Chapter 8

The ceiling fan is doing slow, lazy circles above us, and I’m watching it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world because if I close my eyes I might actually pass out. My body feels like it’s been through a car wash — wrung out, tumbled, left damp and shaking. Every muscle in my legs is doing this low-frequency twitch that I can’t stop.

A draw. She wants to call it a draw.

There’s a war happening inside my skull, and it’s not even subtle. One voice — the reasonable one, the Chris who gets good grades and worries about precalc quizzes — is practically screaming at me. Take the deal, you idiot. She’s buying your clothes. She’s meeting you every day after school for sex. She’s gorgeous and she’s insatiable and she actually showed you something real tonight. Take. The. Deal.

Then there’s the other voice. Quieter. Darker. It doesn’t scream. It just wants.

Break this bitch.

I glance down past the ruined landscape of sheets bunched around my hips. My cock is still hard. Of course it is. It doesn’t care about strategy or reason or what’s healthy. It’s already voted, and it voted unanimously.

The idea of a harem — of having more than just Regina, of having all of it — sends a pulse of heat through my gut that’s almost nauseating in its intensity. But I also don’t know if I can physically continue. I have never exercised. Not voluntarily, not consistently, not ever. And after that marathon, the only thing keeping me conscious right now is the fact that my stomach is growling so loud it’s practically echoing off the walls.

Regina is draped over me like expensive wrapping paper — one leg hooked over mine, her arm across my chest, her head tucked into the hollow of my shoulder. Her finger traces an idle, absent pattern over the few pathetic strands of chest hair I’ve got, and she seems — I study her through half-lidded eyes — she seems less wrecked than me. Her breathing is calm. Slow. Almost meditative.

Of course she exercises. Look at her. That body doesn’t happen by accident. Those legs, that stomach, the way her back curves in a way that makes you want to put your hand in the small of it — that’s discipline. Pilates or yoga or whatever rich girls do at six in the morning while people like me are drooling into their pillows.

Which means she’s got more in the tank than I do.

Which means if I call the draw right now, she wins. Not on paper — on paper it’s even. But she’ll know. She’ll know I was the one who ran out of gas first, and Regina George is exactly the kind of person who keeps score.

But if I can get her to do the work...

I shift underneath her, just enough to feel myself still thick inside her. She makes a small, contented sound against my neck. Like a cat being stroked.

“Get on top,” I tell her.

She lifts her head. Her hair is an absolute disaster — matted, tangled, stuck to her face with sweat — and she still manages to look like something out of a magazine. Her eyes search mine, and I see that little flicker behind them. Interest. Challenge.

“Again?” She says it like she’s surprised, but the corner of her mouth is already curling.

“Did I stutter?”

She pushes herself up, pressing both palms flat against my chest, and swings her leg over me. The movement is smooth, athletic — she barely has to adjust before she’s seated fully on me, knees digging into the mattress on either side of my hips, my cock buried to the hilt inside her. She exhales through her nose, long and deliberate, her eyes fluttering shut for just a second.

I focus on my breathing. In through the nose, slow. Out through the mouth, slower. I flatten my hands on her thighs and let her set the pace, conserving every ounce of energy I’ve got left. My heart rate is still way too high, and my arms feel like they’re filled with sand, and if she knew how close I was to the edge of my endurance right now she’d probably laugh in my face.

But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t get to know.

Regina rolls her hips forward and I grip her thighs harder, grounding myself. She finds a rhythm quickly — deep, circular, grinding motions that let her control the angle and the pressure. Her hands are on my chest for leverage and I can feel her weight shift with each movement, her core doing all the work. She’s good at this. She’s really good at this, the way her body undulates above me is almost hypnotic, her back arching, her head tilting back.

I breathe. I focus. I clench my jaw and think about baseball statistics and the quadratic formula and anything that isn’t the way she feels clenching around me right now.

Her pace picks up. Her breathing changes — shorter, sharper, with these little catches in the back of her throat that I’ve already learned to recognize. I watch her face, the way her brow furrows and her lips part, and I keep my hands steady on her thighs, thumbs pressed into the soft skin of her inner legs.

“Oh — fuck —” She breaks first. Her whole body tightens, spine going rigid, fingers curling into my chest hard enough to leave marks. She shudders through it, her rhythm faltering for just a second before she picks it back up, grinding through the aftershocks with a desperate little whimper that makes my teeth ache.

I breathe. I hold on.

She recovers faster than I expect. Of course she does. Her eyes open, glassy and dark, and she looks down at me with this wild, disbelieving expression — like she can’t figure out how I’m still here, still hard, still waiting. She bites her bottom lip and rolls her hips again, harder now, and I feel the wet heat of her tighten around me.

It builds again. She’s chasing it. Her hands slide up from my chest to my shoulders, her nails dragging, and she leans forward, changing the angle. The sound she makes when she finds the right spot is obscene — this broken, breathy moan that she buries against my neck. Her hips are moving faster, almost frantic, and I can feel the second one building in her by the way her thighs tremble against my sides.

“Cum for me,” I tell her, because I can’t hold on much longer and I need her to get there now.

She does. She shatters — I feel it everywhere, the way her whole body seizes and clenches and her voice cracks on something that might be my name. And the feeling of her pulsing around me pulls me under too. I grab her hips and thrust up into her hard, once, twice, and then I’m spilling inside her again, this thick, pulsing release that rips through me like a current.

She collapses on top of me. Full dead weight. Her face is buried in my neck and she’s panting, her ribs heaving against mine, her body slick with fresh sweat on top of the dried layer from before. My cock is still inside her. Still hard, but the iron-bar rigidity from earlier has softened just slightly — more like firm than granite. It’s the closest to satisfied it’s been all night, and even now it’s not quite there.

I stare at the ceiling fan. My heart is slamming against the inside of my ribs. Every breath I pull in feels like I’m breathing through a straw.

She used more energy than me. That was the whole point. She rode me, she did the work, she burned through whatever reserves she had.

But I can feel her breathing already starting to slow. Her heartbeat, thudding against my chest, is evening out faster than mine is. Her fingers flex lazily against my shoulder, then relax.

She’s tired. But she’s not destroyed.

And I am. I am absolutely, categorically destroyed. Having her do the work helped, but not nearly as much as I was hoping. The gap between us — between her athletic, disciplined body and my skinny, never-exercised frame — is still right there, and she’s on the winning side of it.

I swallow against my raw throat and keep staring at the fan, feeling the dark thing inside me coil and recalculate.

“You know what was really hot?” I say, my voice still ragged. “This morning. In that bathroom stall. When you got on your knees for me.”

Regina makes a sound against my chest — not quite a laugh, more like a purr. She shifts her weight, her cheek pressing into the hollow below my collarbone. “Mm. That was pretty hot.” Her finger stops tracing my chest hair, and she splays her palm flat over my sternum like she’s measuring my heartbeat. “I have no idea what got into me. I swear I am normally not such a slut.” She pauses, and something genuine creeps into her voice, something almost confused. “But something about you ... I just ... could not help myself.”

“How about we relive that moment right now?” I flex my cock inside her — not even a thrust, just a deliberate pulse of muscle.

Regina’s hips wiggle. Testing. Confirming. Her eyes go wide.

“You, sir, are a machine,” she says, and the giggle that escapes her is so girlish and unguarded it barely sounds like her. Then something shifts behind her eyes — a recalibration — and when she speaks again her voice carries that smooth authority I’m starting to recognize. “But you are a smelly machine.”

She peels herself off me. My cock slides out of her as she rolls to the edge of the mattress and stands, and just like that — just like that — she’s back in charge. You can see it in the way she squares her shoulders, the way she turns to face me with one hand already extended.

“Come. We both need to shower.”

She grabs my hand and pulls. I let her haul me upright, my legs swinging off the side of the bed, feet hitting the cool hardwood. Every muscle in my body screams in protest. My quads feel like someone took a bat to them.

Regina tugs my hand and starts walking toward her bathroom. Her stride is confident, purposeful — the stride of someone who’s already decided how this ends.

And there it is. Her controlling nature, clicking back into place like a light switch. She’s only submissive when I’m balls deep inside her. The second I pull out, the queen puts her crown back on and starts issuing orders again.

If I step into that shower right now, I’m silently agreeing to the draw. I’m accepting her terms, her schedule, her version of this. After-school sessions until her parents come home. Monogamy. Her rules, her car, her world, and me orbiting inside it like a well-behaved moon.

She takes another step and my arm goes taut. I don’t move.

Regina glances back, eyebrows raised. “Come on—”

And something in me just snaps.

I don’t even know where the energy comes from. I was completely drained five seconds ago — muscles liquid, lungs burning, every cell in my body begging for sleep and a cheeseburger. But apparently there were reserves hidden somewhere deep and dormant, some primal backup generator that only kicks on when everything else has failed. Because suddenly my blood is running hot again and my grip on her hand tightens and the exhaustion doesn’t disappear, exactly, but it gets shoved into a box and locked shut by something bigger than fatigue.

She might be Regina Fuckin’ George.

But I am Chris Swanson. God of Fuck.

“Oh no,” I say, and my voice comes out low and steady and nothing like how I feel. “We’re not done yet.”

I yank her toward me and spin her around in one motion, driving her forward until her palms slap flat against the wall beside the bed. She gasps — not in fear, in surprise — and before she can recover I close the distance, pressing my chest against her back and clamping my hand around the nape of her neck. My fingers dig into the muscle there, pinning her in place. With my other hand I reach between us, grip my cock, line myself up.

And slam into her from behind.

The moan that rips out of her is pure, involuntary arousal — her body reacting before her brain can. But I catch it. The slight grimace that flickers across her face, gone almost before it registers. She’s sore. Hours and hours of nonstop fucking will do that. Good. That means I’m getting to places no one else has reached.

I thrust forward again, harder, and her tits compress against the cool wall. She braces herself with both palms, fingers spread wide, and I keep the pressure on the back of her neck — firm, possessive, mine — while I slide my other hand down along the curve of her hip, down between her thighs, searching.

A silent thank you to Jess. This morning in the shower, when she took my hand and guided my fingers, showed me exactly where to press and how much pressure to use — I didn’t know how soon I’d need that lesson.

My fingertips brush slick, swollen skin. I adjust. Circle. Press.

It takes a second. Maybe two. But I know I’ve found the right spot when Regina’s moans kick up an entire octave — a sharp, shuddering cry that vibrates through the wall she’s pinned against.

There.

I withdraw my hand from her neck and squeeze it between her body and the wall, sliding up until my forearm crosses her collarbone and my fingers wrap around the column of her throat. I don’t squeeze. I’m not looking to murder her. But I apply just enough pressure — steady, deliberate — to feel her pulse hammering against my palm. To let her know, in a language more honest than words, that I am in control. Not her.

One hand around her throat. One hand on her clit. My hips driving forward in a rhythm that’s settling into something mechanical, something beyond conscious thought.

And then I go somewhere else.

The thinking part of my brain — the part that analyzes and second-guesses and overthinks everything — just goes dark. What takes over is older. Deeper. The reptilian core beneath all the layers of civilization and self-awareness and SAT vocabulary. Pure instinct. Pure drive. I fuck into her like breathing, like my body was built for exactly this motion and every other thing I’ve ever done with it was just practice.

Regina cums.

And she doesn’t stop.

It starts as a single sharp convulsion — her whole body locking up, her pussy clenching so hard around my cock that I almost lose my rhythm. But I don’t. My fingers keep circling, keep pressing, and my hips keep driving, and somewhere in that overlap of sensation I hit a frequency that her body can’t escape. I feel it happen — her orgasm doesn’t crest and break, it crests and holds, and then another wave builds on top of the first before it’s even finished, and another on top of that.

Her pussy flutters around me in continuous, rhythmic contractions — not the sharp clench-and-release of a single orgasm but something rolling and relentless, one bleeding into the next without any break between them. Her thighs are shaking so hard I can feel the tremor in the wall. Her hands slide down the smooth surface, nails scraping uselessly, unable to find purchase.

She stopped moaning words a while ago. What comes out of her now is animal — low, guttural grunts that have nothing to do with language, sounds I don’t think she knows she’s making. Her head lolls to one side against my forearm and I see a thin line of saliva trailing from the corner of her mouth, sliding down her chin. Her eyes are glazed. Unfocused. Somewhere far away from this room.