to be broken in a few times before they really caught on. Of course these days most omegas married late enough that it was no real bother, but Sierra was a few years early for that.
Not that it counted for anything now. Helen was not about to wait for her to get used to the idea.
She held Sierra in place with one hand and risked a look at her prize. God, she was perfect. The pussy lips pouting sweetly at her right now were pink and heat-plumped. They glistened with the slick Helen had found in evidence, and it was with no difficulty at all that she guided her cock into position to split the lips with the fat, blunt head.
“Ohhh!”
Sierra went rigid and still, as if wrestling with the difficulty of whether or not to struggle. Helen could almost perfectly track the progression of her thoughts. If she struggled, she might further impale herself on the threatening presence that waited just at her rear. But if she didn’t . . .
Helen didn’t give her any further time to debate. She thrust forward, and the slick, wet readiness of the girl sucked her in.
Sierra’s thoughts were a jumble of panic and flame and fireworks. The brutal inward thrust must have hurt. It should have hurt. How could it not hurt? The thing was enormous. It split her, stuffed her, made her fuller than she had ever been in her entire life. She writhed beneath it, around it, sobbing her fear in silent, wet gasps, suffering the invasion far beyond words. But at the same time she was so wet, so unbelievably juicy and ready and desperate to feel the fullness of that fat, forcing thickness that she ignored what she imagined must be the pain of it and leaned back, weeping, not just accepting but seeking the invasion, in the hopes it could fill her further.
If it hurt, it did not hurt enough to eclipse her want for it, and Sierra wanted to be filled with that more than she remembered wanting anything before.
She needn’t have worried. The thing kept advancing, claiming her, until the need was rapidly eclipsed by mounting discomfort, and then the fear began to flutter to the surface again because she was full, had never felt so full, yet still it kept coming.
“Ohhh,” she groaned, and the punishing hand firmed again on the nape of her neck, assuring her of her immobility. The grip settled her, oddly, by making it clear she would have no choice but to lie there and take it. Take it all, presumably, however much of it there was . . . dear God there was a lot.
She shut her eyes, weeping silently, accepting her position and all its implications, both loving and loathing the absolute inescapable rutting advancement of the cock.
Helen was in paradise. Or what she imagined paradise must feel like, if it could suit a person better than anything else they’d ever known. The girl’s cunt took her in like a live thing, a sweet sucking crevice utterly unembarrassed about its willingness to betray its owner’s own clear reluctance to allow her entrance. The girl’s cunt was as ready for it as the girl herself was not, and Sierra’s desperate cries and abortive struggle only sweetened the progress of the assault.
What a marvel, that cunt! Helen’s thrusts were steady, sublime, assured. The slick was so abundant that she advanced with only minimal difficulty, overall, though of necessity the girl was a tight fuck. She moaned like one too, the tremulous undercurrent of pain brightening the uniqueness of the moment, her first penetration and her first understanding of what her role was meant to be.
“There’s a good girl,” Helen muttered, sensing that she had nearly taxed Sierra to her limit. “You’re gonna take it for me so sweet, honey, just wait and see. That’s it, get those hips up—“ Christ, the girl actually did as she was told, despite the pain. Sierra struggled to lift her ass only to be slammed helplessly back to the seat by the next thrust. Intoxicated, Helen tried again.
“Lift your hips, Sierra. Get your ass up.”
Sierra obeyed, piteously, only to once again be slammed down into place.
“Ass up,” Helen barked, and Sierra obeyed, as if she didn’t know she would be driven down again, or knew but did not care. Helen pounded into her once more, hard enough to elicit a squeal, and closed her eyes, blissful, content.
“Aw, honey,” Helen sighed. “What a good girl you are. Okay, now. Here we go.” She lifted the girl’s hips again, then coached her to get her knees under her, until she was kneeling in a deep kowtow on the seat, head still forced down, sweet pink ass and stuffed pussy pointing right up at Helen. Her own body would bear the brunt of the assault, and Helen wouldn’t have to rely on anything but that to keep her in position.
“There we go,” Helen said. “That’s just the thing.”
Then she grabbed the girl’s hips, and fucked into her once more.
The explosion of pain and pleasure between Sierra’s thighs rolled her eyes right back under her lids. It was like nothing she had ever dreamed could exist. The desperate misery of her desire to escape still sat in her belly, but how could she possibly remember she didn’t want this when her body was so clearly telling her she did? Not even want, really. More than want. Deeper than want. She needed it. The driving, dominating possession of her—
Sierra’s thoughts shattered in an explosion of pain just south of her belly, as some previously innocent part of her cunt was made aware of its complete possession, and she yelped. The hand on her hair gave a warning snap, then a gentling pat, as if to reward her for taking the pain so well.
Sierra leaned into that understanding, instinctively flattening her cheek against the seat and arching her back, offering herself more fully to the assault she longed to escape. She could take it. She could be good. She could give her cunt to the cock that belonged there. She would make the cock happy, she would be a good girl.
She was rewarded by an acceleration of speed and fracture of pattern. The battering had become rhythmic, but now stuttered again, an edge of desperation creeping into the thrusts. Something was coming, Sierra’s senses told her, and more than that they told her she craved it. She pressed back trustingly, blindly obedient to the dictates of her cycle, needing, wanting—
Her scream split the air of the bus just moments after the thing split her cunt. Hugeness consumed her. Size claimed her. Pain overwhelmed.
The invasion was complete. Stretching, widening, claiming, filling, like nothing ever before or ever could fill her, overwhelming her with its newness, its completion, its inescapable claim on her body.
Lightning bolts of pain and victory lanced through her nerve endings. Sierra came apart on the seat, sobbing, miserable, so completely conquered, so finished, so full. Helen didn’t even pull her hair for crying out, so it must be permissible that this was too much, must be okay to take it, must be good.
She tried, blindly, to crawl away from the pain, but Helen’s weight was on her and the weight of thing inside her made escape impossible. Helen panted above her, raw, ragged breaths of victory, and Sierra, through her misery, understood that this was all supposed to be this way.
This was right.
Christ, the girl had actually taken the knot. Helen stared in wonder at the obscenity of the little cunt swelling around her, stretched beyond all capacity by the thing it was clearly not ready and yet so equally clearly designed to hold. She held it. Inside her! Sierra’s sweet little cunt, newly summoned into womanhood, was holding that knot like it was always meant to do. Was the girl actually maybe even enjoying—but no, those were not moans or cries of pleasure. Confusion, mostly, and dismay. A shame, Helen thought absently, that it had needed to be this way, but she’d get over it soon enough.
She patted the girl’s hair, clumsily soothing, acknowledging the moment and its strain on her.
“There, now,” she said. “You’ll be fine. This is what you’re meant for, honey. All this. You’ll see. Hang on, this is the last bit. You’re not going to like it.”
Then she reared back, grabbed the girl’s hips where red, finger-shaped splotches were already promising to leave some really satisfying bruises in the morning, and ground the girl’s pussy down on her knot.
Sierra’s scream was just about the prettiest damn thing Helen had ever heard. Equal parts fear, pleasure and complete confusion and agony. Helen didn’t stand a chance against that note—she came on the spot.
Heat flooded Sierra’s belly. Different than before. Different than anything, ever. A kind of quicksilver, liquid heat, as the impossible thing surged and squeezed within her, as her cunt stretched to the limit around its demand for space, and then . . . the heat. So good and sweet and right. So . . . filling. But not in a rough and demanding way, like the hardness still inside her. Something better than that. Something soft, and calming, and delivering a satisfaction the likes of which Sierra had never known could exist.
With a cry of understanding, a true knowing of self, she pressed her face deep into the vinyl of the seat, desiring to deliver her own perfect submission in response to Helen’s semen surging within her. She would take it all.
As it flooded her, filled her, made her truly whole, Sierra came, too.
The girl clamped around her cock like a vise. Helen came again, falling forward to brace her arms on either side of the girl’s limp little figure, a toy broken and spent and squeezing down beautifully on her cock. The answering surge of ejaculate was so powerful it took Helen’s breath away. Then the cunt, again, fluttered gratefully, and Helen knew, distantly, that she was being milked. That the cunt sought everything it could claim from her cock, and her cock was only too ready to deliver, spurt after spurt after spurt, until Sierra’s pretty head lolled dazedly to the side and her expression of fuckstruck wonder wrung the last few drops that Helen had to give.
Helen stared down at the girl in wonder, a woman newly made, and leaned down to kiss her lips.
“What a good girl, Sierra,” she said hoarsely. “Fuck. Just . . . fuck. What a good girl you are.”
After that there was only silence in the steamy confines of the bus.