PAWNS: The Polyschool

Class is out forever, but the many girls of the Ruhk-Abilgaard Teaching College don't want to go yet. They still have so much to learn, about each other.

Work Text:

[Thanks ATR for helping me with this one --Limerick]

Every so often Peyton would think that Professor Anderson was hot. Objectively.

There was evidence of this that could be reduced to reassuring bullet points. His voice was unquestionably hot. It was both soft-spoken and possessed of a dark and masculine timbre. By the way it commanded rooms at Ruhk-Abilgaard Teaching College, it had to be mutually-agreed upon as sexy. He had sexy hands, she felt -- and if Peyton couldn’t trust herself on the matter, and she didn’t, there was the keen, quiet interest of every single female student in the classroom. The way they all leaned forwards, in unison.

Even Peyton, lone wolf Peyton, could feel the web of female interest strung across the classroom when Professor Anderson manhandled the ancient projector.

Lone wolf, she thought. Awooooo.

Professor Anderson gave them all a serious, smoldering look, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a black and blue tie and a pocket square. He brought his hands out and clasped them. There was a patch of fuzz on the back of each.

Awoooooooooooooooo, Peyton thought, again.

“The news is all bad,” Professor Anderson told them. “I’ll give it to you in random order of badness. Moderately worst first. This college is closing its doors in two weeks.”

Moderate surprise in the classroom, despite how many girls had already left.

Peyton liked big crowds, somewhat against type. Reading one person was an impossibility, but crowds? That was statistics. With such huge gaps in the polished wooden rows even she could observe local social dynamics from the remnants, and deduce why they’d stayed.

There was a pretty big coagulation of girls in the middle who were all good friends. Friendship strong enough to bind them to a dying nunnery-esque school in rural Wisconsin.

The outskirts of the benches generally held special cases -- Emmalyn, who lived nearby, her dad was sick. Morgan headed the rich girl cluster. Peyton figured them as too wealthy to recognize actual adversity. Near the front were her roommates, Lily and Chloe, who had chosen to live with her for reasons Peyton didn’t really get. Thus they were suspect as bad decisionmakers in general.

There were the three boys, two in a relationship, and one -- Zachary -- who was genuinely and deeply committed to teaching as a profession.

“Alright. The worst news,” Professor Anderson said. His hands twitched.

Peyton felt able to recognize he wasn’t, overall, actually hot as a scientific matter. Objectively. First of all, if he wasn’t yet fifty, he was being quickly dragged to fifty’s maw. His face was a lot like the local environment -- marshy, craggy. They’d built Ruhk-Abilgaard on the moors of Wisconsin, which Peyton was pretty sure only existed immediately around the college. They had a microclimate of spooky fog.

The worst news. They’re taking the tuition money, Peyton thought. Seemed obvious to her. She’d warned everyone who would listen.

“The worst news is, I am 100% confident the trustees intend to take your tuition. No refunds. It is to be used as a kitty so they can be well-paid while selling off the buildings. The rest of the bad news is as follows, again in no particular order: you are all to move out in three weeks. I lack confidence that the admissions and transfers office will aid you in this time, as I saw Ms. Klaas weeping and packing earlier today.”

He paused, and swept the room with his gaze. The gaze was, Peyton thought, impartially hot. Hot with a bullet point.

“And, finally, I will miss having you as my students. I am sorry for all this adversity. Class is very... dismissed.”

It had all gone down as Peyton had expected.

She’d seen it coming, just from her usual sources and bored investigations. The college hadn’t renewed a cleaning contract with local janitorial, had been running down reserves of coffee grinds for the library urn, and hadn’t paid any state taxes in two years. Job hunting sites had revealed a sudden uptick in educator resumes.

Peyton had stayed, despite the obvious, because she’d liked the college. She’d liked it a lot. Living and learning at Ruhk-Abilgaard had been similar to instruction at a 12th century monastery, with empty buildings sitting stern in the mists. She liked the people, she hoped against all odds that they liked her, she liked the opportunity for the slow accumulation of evidence about who they were. And while she didn’t share her mother’s adherence to a schedule that had read, in part, 6:07 p.m. Recheck Car Door Locks, she liked routine, and the college provided it.

And everyone tolerated her and if and when they made their spectrum jokes they did it outside of her hearing, and that counted for something.

Everyone in the room took stock. Life trajectories had changed. They’d previously shared something -- they were all going to be teachers. Already the overwhelmingly female student body LOOKED like teachers, outside of Peyton. Most looked Elementary-bound, not Moms but not far from it, big hearts, sweater-based wardrobe, good at hugs, full of an optimism that was currently struggling. Some were natural High School teachers, the ones who read books and had laptops with political slogans.

And then Peyton. She’d been drawn to the profession because no one needed to like their teacher.

Middle school, maybe? The 7th grade honors geometry teacher with nothing on the walls, that the students discussed in low tones. No one belonged in middle school, so perhaps she did.

Well. Teacher was out.

Now what?

---

Kristy knew something was very wrong with her. She worked in town, at the Ruhk supermarket, and had gotten far too into their new line of local artisanal breads. The ones that were unclear if they were ciabattas or donuts, with a sugar-salt glaze on the top. She’d gone through a half-dozen loaves, and then bolted, confused and horny, when the store manager had laughed off finding her rubbing herself in the break room.

Back in her dorm room she’d locked the door and tried to sweat it out. Something was seriously wrong with her -- her tush kept getting fatter, her lips needed to suck on something. She’d decided to masturbate as a displacement activity, only for that to quickly become an obsession.

“Gotta be--- muh---more---” she mumbled. She was running out of things to stick up herself. Fingers were not enough. Even her wrist. Feverish with need, she vaguely recalled that she’d left a loofah with an enormous wooden handle in the girl’s showers. It broke her pledge to quarantine, but she was desperate, and everyone was in class.

Kristy made it there on trembling legs. It was right where she remembered, polished wood knob nearly a foot long. She was so relieved. Sticking it up herself, she remembered -- she’d lost it.

That oddball Peyton had found it, deducing it had to be hers from the hairs twisted in the strap. Remembering she’d dyed her hair purple over summer session. Even Kristy had forgotten, mostly with motivated amnesia.

Up it went up her pussy, and the spatter went down the drain. Into the pipes.

---

“I’m dating Zachary,” Chloe announced, early in to the drinking session. “We are dating, we are actually officially dating.”

“You’re taking the harpy risk,” Lily observed.

The harpy risk was that seeing the one available guy at the school get taken would lead the many other girls to literally rip out the offending woman’s entrails. It was much discussed at Ruhk-Abilgaard.

“I am,” Chloe said, bobbing her head. “I mean, they only have a few weeks to tear me limb from limb, and I just think everyone is going to be too busy.”

“Is this normal for bars?” Peyton said, looking around. She was deeply uneasy. “Is this like a bar-bar? Standard bar?”

And what am I doing here, she didn’t say.

The bar was a converted hardware store in Ruhk. The -DWARE part of the sign had been covered up, and a B written over the H. The menu was tacked up on paper over the counter, with lots of additions and scratchouts. The most recent changes were in what looked like lipstick.

Her other two roommates were too focused on the Zachary news to comment. Peyton forced herself back to their conversation.

“Bagging the guy,” Lily mused. “The GUY. THE guy. The only actual guy to bag. I don’t want to accuse my own roommate of tackling him and tying him up, but that’s how I assumed someone would get him.”

Peyton’s ears pinked. A lot of the girls at Ruhk-Abilgaard were virgins, but some were more virgins than others. She took a cautious sip of her first-ever cocktail. It read COCKTALE on the menu. There were only two listed -- the Gumcuzzler and BEER. She’d actually tried to order BEER, but three Gumcuzzlers had shown up, in red solo cups. It tasted salty. Egg white? Maybe? It was otherwise a cloudy pink, and came with a dental pick as a swizzle.

She was way out of her depth. Her depth was more, password cracking at two in the morning, not cracking peanuts in a bar. Her first ever bar trip.

The Cocktale was good, though. Peyton tried some more.

“See, that’s a very fair assumption, and I get it,” Chloe said, calmly stirring her drink. Her second or third. “But what it actually is, is I’m a Useful Girlfriend. That was the play that bagged him.”

“Useful!” Lily said. Her eyebrows went up. “I’ve never actually thought about being useful to a man. How novel. Are we talking, useful like his Mom?”

“That is the risk,” Chloe admitted. “You are definitely risking being a guy’s Mom. But if you are aware of that risk, you can kind of... vibe around it. You can’t be like, the fun doormat. You have to be efficient. Trustworthy. Zachary VALUES me.”

“Mmmm,” Lily finished her drink, swirling all this around.

Peyton really needed to listen -- this was PhD level interpersonal advice, and Peyton considered herself permanently remedial. Instead she stared at the bartender. It wasn’t the same one as ten minutes ago, despite also being a blonde with huge boobs and plump lips. This one had a tattoo on her left arm that was mostly faded away. In every other respects, especially the big sunny smiles, and deep blue eyes, she was essentially identical.

Was that normal to bars, twin bartenders? Peyton was thinking no, but always struggled without a reference point. Maybe hot twins were common.

Peyton’s own lips were feeling lush. Most of her was feeling lush. Two... maybe three... maybe one Gumcuzzlers were, or was, having an effect. It was a new experience, turning parts of her brain off. She hadn’t really thought it was possible, but alcohol knew what to do.

“Mmm, but I’m still getting, you’re his do-his-laundry girl,” Lily mused. “Lets try this differently. What does HE do for YOU?”

Chloe waggled her eyebrows. Soft, secret, smile. Even Peyton could decipher that one, and even through a fresh alcoholic haze.

“WELL,” Lily breathed, leaning in.

“I mean, purely partnership relationships are a little dull, don’t you--- you think?” Chloe waved her glass around. Her smile was wobbly. “Share the bills, do the laundry, all that. It’s like going into business. I could do that with anyone. I could do it with you two. It’s a HEALTHIER relationship when one of the partners is walking around with shaky legs. No, I’m fine with this-- this--- I’m fine with being in a great-dick relationship.”

“Interesting,” Lilly said. “Go on. I’m listening. I’m learning.”

Peyton considered raising her hand, to say something. The bartender’s nipples were visible. She wore a low-slung halter top and the shoulder straps were losing a war.

“I am dating a man! Part of the deal should involve him performing regular manly duties,” Chloe declared. “It is very difficult to get on top and do all the thrusting, it takes a LOT of strength. And I appreciate that. So yes, I’m willing to do a little laundry. I’m the one who got the sheets wet.”

“And what sort of dates have you two been on?” Lily said.

“Just...” Chloe trailed off. For the first time she looked uncertain. “Hanging out. He’s been working on something important. On the computer.”

“Fun,” Lily offered.

Chloe stared at nothing.

“On the computer,” she repeated. “I’ll send you a link, Lily. It’s really interesting.”

Peyton put her hand up.

“Peyton, you don’t need to put your hand up,” Lily said, patiently.

“First, congrats on the sex, I kept meaning to congratulate you last week but you seemed busy, having sex. Second, is it weird that the bartender has her tits out?” Peyton said.

“Sorry?” Chloe said.

They all stared at the bartender with her tits out.

“It’s a new bar,” Chloe said. “Maybe that also means... nude bar.”

She waved her hand, dismissive of the topless bartender, or bartenders.

Peyton thought -- so, IS this normal? Or no? She hadn’t grown up normal, normal had never really been set down before her for useful examination. There’d been Dad, who wore his pants far too large, and wore a very particular brand of shirt, which he owned fifteen of. Mom with her owlish glasses adhered to a minute-by-minute routine, kept permanently up as an excel spreadsheet. Peyton had learned a lot about spreadsheets, growing up. People, less so.

The tattooed bartender was gone again, and the first one was back. “Alright, Peyton. How did you know I was fucking Zachary?”

“Hmmm?” They both had pink tongues, Peyton thought. That was strange too, wasn’t it? Was her tongue pink? She tried to stick it out and look.

“You knew, right? You always KNOW. So, out with it. How’d you know? And how long?”

Had she fucked up? “Well, yeah, sure,” Peyton said, uncertain. She checked her glass, to see if it would reflect her tongue. Making matters even stranger, a third bartender had entered the scene, equally blonde and equally heavy-chested. This one at least was wearing a headband.

“It was the flushing incident. When you got back really late a week ago.”

“A week ago, huh?” Chloe exchanged a look with Lily. Meaning, what?

Peyton had never solved their Mutual Looks.

“Yes. You went to the bathroom, and then you flushed,” Peyton said. The bar was certainly popular, which lended some credence to the idea that near triplets were a regular thing in dive bars. She sat up very straight, despite a tendency to slump over, after three or six Gumwuzzlers, or whatever they were called.

“That told you she was dating Zachary?” Lily said.

“Chloe never flushes when she gets in. She doesn’t want to wake us up. Never. THAT meant she had something to hide,” Peyton said. “Alright. What could it possibly be? The only thing that made sense was sex.”

People always gave her looks when she explained things that were perfectly obvious. “Not flushing meant a wad of--- you know--- stuff-- would be floating around in the morning. ‘Who’ was the easy part. Zachary is the only male around, and you didn’t take your car keys with you.”

She didn’t say, I know what your car sounds like, I know what every car in the lot sounds like, and who it belongs to, just by listening. That was the sort of thing that led to Mutual Looks. But it was just objective fact. It was a mere matter of paying attention.

“Elementary, my dear Pey-Pey,” Lily said, nodding. She slid her eyes over to Chloe. “Well? Getting big healthy loads out of Zachary, huh?”

“Caught,” Chloe affirmed. “And they are healthy and they are loads. Well done, Peyton. You’ve solved the mystery of the cum wad in the nighttime.”

It took Peyton a moment to unstick her tongue. It tasted fruity and sweet against the roof of her mouth. She eyed her roommates, uncertain. Was it sarcasm, was it irony? And why were the bartenders, all three of them, making out?

---

Emmalyn closed the front door quietly, in case her Dad was asleep.

She was lucky he was alive. Emmalyn had recounted some odd Dad symptoms -- night sweats, swollen limbs -- to some friends. Peyton, class oddball, had leaned over from three rows away to say he should get checked for lymphoma.

It had been lymphoma.

The treatment was expensive and palliative, but he was going to--

She paused. What was that sound? It resounded in the house, shivering the wood and thumping in the drywall. She inched forwards. Soft, meek moans joined the thumps. Through an open door she regarded her father, weak cancer patient, utterly banging the shit out of the next door neighbor, and widow, Ms. Canning. Who had her legs around Dad. Daddy. No, Dad-- definitely Dad.

And a good thing, because Daddy... Daddy-Dad was banging her so hard the house was vibrating. The weak, elderly man was replaced by a man with his back straight, shoulders intent, and his hands wrapped around Ms. Canning’s surprisingly big jugs. Mostly for balance.

Emmalyn backed away. Dad was-- having sex--- he was-- FUCKING the neighbor so hard and so good the woman had obviously lost her breath. All she could do under his assault was make soft, simpering noises.

They were pretty hot.

He emerged a good half-hour later, stark naked, cock swinging between his legs, dripping with everything Ms. Canning had got. His daughter was perched on the couch, hands clasped tight between her legs, sweating hard. “H-hi Daddy!” she squeaked. “You look--- so much better!”

Zachary had his own room. Nearly he had his own building. The male dormitory was twenty-three unused rooms, and the gay couple, and Zachary. By unspoken mutual consent the other two were on the other end of the building, so they could be noisy.

“Spooky in here,” Peyton said. “I mean-- more alarmingly unmaintained, but also spooky.”

The male dorm featured flickering lights, mysterious plumbing noises, sudden gusts from leaks in the windows. And it still smelled male, in a way Peyton couldn’t quite explain. Salty and earthy, a sour scent that evoked masculine bacteria. Any ghosts would definitely be boys.

Lily had dolled herself up, replacing the ordinary pajama pants routine with an aggressively tight pair of yellow shorts She adjusted the spaghetti strap on her top. She had worn visible bra straps to the abandoned spooky drafty man dorm. “Our dorm is gonna be like this in a few weeks, you know?” she said. “I bet the spiders are excited to get going on the cobwebs. You like cobwebs, right?”

Peyton hesitated. She wasn’t actually goth. But she was a loner girl with dark hair and pale, even translucent skin. She liked wearing black. She stayed up until 4. It came across as a little witchy. “Sure. Within reason.”

Lily pushed open Zachary’s door without knocking, and without listening, and her shoulders wilted, visibly, when she didn’t find the couple fornicating.

“Just stopping in!” she said. “Checking in on my roomie and her boyfriend!”

Zachary was working on the computer.

Peyton’s eyes flickered to him, and then to the monitor, and then to the monitor some more. It was very quiet in the room, besides his clicking the mouse. He was clicking very regularly. Very rhythmically.

Zachary had been analyzed as thoroughly as any man on the planet, and Peyton had brought all her limited powers to bear on him, but there wasn’t much to tell. Clean credit record. An uneven shaving schedule-- his beard functioned as a sort of lunar clock, waning and waxing through the month, occasionally disappearing. He had some deep eastern european ancestry, same as her, although with him the deep, sunken eyes and crow-black hair was a much bigger bonus. His beard was full and long.

He had a feverish, focused look, dressed in a rumpled shirt with a rumpled collar, which made it even odder that Chloe was next to him in a pert pair of white shorts, her long legs leaning against his chair.

She was also looking at his monitor.

There were lots of things going on, on the monitor.

Peyton stared at it, too. It seemed to be all the rage, looking at it. The actual contents poured through her far more slowly. Some sort of ancient website, with garish 256 color palette and-- flashing-- there were flashes---

“Zachary, I’ll get you a drink, I should get you a drink,” Chloe said, monotonously. She seemed to notice them for the first time. “Oh. Oh! My roomies. I was--” her eyes were still heavy-lidded. Peyton wrenched her attention to her roommate. Chloe’s makeup was perfect. “I was--- Zachary’s investigating something. Something about Ruhk? That... town? That we’re near? I was going to get him a drink.”

Zachary yanked his attention away from the monitor. He seemed to try to turn away, but it looked difficult to manage. The screen was so... there.

The monitor, Peyton thought, and it cycled around again. The monitor.

It took Zachary banging his knee against the desk to break her out of reverie. He was a big man. His nose was, thirty-plus girls agreed, a real problem. Classic pug nose. The strong possibility of the kids inheriting it had been a big deterrent. Peyton had really liked this talk -- it’d be super great if male attractiveness could be reduced to sexual selection, a Darwinian exercise. So much easier. But then hard to square with Chloe apparently letting the man squirt his cum up her from very early in the relationship.

He rubbed at his face. “Yeah It’s some sort of... government or industry or light commercial thing,” he said. “My theory is a nutrition shake company using them as guinea pigs. Could be Huell. Chloe, you said something about a drink?”

“Yes! Yes, I did. I need to get you a drink.” Chloe nearly skipped out of the room. She wasn’t wearing a bra, Peyton noticed. Zachary kept rubbing at his eyes. Like there was something in them.

Chloe carried in a can of Monster like it was a chalice. When she turned it over, it was with a showy little smirch on Zachary’s beard.

The man mumbled a thank you and, right in front of them, gave Chloe’s butt a pat.

A pat on the ass.

Lily immediately caught Chloe’s eyes. Messages flashed from girl to girl, eye to eye. That was a butt pat. It was practically a pet on the head with a “good girl”. Even Peyton could figure this one. A sexual power move had just occurred, with strong dominant-submissive overtones.

The monitor reminded her -- no, what would a monitor be doing, reminding her? It was just 256 colors, an ancient website. It reminded her to serve man. But--- what? Peyton shook her head, confused. Chloe. Chloe was the girlfriend.

But also, Chloe! Chloe’s entire thing had been taking stock of various oppressions and then kicking them to death. On the Ruhk-Abilgaard Teaching School discourse of ‘there’s no boys’ she’d been all in favor, for slightly different reasons than Peyton. Both had wanted a refuge from the larger world, but for Chloe, it was so she could raise a battalion of angry women.

A pat on the butt! Objectively, submissive behavior out of her roommate. Peyton flushed, and tried to say something, but the screen behind Zachary was making it challenging. The 90s-era websites kept spasming and flickering.

It was good and right to serve men, it said, with just a few colors, and just a few lights.

“This is like, zombie HTML,” Zachary said. He seemed to be musing more than talking to them. He cracked open his cold one. “All this code got stuffed into the archiver. It’s been marinating in there for three decades now. The gifs are getting bigger and stronger, or something. Hey, baby, can I get some---”

“Snacks!” Lily said. She also-- the monitor. Yeah, the monitor, good idea, the monitor. “Chloe, I couldn’t get that link to work, the one you sent me. It was just---”

She trailed off. Colors and lights. Screen. Webs of obligation. Service and subservience.

“Snacks. Snacks for men. You need some snacks, right Zachary? I’ll go grab some. Snacks for you,” Lily said.

She paused, waiting for Chloe.

Lily, also, was on the run from the world. She was several years older than they were, and had been to graduate school, business school, a different graduate school, and, from some of her comments, and given her deep understanding of molecular biology, Peyton was 90% sure she’d been to medical school. With all of that life experience there’d been not the slightest hint of a love life.

And now, going to get snacks for someone else’s boyfriend. Wearing some pretty tight shorts. It’s okay, the monitor said. Serve men! Serve them. Find new ways to serve them.

“Sure, Lily,” Chloe said, smiling, distantly. “Snacks. Zachary needs snacks.”

She walked fast over to the kitchen and returned with a white bag. “Cookies? There’s cookies?” she said. “It was either cookies or salt.”

“Nah, I’m not a big salt guy,” Zachary said, eyes still fixed on-screen. “We shouldn’t... uhh...”

The monitor throbbed again. The monitor.

And then, after Lily put the cookies down, and stood at Zachary’s left shoulder, Chloe reached over and gave her a butt pat.

Not high-butt, either. Middle butt, even a little lower than mid-butt. They were both wearing cute shorts. The girls flanked Zachary, who was now well supplied with food and drink, for whatever important tasks he had as a man. His hand snaked into the bag, and pulled out an enormous cookie, with blue sprinkles.

The girls leaned into him, first Chloe, then Lily.

And then they turned to look at Peyton, who was now completely lost.

She hadn’t the slightest fucking clue what to do.

Serve men. Serve them, the monitor urged. Colors and shapes.

“Uh,” Peyton said. She looked around the apartment.

What would she even get the guy? He had snacks and a drink, in man terms he was fully supplied. He didn’t need a hat, or a phone charger, or any of the stuff in his creaky dorm room. And where would she even stand? Right behind him, resting her boobs against his dark black hair? Would Chloe and Lily both butt-pat her? She’d just gone to the male dorm to maybe check for ghosts, and now her roomies were-- what?

The monitor wasn’t making it any easier, which was strange. Peyton spent a lot of time looking at a monitor, and it rarely filled her vision like this, throbbing, reducing her always iffy social processing power to a--- to a----

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh,” Peyton said.

What-- what was happening? Chloe arched her eyebrow, her most devastating weapon. She was-- mouthing something. What?

You’re being excluded, Peyton told herself. They’re telling you to leave. No-- she had to serve men-- man-- but she’d been telling herself it was her fault since she was five---

The monitor seemed to want her to stay, but Zachary wasn’t looking at her at all, and the roommates -- her roommates-- what did they WANT from her? Nothing about anything made any sense, and Peyton couldn’t even figure out the right question to ask. She put a hand against a wall, or she would’ve fallen over. Her brain was bubbling and popping and steaming. There were 257 colors in there, and 256 said to serve man, but one of them---

Her thighs felt both warm and cold. She looked down, to find that she was wearing a pretty short pair of shorts. Periwinkle blue. RIght -- she owned them because the girls had taken her to Ruhk Goodwill. They’d probably been embarrassed at how stark and dark the rest of her clothes were. The shorts had twinkling happy suns on the butt, where she was supposed to be patted.

Lily couldn’t get the link to work. She couldn’t either, although she hadn’t tried as hard as Lily, who had spent most of the night, staring at her phone...

She needed to go. Or maybe, stand, and look at the monitor. Butt pats. Sexual submissiveness. Cute shorts, kisses on the beard. If only there was a formula---

The monitor screeched.

It had been asked to do to much, portray shifting swirly patterns from a long time ago, designed for hertz that were no longer industry standard. Colors that were rarely used or even thought of. It made one last protesting noise, showed a dozen spirals in neon colors, and died, loudly.

It sent up a final cloud of black smoke. Black, that was the last color.

“Damn,” Zachary said. “Another one.” His mouth was full of cookie. “I thought I had something there, girls.”

Girls.

No, she was not--- girls. Among other things, they brought a lot to the table, such as monster cans and cookies. Confused, deeply dizzy, Peyton hit the default button, which was to run.

“I’ll just--- I’ll close the doors,” Peyton babbled. “I’ll check for ghosts on the way out. I’ll look for cobwebs and... make note of them.” She backed up, in her cute shorts, and for reasons she didn’t quite understand, she ran.

---

The Ruhk-Abilgaard Teaching College had a weight room -- unused and locked up. The directors had decided long ago that a female student body would have no interest or need to pick up weights, also there were heating, lighting, and liability costs. They’d locked it up tight.

Dallas had a key. She’d asked Peyton, Ruhk-Abilgaard’s resident crossword solver, how to get one. And of course Peyton had already had the key, she had every key as it turned out. And her explanation for that had been that she knew the maintenance guy never missed a dirt bike meet, which she knew from reading his e-mails. At that point Dallas stopped asking questions.

The equipment was ancient early 80s gear, the machines were rusted shut, but there were plenty of heavy bars and bells. Dallas glanced again at the paper she’d found, and then read it for a further hour and a half. GIVE YOUR BODY, it read, with a number in brackets. Step one had to be,make it decent. No one wanted a lousy present. She started up with bench presses, and then conscientiously wiped up all the sweat, as well as the pussy juice, that had collected on the leather.

---

The big restaurant had opened up on the road into Ruhk, near the shopping center slash weird commune that had equally weird amounts of activity. Peyton had already done some preliminary investigative work, after the bartending incident. It was connected to the bakery that centered the growing area. Literally connected, with a plywood and paper annex that was mostly a tunnel. The entrepreneurs had run it into an abandoned IHOP, perhaps out of a misguided sense of how property and rental law worked, Peyton figured.

And it was full. Not of Ruhk residents -- outsiders, all of them looking frazzled and confused, slumped in booths and nursing drinks. The theme of the restaurant appeared to be, gender. Even the waters came in blue and pink hues, albeit with a “ask us about our Gyndyr Spycytrum Options!” button on the waitress.

Peyton drank deep of the water. She was very thirsty. It was all a lot for her, and she was still periodically dizzy, from-- whatever had happened, in Zachary’s room. The school was closing, her roommates were maybe having sex, and some sort of oddball secretive sexy commune had moved in. They were difficult to crack with her ordinary internet-based research. Apparently they didn’t file paperwork, and possibly couldn’t read.

Peyton wanted to bite her nails, but couldn’t. On inexplicable impulse she’d painted them. Yes, she’d painted them black, but it was a kind of sexy black, a shiny lacquer that was less bats and more, boudoir. And she’d worn a no-shoulder top, in black and grey velvet, secured with a belt. Why? And she kept having urges to get up, and join the waitresses. Bring the men some drinks.

Chloe and Lily were still in their cute shorts phase. Red polka dots for Chloe, green stripes for Lily.

It was time to say something, but the words she wanted to say weren’t coming out. “So-- you’re BOTH dating him?
You’re his--- so what’s the word?” Concubines. Mistresses. His girls. They were his girls. They were serving him. No.

And she could’ve been part of a butt pat trio, if she had been of any use at all--- not that she wanted that. Peyton desperately needed to bite her nails. She wasn’t a huge stimmer, her cuticles were an exception. But they’d looked so empty, without polish....

“Polycule!” Chloe did jazz hands. “We’re a polycule. We just decided it before you got here!”

“It’s true,” Lily said. “It’s POLYAMORY. It’s all the rage, Peyton. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I mean, read about it or something.”

“I barely do amory,” Peyton said. She examined the menu, to try and think. So unlike her to be confused. Uncertain, yes. Confused, no. The menu was handwritten, and every girl seemed to have a different one. For example, hers had pancakes, Lily’s was some sort of list of different donuts, and Chloe’s menu was a stained sheet of paper that read “MULTIPLY YOUR [28/30]”. She kept staring at it. So did Lily, actually.

They’d texted Peyton to join them. She’d run off after the-- monitor incident? Had there-- why was she remembering a monitor?

Peyton had gone off and painted her nails, for some reason, and then gotten the text. All three of them had texted her, which was a little strange. Or-- four? How many texts? And what had they said? Some sort of--- multicolored fuzz...

“Its VERY interesting,” Chloe said. “You learn a lot about other people, about responsibilities. It’s like, how to make society WORK. And on that note, I’ll do cooking and laundry. Lily, you get cleaning and shopping.”

“Okay,” Lily said, compliantly. “Yes. And we should invite more people, too.”

“Add and multiply,” Chloe agreed. “We need to multiply your. Our. I’ve been reading a ton about polycules since...I guess it was about twenty minutes ago? The internet says we should start a spreadsheet. Arrange chores and such. And sex timing. Peyton, that brings us to you! Excel or Google?”

All three of them needed new drinks. There were two dedicated waitresses with matching long braids just pouring out water, from big color-coded jugs. They didn’t seem to have very good aim, from how damp and clinging their own t-shirts were.

They turned to look at her. In front of her, on a placemat that seemed to have a very X-rated maze, Lily had scribbled a lot of Xs. She’d also scribbled in every available color what looked like, sort of, a test pattern. Like you’d find on a monitor.

“Uh,” Peyton said. She wasn’t good with expectant looks. Ask to join, part of her thought, even as she tried to tamp it down. But--- how? To do what? You can... do what? The chores were already arranged, and she wasn’t exactly the type to break into a threesome. She wasn’t even the type to break in to a onesome. She needed to-- think. Sudden decisions were a hardship.

Their damn looks. She took another huge drink of water.

“Um. Okay. Sure. Spreadsheets. I have some macros you can use. Um,” Peyton looked down, at her nails, and drank even more. “What chores is Zachary doing?”

This time Lily waggled her eyebrows. “Sex is a chore?” Peyton asked, honestly.

Chloe giggled. “I don’t know why washing the dishes meant you got him first after the shower,” she said, to Lily. “We need some sort of point system. For the spreadsheet. With multipliers.”

“Ohh... yes,” Lily said. She nodded, vigorously. “Multipliers! Yes, we need multipliers. And you were spreading as much as I was!”

The waitress enthusiastically set them up with another round of Girl Waters. Pink-tinged water splish-splashed on her t-shirt, and ran in long rivulets down the mammoth top slopes of her tits.

“Um. I don’t really need to know---” Peyton started.

“I was being polite, Lily-baby,” Chloe said. She flipped her hair back. “First time, welcome to the apartment. In the future, if we are making this work, we are serving. Serving Zachary. I mean, sharing. We’re sharing. And that goes both ways, that’s basic math. The multiplicative principle. Peyton, put that in the spreadsheet.”

“The WHAT principle?” Peyton said. DIzzy. She was dizzy. Good service in this restaurant. Good service was good...

“Well, what was I supposed to do? He had his hands in your pussy already, and you can’t duplicate it,” Lily said. She’d grabbed the MULTIPLY YOUR sheet and was staring at it, the sheet close to her face. She’d found time to coat her face in makeup, including a blue velvet eyeshadow and lined lipstick. “Should I squeeze my pussy shut? Zach had free rein back there, it was his decision. He doesn’t come with a coin slot we can put favors into. WE come with the slot.”

“You were WIGGLING,” Chloe said, gesturing with her drink.

This was awful. It wasn’t even clear if they were mad at each other. Their faces were so close to each other, to the paper.

Peyton reached a limit. She stood up. She did not belong, she did not belong, she did not---

“Food’s here!” This was a new waitress. This girl had the same colossal chest and silly, bovine grin as the others, although at least her shirt was dry. That made it easy to read the RUHK CATERING TOO lettering hand-stenciled in. “Okay! We’ve got burger burger... burger burger... and burger burger burger!”

“We never... ordered?” Peyton said. And she certainly would not have ordered what looked like a bun, topped with a bun, and filled with a bun. There were a few sesame seeds on top. They were pink. And on closer inspection, they were sprinkles. But it did smell... good...

Really good.

“Well, it’s the only thing on the menu anyway!” the girl also had on a nametag that read VIVIAN? “Super special invention of the chef! Me. I’m the chef. I hope you girls like sorghum because it’s mostly sorghum. And some special stuff. Protein. Spit.”

She had to mean--- spit-fired? Peyton wanted to say something-- if not about the burger-burger-burger than about the general big-boobed ambiance. Was this intended as a titty restaurant? But the rest of the vibes were of a low-budget but high-star experience. The tables were folding but covered in linen, and there were candles on all of them, burning... something with a trace of smoke, and a lot of sweet, cloying scent.

It was all off, and Peyton was drawing some alarming conclusions. The other two were busy reading the paper, over and over. Faces very close together. Their lips moved in unison. It didn’t seem like they’d just been fighting, they actually seemed about to kiss, if anything.

The only reason she did not flee was -- her roomies had asked her to help, and she could. She could actually help, even if it was just a silly sex-chore spreadsheet.

Peyton counted up her failures all the time. She couldn’t cook. She’d never even done her own chores. She’d gotten her undergrad degree living at home, cosseted from the bright colors of the world, even voluntarily living in the basement so her parents could rent her room. She wasn’t good at conversation, or manual labor, or anything besides some coding and her crosswords and looking stuff up.

And that had been fine-- she would teach middle school. She would be a conduit from textbook to uninterested tweens. No real expertise required, even discouraged.

And now that was abruptly off, and her roomies were acquiring boyfriends and chore schedules and responsibilities, even if they were the same boyfriend, and she was a helpless baby bird dressed in gothy clothes.

On this basis, and also because she’d been flooded with sex smoke and doctored water and hypnosheets and old internet brain-busting patterns, Peyton took an enormous bite of the Vivian Burger. One of the buns turned out to be cream-filled. Or some sort of cream. Another bun was sugar-encrusted, and while the third was just sorghum, they’d done a nice job of it. It combined into a sweet-salty mush that was both troubling and also the best thing she’d ever had.

The crowd agreed. All the hesitant and nervous conversation, from travelers feeling strange things and unusual urges, quieted down as burger-ish material flooded out of the kitchen. There were a lot of chewing noises. The only noise came from a far booth, where VIvian was personally figuring out how to develop a burger-burger for the pangender. She went with more cream, but called it cryym.

After housing it, and washing it down with more girl water, and breathing in happy smoke, Peyton still felt--- not enough.

She looked over at her roomies. At least they’d lost their intensity, as well as some motor control. “I can--- I can doooo the dishes,” Lily said, smiling, dazed, her mouth coated in white. “Because I got extra Zach time. It’s just-- he’s soooooo good, you know? I wish there were two of him. No, four. Eight. Sixteen!”

“Oh god, yes, he is,” Chloe’s head bobbed up and down. “No no no. I’ll do the dishes. I was being SO rude. I heard you, I know you needed that. Real bad. We should just--- just---”

“Multiply,” Lily whispered.

“Yes,” Chloe agreed. “We should multiply. Serve and multiply.”

The two girls stared at each other, at their equally-creamy mouths, their similarly vague eyes, and then they started to kiss. Sloppy, inexperienced kisses.

Peyton decided to concentrate on the enormous basket of fries that had appeared in front of her. They were seasoned with half-blue, half-pink salt, and the ketchup was a glossy pink.

“Girls, I-- oh,” Zachary had reappeared. From the white drizzle on his shirt, he’d been investigating burger-burgers, with his mouth, as well. He took a seat, and watched his girlfriends make out, if that was what they were doing. Lily had her hands up Chloe’s shirt. “Girls, all this stuff is full of-- full of--- huh.”

He and Peyton watched the girls making out. They shared their fries, and although Peyton ordinarily hated that, it didn’t seem to bother her.

---

In the back, Andi was getting her training on how to be a staff server. It wasn’t going that well -- there was no staff training manual and the manager, Wendy, couldn’t find the training video. She kept bustling in to the room, handing Andi more pastries to try, and then bustling out again.

Which Andi was okay with. She was feeling extremely lazy and also very full of sugar-cream. Two months ago the strange girl -- Peyton, that was her name -- had warned everyone the school was likely to close, and had even put together a list of national teaching colleges with transfer programs. But Andi had lived her life on a system of inertial drift up to that point, and saw little reason to change it. Especially when stuffed with cream.

“I’m prettttty sure I can just go out there, take orders,” Andi told Wendy, next time the big-boobed baker stormed in.

“THERE it is!” Wendy said. She held up an actual VHS tape, presumably found inside a dinosaur skeleton, or in a chunk of amber. “Okay, just watch this. There’s a THING-- I don’t even remember what it is-- that we want in our servers, it’s at like the ten minute mark, don’t miss it-- okay, have fun!”

Andi watched. At first it seemed like a mistake -- this was clearly some sort of softcore porn video, degraded to boot -- but she was too comfy and snug to move. The video actually made some really interesting points about how she needed to apply herself, and be proactive, albeit to serve the sexual desires of--- someone or another.

When Andi let out a soft, brainless, silly giggle, Wendy pointed a finger at her. “THAT’S it. Okay. You’re perfect.”

---

The school had an enormous library. Or, had. It still had the books and the tables and the sign that said LIBRARY but it just didn’t feel like a library anymore. The girls had needed a big social space for some increasingly urgent social needs, and had taken it over.

Peyton had fled there to rest and reflect, but had struggled with both. For the resting part, something about the burger-burger, or something, had left her high-strung, thrumming, even squirmy. She kept shifting her butt back and forth on the cushions. Did she feel greasy, or was it greased? Even her breathing was coming shorter and faster.

The reflection part was going even worse.

Her mind kept flipping through hot scenes from the recent past. Peyton had kept her sexuality in a very constrained part of herself, kept fully online, in a part of her brain marked with caution tape. She had never ever been touched by a guy.

But sexuality had found her. Hot bartender girls with big tits. Wet t-shirt waitresses. Her roommates, exploring each other with kisses and fingers. And floating around it all, the sharp male scent of Zachary, first among polycule equals.

She squirmed. Fresh new fantasies wanted to burst forth, where she was stroked, fondled, handled, even gripped.

She wanted it.

“Peyton! Professor Doctor Peyton!” This was Brianna, and she came with two other girls in tow. Reese and Hazel. Reese and Hazel had similar big-glasses, scared-doe expressions, and Brianna was intended by god to play volleyball. All three of them had very different outfits on, and in all three, belly buttons were exposed.

Peyton took comfort that hers was under wraps. Whatever--- strangeness--- was sweeping through, she had that contained. Not much else, currently, but she did have that. Before coming to the library, she’d exchanged her pants for one of Lily’s pencil skirts. Dark black. On her it was very tight, and she’d struggled to wrap it around her butt.

“Just Peyton,” Peyton said. “Like Peyton Manning.” As she always said. But it was a relief. She could do the Professor Peyton routine. It was usually something simple, like finding a loofah or tracing a missing parent or doctoring some internet records, and it was a huge relief every time to be verifiably and objectively needed.

“Yeah, sure, Professor Doc,” Brianna said. She took a seat, pushing a stack of books aside. “We know about Zachary and your roommates. We saw that--- paper? Everyone has been texting it around. You have to know the story. How did they pull it off? Going in as a duo? Package deal? Did they wear costumes?”

Oh. “They set up a polycule,” Peyton said. She traced a triangle on the table, but then, after considering it, expanded it to be a pentagon, and from there an icosagon. “They’ve got a spreadsheet for it. Basically they exchange goods and services for man.” Serve. Multiply. Use. It was all floating around in her too, only barely held at bay. She wanted to be a part of it, but there was an iceberg in her, labeled crudely as LOW SELF-CONFIDENCE.

“Damn,” Brianna said. Her smaller, shorter cohort sat down, cautiously. All three wore lipstick. “I guess that makes sense. Smart. Good use of scarce male resources. Like playing Settlers of Catan but with boys instead of sheep. That’s what the paper said, right? Multiply? Yeah.”

Peyton took a cautious look around. Most of her entire class was in the library--- socializing? It seemed to be more than that. They were... different. Although she was a standout as a big time loner, her class was still basically composed of quiet, serious girls who spent a lot of time by themselves. Girls with both Goodreads and A03 accounts.

Now they were talking to each other, wearing short, skimpy clothes, trading hair tips and makeup. A trading post had been set up by the abandoned circulation desk, filled with lipsticks roughly sorted by color. What was going on?

Brianna waved to get her attention back. Peyton squirmed some more. She never wore skirts. The area between her thighs was so... conscious... that it was exposed. Was that normal? “Peyton. Hello. Here’s the big question. What’s our IN?”

“Your-- in?” Peyton said. She blinked, rapidly. “You want-- in on the polycule?”

“Yeah. You made the spreadsheet, right? Of course you did. Do you think it’s better if we pitch it as like-- the three of us together?” Brianna put her arms around the two girls, and drew them close. Reese and Hazel immediately melted into her. Six titties, in a line. “Like as a practical thing? We can be just one line item. Like a row of ho. I mean, we’ll--- not that we’re desperate but...”

“I heard it’s like, eleven inches long,” Hazel said. She nearly whispered it from demure yet plush lips. “I-- I just wanna see it. Does it say how big his dick is? In the... in the spreadsheet?”

Peyton closed her eyes. Tell them there’s a wrongness in the air, she thought. Girls were being too horny. She, herself, was--- well, making spreadsheets was her day-to-day, but she’d built out one that exchanged chores for sex. It had only taken Peyton a few hours.

Or-- was there a wrongness, or was she just, as usual, the wrong? The scent in the air. After all, they were adrift. Banding together made sense. Sharing. Kissing. Fondling. The community had to come together. They had to come together. Come, all together.

Multiply. Serve. Use. Together.

The spreadsheet was very flexible, especially if the inputs were as well.

“Apparently being a polycule is about doing chores,” Peyton said. “The key is, your role. What do you contribute.”

“Easy!” Brianna said, slapping the table. Easy? Was it really easy? Brianna pointed at herself. “Fitness. Hazel, landscaping. Reese, tailoring. Perfect.”

“I don’t--- actually know--- how to---” Reese started, but Brianna quieted her down, by putting a hand in her lap.

Behind her, one of her classmates had brought in a mirror, and the girls were crowding around, eager to see how various colors looked on their skin. They seemed ready for whatever came next in their lives. They’d find a new role.

Peyton tried to think-- she could be, what? The spreadsheet was already done. She couldn’t do tailoring, or fitness, or landscaping. She couldn’t even give high-fives. What she was, was antsy and horny. Her belly button wanted to come out too. Her boobs were feeling particularly squirmy.

Peyton realized she really wanted to rub on someone, like a dog.

“Girls, lets get going,” Brianna pronounced. “We’ll decide on the way if we want to do a formal contract. Like a treaty. Or maybe we’ll just kneel in front of him. We’ll figure it out. Thanks Professor! Or Doctor. I can never remember what degree you have!”

---

“Can you maybe--- hurry?” Isabelle said.

How long had she been sitting with Ms. Klaas? It felt-- long. But it couldn’t be, right? The move was simple-- show up at the registrar, give the registrar a negotiable amount of money, and leave Ruhk-Abilgaard first in class rank. It had to be a few tip-taps of the keyboard. Peyton to second place, Isabelle to first.

But--- Ms. Klaas was sucking on a lollipop. Strange to begin with, especially while wearing a white, form-fitting sweater, but the scent of it was lavender and heather and sweet sugary sweet, and that alone was making Isabelle lose track of time. It was a better use of time to breathe, and find new scents in there, such as sour hibiscus, plus sour apples.

“Sowwy,” Ms. Klaas said, from around the lollipop. “I’m shhoooo slowwww today!” Her sweater was dotted with multicolored drool. “It’s this---- wehhbbbshyte.” She kept trying to minimize it, but it kept popping back up, in 256 colors.

Not only that she sucked her lollipop with--- rhythm. Constant, metronomic rhythm, that couldn’t be possible with a stupid lollipop. That plus the scent ate at Isabelle’s attention span. Suck-suck-suck-suck-- and now it was three in the afternoon? What was going on?

“Shtop Sh---” Isabelle stopped. When had she started sucking on her own lolly? It made it hard to talk. She moved to take it out of her mouth, and then got a little distracted, by how good it tasted.

---

The next morning two e-mails arrived.

The first one was from Professor Anderson and read “SQUATTING -- ADVICE FOR NOT DOING IT”.

It was eight pages long and detailed how NOT to turn essential utilities back on around the campus after they were shut down. It included detailed instructions for how NOT to locate the series of water valves in the main utility room, what direction NOT to turn them, and, on the same vein, stern advice about NOT using the boiler.

The second was from Zachary and was sent to the entire school. It read ‘GIRLS DO NOT DRINK THE WATER IF PINK OR BLUE. NO SHOWERS. AVOID SPRINKLES. IT’LL MAKE YOU -- CHLOE STOP IT OKAY. I KNOW IT’S YOUR TURN TO SUCK ME OFF BUT-- SEE ITS GETTING TRANSCRIBED. IF I SAY SEND’

It was hard to read. Zachary had acquired a virus or something, and it popped up some sort of 90s-era page, full of flashing gifs and old UNDER CONSTRUCTION tags. The background floated like a Magic Eye. It was very 256 colors. It was darn near impossible to close.

Meanwhile, Peyton woke up very late, after spending a lot of it on the phone with 100% of the men in her life, which was Professor Anderson.

Professor Anderson had called her to consult on messing around with the physical plant. “I talked to the students I had identified as the--- well, I’ll call the ruffians. They said to talk to you. And then I tried to speak to the maintenance staff, quietly, and he also said to talk to you.”

His voice was, Peyton had decided, objectively hot. It was objectively hot. She had written down ‘objectively hot’ in her latest journal in increasingly loopy handwriting, abandoning her usual small-caps neat script for long, swirly Js and honestly slutty Ys. Not only was it objectively hot, he had spoken to her in a disarming, soft-spoken tone that she had, two hours after the call, pinned as ‘conspiratorial’. After consulting a lot of thesauruses. He had been conspiratorial with her, and the ‘objectively hot’ list had just turned into wild scribbles.

She wanted him to--- what? She was so warm, so wet, so conflicted. Display her in his front room, bound and gagged, alongside the tasteful vases and paintings he had. Fetch a ball. She wanted to fetch a ball. Spanked. He should spank her. Choke her. It wasn’t lost on Peyton that she couldn’t summon up any sort of normal-ass fantasy, any sort of sweet romantic scenario where they just had normal penetrative boy-girl sex. Just ones where they swam alongside each other in the ocean, as dolphins.

She’d talked to him objectively, normally, but hadn’t been able to keep her fingers from between her legs. It was good that she did it. Objective evidence how hot he was, that she was rubbing herself, while discussing water systems.

During this wild, erotic journey into her collection of the Ruhk-Abilgaard utility systems she’d also gotten increasingly frantic calls from Zachary, who also kept asking questions about the Ruhk water system. Luckily she’d collected all municipal documentation off-site some time ago, just for funsies, because their server was now down.

Eventually Peyton went to sleep, by herself, in her own room, and looked at a drawing she’d made of Professor Anderson as a sort of husky, sexy werewolf, and sighed herself to sleep.

The next morning, walking around, she’d realized it was time to take Zachary’s concerns with the local water supply more seriously. Girls were, objectively, growing huge titties.

Peyton, also, was objective evidence, of getting a bigger rack.

She kicked herself-- she had been witness to unexplained happenings in the Ruhk area. There were just too many girls with too many boobs. And the boob fairy had made a visit to the Ruhk-Abilgaard Former School overnight. The girl’s dorm had a set of sinks in a row, and they were all populated by girls leaning forwards, their chests dipping low, towards the sink, even the bottom of the sink. With them all together it was impossible to think that just the chesty students were teasing out their eyebrows, and rubbing their lips together, to seal in the lipstick.

There was unexplained breast growth going on, and a lot of it. Peyton dismissed an urge to make a spreadsheet about it -- to measure them, band, bust and cup. She had to think clearly, but last night’s stroke session was looming too large. She’d served a man. She’d helped him. It had felt-- amazing.

She’d woken up with warm, heavy handfuls spilling out on either side of her torso. When she’d brushed her teeth, they’d filled up even the roomy confines of her sleep shirt. She’d made a makeshift measuring tape, and then diligently written down the results. She’d grown big boobs, overnight. While she’d been talking to Professor Anderson, she’d been growing big boobs. Objectively big boobs.

She held them. She needed to get on a scale, to weigh them. No, that wouldn’t do it. Peyton was aware of a similar effect to her backside. She needed to specifically weigh her new titties.

“You-- sure you want to go in there?” Peyton said, to Amber, who was walking towards the shower with just a towel on. “Zachary said -- I mean, you can see the water is all pink? I think it’s---” she hesitated. She very rarely spoke first to anyone. “Doctored or something?”

“Oh, you mean us all getting boobs?” Amber waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone’s got a THEORY. I think it’s because we’re no longer students. We all thought this place was gonna be, prolonged cradle. Basically undergraduate two. And now suddenly we’re adults! We have adult problems, we’re getting adult bodies.”

Peyton was unsure what to say. It was a completely insane theory, delivered with utter conviction.

“Amber, you’ve got much bigger tits,” she said, eventually. Peyton conveyed how much bigger they were with hand gestures. “They’re way, way bigger. Like, your towel is having trouble, and it’s a TOWEL. And the water is COLORED PINK.” Even as she said it she despaired of being listened to. No, of course not, she was just Peyton.

“It’s the girl’s dorm, what other color would it be?” Amber said. She looked down at her cleavage, and her gaze softened. She was pleased with it. They were great. Peyton, too, couldn’t deny how good she looked. Having little boobs never felt right with her overall clothing choices. She’d never matched the models online. There were no small titty goth girls. “Peyton, baby, I see that YOU’RE brushing your teeth with it. So how bad can it be?”

Peyton followed her gaze. She swallowed. Right. She had done that. The water was sweet and delicious. She guiltily recalled guzzling it for a bit, her mouth over the tap, while feeling the pull on her chest. She’d been wondering what the ratio was, water to cups. She’d rubbed herself to orgasm while talking to Professor Anderson. It had been so HOT.

“And in the shower we’re barely gonna use ANY water,” Amber said. On time, three other girls came in, all giggling. Daniella and Beth and one of the Emmas, all in towels.

“Uhhh--- per capita? You’re--- taking a shower together?” Peyton said, eyes switching from towel to towel. The girls were all hip to hop with each other. They had soft, silly grins.

“We’re in a hurry,” Amber said, mostly to the others. “Chloe and Lily said they’d give us a chance to pitch to be in the polycule, but we had to get moving. We’re gonna say we’re useful as strippers. Paint strippers, mostly. We strip metal, we strip wood, we strip generally. Oh, right, Emma, did you bring your razor? You said you had a good one?”

Emma duly presented a lady shaver.

“Alright,” Amber doffed her towel. Underneath it she was glorious. Bursting with health and great tits. “Lets work fast. I hear Zachary is booked through two months from now. Keep your fingers to yourselves, girls. Mostly.”

---

The request came in while Misty was back-sliding. She was being a bad, bad girl. No resistance leader at all. Nothing but pussy-petting and staring, brainless and stupid, at various hypnotic websites she’d uncovered. Sure, she’d snap out of it eventually, she usually did, with her boobs slightly larger and her vocabulary missing additional words, but it was messy to clean up after herself. Spit and lubricant and soaked-through clothes. She’d started wearing crotchless panties even when feeling more intelligent, to save time on washing.

The request. Yes. A request! Her fingers were too wet to use the mouse, so she licked them clean. There were others out there who had found her. Misty had very conscientiously compiled her research and findings into a .zip file, which she gave out freely.

There. Wait--- no--- Misty bonked her head. Stupid, silly girl. She’d sent the new person a picture of herself with her titties out, looking smoldering at the camera. Who had even taken the photo? She tried again, but only succeeded in sending a bunch of pussy pics, which at least she’d taken herself. Probably.

She was being soooo stupid. “CONCENTRATE!” Misty told herself, sternly. Copy file, send to e-mail address. After one more mishap, a video of herself getting penetrated by some buff stud. Misty had no memory of it, and watching it a few dozen times didn’t make her remember any better.

---

Lunch was served by the polycule.

Or maybe it was The Polycule. They had insignias. Pink ribbons, not always in their hair, but usually in their hair. Some of the girls wore them as armbands. They had other defining things in common -- excellent skin, midriffs showing, teeny skirts, and a smug air that got on Peyton’s nerves. Nerves that were already very frazzled.

They were SERVING and MULTIPLYING and getting BIG TITTIES.

Peyton had tried to deal with the issue the objective way, by masturbating. After hearing a lot of breathy, warm, and excessive moans from the adjacent shower, Peyton had felt unbearably ratcheted up. Her fingers, on the toilet, had done nothing to make her feel better. Jilling on the potty felt very-- alone. Although she did cum hard, thighs shaking in unison, her chest jiggling at an alarming rate. She was getting irritated at herself, for wanting to run to her room and document everything, like that was useful behavior. Yes, it was the most powerful orgasm she’d ever had, it didn’t need a NUMBER, stupid brain.

Afterwards she’d belatedly turned her attention to what the heck was going on. Peyton didn’t have a lot of faith she could find anything, but she was not bad at investigating. And it was worth a try. It was also more fun to type, with big boobs wobbling around, sending pleasant sparks down her nervous system.

“It’s, what, half the school?” Eleanor said, sliding her tray in. “More?”

Peyton was surprised to be automatically joined by anyone. But it made sense -- there weren’t many girls left who weren’t either in the polycule, or working on their tryout audition.

“Definitely more,” Olivia confirmed, sliding in as well. She was the punk version of Peyton, and seemed to be authentically punk, as opposed to Peyton’s half-assed default gothnicity. “There’s a line. There’s signups for the signups. I heard Luna got in as like, the night shift assistant manager or something. They need like, middle management, now.”

“What do they still even need? Legal and accounting?” Eleanor groused. She had been the leader of the prep girl clique. Most of her crowd was now wearing cutoff shirts with TOO CULE FOR SCHOOL written on them, cooking up a storm. “I’m not joining. They have ONE MALE. Peyton, I forgot to thank you for figuring out which bank held my student loan after it got sold a dozen times. I figured I should since we’re the Nonycule.”

That had been a tough one. But fun. She’d had to go four layers deep, and apparently now a US Attorney was involved. “Uh, hi, everyone,” Peyton said. She paused. She had to do something with this rare personal attention. “You girls know something is... off, right? With our boobs and butts? Water supply? I... made some calls.”

She’d done some previous research and met some people at the WHO, after the school had tried to ignore a black mold outbreak, on the grounds that it was really a dark grey.

“Obviously its stress eating,” Eleanor promptly returned. She put her hands on her boobs, underneath her polo shirt. “Has to be. We’re all stressed, we’re not going to be teachers, we’re getting defrauded, we’re left out of the poly-woly. We’re not exactly eating healthy.”

“What ARE we eating?” Olivia said, picking through it. “It’s... sweet, huh?”

Peyton froze, and looked down.

Burger burgers. How? And how could she just-- indulge? She’d gone back for seconds. No, thirds.

Even worse, she wasn’t even contributing, at any level. She was taking, consuming, eating, while the rest of her class shifted smoothly from student to Contributing Member of Polyamorous Society. Serving. Multiplying.

“Do you think Zachary would want a... tennis instructor?” Eleanor said, tentatively. “Little white skirts? Visors?”

“I was going to see if he needs a drummer,” Olivia said, around a mouthful of pink frosting. “But honestly, if he wants me to play bass, I’ll do it. I don’t want to get left out.” The water was tinged pink. Oh my gawd, Peyton thought, the salad dressing is pink. They were definitely tossing salads back there -- the kitchen staff had cheeks too bright and warm for just the lunch rush. She took another bite. It was the most creamy thing she’d ever tasted.

“I mean, I can do a lot more than tennis,” Eleanor said. She picked up the frankenstein baked goods the lunch room was pushing. There were grains in there that the mesopotamians would’ve shunned. “Horse-riding. Hell, I’ll be the horse, you know?”

“Excuse me,” Peyton said, and stomped out, as much as she could. But of course no one took notice. She’d barely merited notice before, and now the world was moving on without her. Becoming something new. Something scary, yes-- she had to hold on to that. Big-boobed and big-butted girls willing to even play bass if it meant some dick on the schedule. She wasn’t that. She was---

Not a student.

She wasn’t even a roommate.

Not even a loner, because that implied a group to be lone from.

Just herself.

Goosebumps rose up on her skin, and there was more of that, too.

She made her way around the outside of the building, where a slow and soft rain was settling in for a long night. Break away from it, part of her counseled. She’d doubled her breast size in two days, and her hair was now long past her shoulders. It had stayed a stern black, but was now curling, thickening into a vast frowsy mane. Did that give her an opening-- biker chick? No, she couldn’t ride a bike.

“Leave, Peyton,” Peyton said, out loud. She needed to go. Zachary was trying to warn them. They were being turned into something warm, hot, and useful, and frequent. She had to stay cold and useless. Before she started wearing heels.

Oh. She was already wearing heels.

The heels, plus the wet, made her nearly slip when she ran into Zachary.

He had lost weight, a lot of weight. He was still stocky-- his shoulders could challenge gorillas -- but now it tapered into a waistline instead of blobbing around. He wore a heavy grey sweater, and was smoking something tarry.

“Zachary!” Peyton gasped. He looked at her, tremendously weary. He had dark circles under his eyes, despite the overall picture of new health. “I read your e-mail-- I didn’t know---”

“Huh?” Zachary said. He shook his head. “Oh. Yeah, I’m done with that. I’m too busy.”

He looked exhausted. She needed to-- be useful to him. Serve. Multiply. And how? She didn’t know massage, or pottery, or basket-weaving, or how to clean. No, she needed to--- he KNEW things---

“I’m glad someone read it. I was getting a real migraine by the end, that stupid website,” Zachary said. “It’s blown up eight monitors. I mean, thanks for all your help. If I’d brought you in when I first suspected--- well, whatever. There’s no time now. I’m on break. I’ve got seven minutes left.” He flicked the cigarette into the rain. “And then I’ve got to go fuck eight girls in a row.”

“Oh!” Listener. She could be a listener. “Is that bad?”

“I mean,” He rubbed at his beard, and looked so incredibly, deeply sexy that Peyton had trouble staying upright. But it was his break, he probably wouldn’t appreciate her trying to suck his cock. No, that was--- “No, it’s not BAD. It’s really great pussy. Really great. Like velvet, and each girl has their own tricks, just incredible. And I know I’m the engine making the group go, I’m the fuck machine, but like, I’m supposed to be investigating the water supply, you know? And there’s just no time now.”

“All those chemicals-- the list-- where’d you get them?” Peyton said. She’d gotten a few alarming responses already from some contacts.

“Oh. My brother Miles. He called me one night, sent me a picture of a label, said he wanted his smart younger brother to look into it. He trusted me to put two and two together, and I couldn’t do it, even with all the twos.” Another long drag of a cigarette, and a deep, heartfelt, male sigh. “I’ll send it you.”

He fiddled with his phone. A picture arrived. Two pictures -- one of a label, the other from what had to be Zachary’s perspective, looking down, on Chloe and Lily busily sucking his cock. Even for a still picture it was full of motion.

“The water looks pink to you, right?” Zachary said. He let out a long and heartfelt sigh. “That’s interesting. But I just don’t have the time.”

“Is there anything I can---” Peyton stopped herself. No, there was nothing she could for him. Even becoming his fortuneteller, or gravedigger, or some other goth-adjacent occupation would just add another hole to his long to-do list. She couldn’t do anything for him.

The tobacco scent burned away quick in the rain. It was just her: useless, and him: extremely important. Peyton couldn’t fight an urge to pull down her shirt, to make her cleavage pop, and to twirl a lock of her much longer hair. It wasn’t an occupation, but it was something.

“It’s not all bad,” Zachary mused, his voice deeper, throaty. “I finally dropped all that weight. And my dick is, you know, fuckin’ huge now. I can coat like a half-dozen girls with these big, thick ropes, its a fuckin’ blast.” He looked at her, differently. “You must’ve been swilling the water. And everything else. You’re getting some pretty fuckin’ huge tits, Pey.”

She was, wasn’t she? Peyton struggled to look past her own inadequacy, to the very real presence of her own chest. No wonder the other girls had sat with her, she had a gravitational pull, all of a sudden. Shaken, Peyton put her hands underneath her bosom, and tried to lift. Heavy. No wonder she was having trouble walking around. The physics of her had changed forever. She was cantilevered. She felt dizzy again. She’d slept-- maybe an hour? No, less than that. She’d masturbated and looked at colors and researched and---

“What-- what do you think I should do?” she managed. It wasn’t fair to put more burdens on the hardest working man in the school, but she didn’t feel capable of much more. She felt both very small, and very big.

He surveyed her rack, professionally. “Peyton, you’re the smartest girl in the class, if you can’t figure it out, what am I gonna do?” he said. “I got nothing. And I gotta go. If I hurry through my shift in the pussy mines I can still get a few minutes in of reading fuckin’ books.”

---

Elisa packed up her things. It was time to go.

She had no interest in the polycule. It was too wholesome. She had on her hard drive and in her personal effects and locked away in her head tens of thousands of pages of toxic yuri. The emphasis was on the toxic. She had enough mean amazons in her to make Herodotus jealous.

Unfortunately, everyone in Ruhk-Abilgaard was too nice to brutally ignore and/or/and savagely dominate her. Elisa, desperate, had even done anonymous valentines for Dallas, who was tall and severe. She’d regretted it --- she hadn’t had the nerve. At least it seemed unlikely anyone could backtrace the clues to the shy girl with the quivering toxic yuri heart.

Turning a corner she was slammed into a wall. Dallas, glorious, blonde, big, strong, Dallas, had rammed one fist into the wall and used the other to pick Elisa up. They were briefly at eye level.

“I heard from Peyton you were the one who cut out all those hearts I got,” Dallas said, right into her ear. She was sweating. She was so very strong. Elisa wanted to die, and cum.

---

“Stop drinking water!” Peyton called out. “Even though that leads to dehydration, which leads to death!”

She’d made a number of signs, and put them on a strategic junction in the school -- where library met study hall met cafeteria. They read: LOOK AT YOUR TITS!! and then ALSO YOUR BUTTS!!!

Peyton’s own outfit was a tart-y display of boobs, butt, and legs, by far the most daring thing she’d ever worn. It had gotten easier to be sexy when she just took from Chloe and Lily’s drawers. Lily especially had a big cache of sexy numbers, including a pair of white thigh-highs that Peyton had put on immediately. Chloe had involuntarily donated a vinyl black miniskirt with paneled frills. Up top Peyton had worn some of her own clothes, a white blouse with a black bra.

The idea had been to -- what was the idea? She was feeling so muddled, so light-headed. What she’d found, with some light internet research, and some phone calls, was pretty arousing. No. Alarming, it was alarming.

It had been hard to push through all the--- mush-- that was invading her thoughts. Sex-tinged goo that flooded her, alarming and arousing. There’d been a path forward, since Zachary wanted her to do it. She was SERVING. Sort of. Peyton-style.

Peyton was still drinking the pink, obviously heavily drugged water, despite her own entreaties. She figured that if the less-effected students saw how really big her boobs had gotten, there’d be some hesitation. True, it was still raining outside, and it would be pretty easy to just collect some water that way. But the pink water tasted soooo good and soooo sweet. She didn’t really expect anyone to listen, but maybe they would look. And want to touch.

“It’s all a big THING!” she called out, at a number of hustling girls. Peyton put her sign down, after that. It was getting too heavy to hold. Growing big tits, plus her butt was getting pleasantly flabby, was taking a lot out of her.

The bigger issue was: FOMO. Fantasies Of Making Out. No, that wasn’t it. What was it again? Peyton shook her head, but the pink had climbed in there, and was difficult to dislodge. She was feeling like such a ditz. The whole school was all about the polycule. Multiply and serve, serve and multiply. Climb in to her spreadsheet. The entire student body was at a trot, all the more amazing because no girl would be caught dead in less than three inch heels.

“Brenna!” Peyton called out. Brenna had been one of nature’s librarians, destined to reshelve encyclopedias and wear dowdy cardigans. She’d been born to be forty-seven and drink lemon ginger tea, and own cats. “Don’t drink the water! It’ll give you a badonk! You’ll be sitting on nature’s pillow for life! Brenn--- oh, come ON!”

Brenna was just then drinking from a full bottle of pink water. She’d modified her cardigans. They still had embroidered kittens on them, but now they were carefully rearranged to showcase a pair of big tits. Hers had a lot of freckles on them.

“H-hi Peyton,” she said, at least abashed.

“Brenna, come on, OBVIOUSLY something is seriously up! Everyone’s hem lines are-- I mean, look at mine! If I bend over you can count flaps!” Peyton toyed with her skirt, exasperated. Couldn’t she even be useful as living proof? Exemplar, in a negative sense? Did she really need to show her panties to make a point? The idea was really hot.

“The girls needed a mechanic, and I’m really good with bicycles, and I was like -- what else did I want to be?” Brenna said. She added, softly. “I want to serve and multiply.”

“For, what, you get to sniff Zachary’s armpits? On alternate Tuesdays?”

“Well...” Brenna tried, and failed, to hide a smirk. It cut Peyton utterly in half. Even Brenna was getting fulfilled, and also filled. “He just kind of... waves it around at us, and... I know we’re being drugged and stuff, but once you get five or six of us and our hands and tongues and everything, you can get a lot done. A lot of us done.”

“Oh-- come on --- alright. Stephen! Stephen, you’re GAY. Why are you still here? I-- I built the spreadsheet! Where are you even going to FIT?”

Stephen was a devastating six foot two, totally off limits. He had the best hair of all of them. His own smirk inflicted a series of small wounds. “Peyton, Pey, the Polycule has room, board, health care, tailor, there’s an acting troupe, tennis lessons, I hear some of the girls are starting a pickleball league. I couldn’t pass that up.”

“And you’re-- with GIRL PUSSIES?”

“Oh, oh no, oh no no no no no,” Stephen said, shaking his head. “I’m gardening. Bryce is on cum duty. He says he just plays on his phone while the girls are at it, they’re really good about not bothering anything besides his junk. Nice to be needed, you know? Multiply and serve and all that. What are you?”

What the hell was she.

She was getting softer and sillier. She was a squirmy, horny mess. She was struggling with basic differential calculus, which had always been so easy for her. She was a warm, wet hole. Just like every other girl in the school, except they had important roles to play. And she was--- she was her. Just her, the same her as before, with some drugs in her, that was it. The same her that had no friends to speak of, that everyone no doubt gave sad smiles to, behind her back, the her that had fought so hard to be more than girl in basement, girl who could never read a face, girl who couldn’t be touched, who needed it, who---

“Nothing!” Peyton said, loudly. “I’m nothing!”

She burst into hot, bimbo tears.

Loud enough that the students that were becoming sluts looked up from their speedy walks through the halls, with their heels click-clacking on the ancient wooden floors, their snatches only kept from dripping by friction and willpower. They all looked at her, the new gardeners and huntresses and boiler room operators [sexy] and even the duo of Sandy and Tracy, who were the new cops. They were practicing putting each other in handcuffs. They, also, looked.

Peyton cleared her throat. Her cheeks burned. She’d taken up too much of their time, and it was past due for her to slink away.

“Nothing,” she said, and ran off.

---

It had turned out that her tuition had been quietly covered by her step-dad, who Eileen had never really liked. He’d arrived during the years 12-15 period of Eileen’s life, which her brain was still protecting her from, after the fact.

After she’d started swilling slut-making sludge it had let that era swirl down the drain first. Hospital beds and screaming. So long to those memories. Although she’d forgotten world history along with it, but whatever.

Peyton had given her the news, she had apparently broken into the mainframe in the first week of class. Eileen had sat with it for a long time. Rick. He’d even had a scuzzy step-father-y name. But he’d driven her to all sorts of high school practices, which had to have been like putting an angry teenaged badger in the car.

It was time to make amends. Eileen hit facetime.

When Rick answered it was to a very carefully considered camera angle. Low, to emphasize the enormity of Eileen’s wonderful new tits, which were held back just by a handmade polka-dotted bustier. They were round, perfect globes, a scrap of fabric just handing her nipples. From in between them his step-daughter peered back at him, glassy, silly eyes above candy-red lips.

“I gotta thank you, step-daddy!” Eileen said. “You worked soooo hard to make me smart!”

---

There was only one place left where, objectively, she could go.

“Come in,” Professor Anderson said.

Peyton did.

She was too downcast to even acknowledge Professor Anderson’s appreciative look, up and down her body.

With all the other girls ditching their blacks and greys she was spoiled for choice in outfits. The Tailor Team, a quartet of girls, had practically begged to work on her, despite her teary insistence that she hadn’t earned a clothing remodel. A polycule was about mutual, consensual service.

Peyton was self-aware enough to know that she was being a little bit much, running right to get her boobs shown off after stomping out of her protest. But it WAS Professor Anderson.

The girls had insisted that the opportunity to work up a sexy gothic lolita in lace and taffeta and poofy things was payment enough. They’d been very kind. They’d done it all while she’d periodically burst into gales of fresh sobs in a corner. They’d hand-stitched a black bow for her hair, and one of the girls had gotten so excited embroidering little bats into her corset that she’d had to go masturbate in the other corner. She’d done her hair, through sniffles, in two midnight-black pigtails, and cinched herself in to a handmade ruffled skirt. And then dusted her face even whiter.

Privately, Peyton didn’t think the outfit quite worked with the big fun tits she was sporting. They spilled over the cups of her corset, flawless and heavy. She was one of the biggest girls in the school, possibly the biggest of all. It just made her less capable of physical labor, she figured. Another downer thought.

She met Professor Anderson’s eyes, and with serious effort, kept it to a mild blubber.

“Oh,” Professor Anderson said. He wore a knit sweater, and dress pants. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, which just made him hotter. “Peyton. Have a seat?”

“I can’t even do that,” Peyton sniffled. “It’s this skirt. If I sit down you’ll be able to see all up my legs, and I am NOT wearing any panties. I can’t even sit down right!”

“I-- uh... I see,” Professor Anderson said. He wavered, himself, about taking a seat, and instead sat on his desk. Peyton decided it was sad how hot he was, given her situation. “Peyton, I had figured all the--- exuberance-- I was seeing from the student’s bodies. I mean, student body. Their... amazing... bodies... was the result of stress and defiance. I’m getting the sense it might be... more than that?”

“Oh, that,” Peyton waved her hand, vaguely. “They’re all so USEFUL, Professor. They stopped being students and started being-- all sorts of things, and I didn’t know what to do, but you’re the teacher, I figured if anyone knew--- it’d be you. Just what I’m supposed to do. Because I’m worthless.”

“Well!” Professor Anderson unfolded his arms. Peyton realized that at some point she had sat herself down, in the chair. The Professor’s eyes examined the interior of her thighs. “Uh. Yes. I’m not a teacher anymore, myself. I, actually, am the useless one.”

He indicated the study, which was stacked with banker boxes. The shelves had been cleared out. “That’s why I’m casual today,” he added. His eyes seemed to want to travel farther. Peyton inched her thighs apart, obliging, and then added a few more inches. “And if we’re being honest, Peyton, I’m not sure I ever taught you anything. You were, by far, my best student.”

Peyton shook her head, viciously.

“Peyton, please,” Professor Anderson said, placating. “This is not the first time we’ve had this discussion. When the school had its mainframe locked by that crypto scam the Dean unwisely clicked on, you unlocked it. When Alexandra couldn’t find her Mom, you mobilized her County’s entire search-and-rescue team, with two phone calls. The girls share your outlines and your notes. You helped every girl in the class file their financial aid package. They need you.” Just a slight hesitation. Professor Anderson had been very thirsty lately. “I, myself, have needed you. Just last night. And-- I did hear the--- noises you made. Very-- breathy.”

“Oh, come on, Professor, YOU have what the Polycule actually needs,” Peyton said, withering. Or was withering as she could manage with her legs open. It was possible to trail her around the school, from her pussy drip. “You’re a MAN.”

“Well past my prime, unfortunately,” he said.

“No you are NOT,” Peyton said. Was her Professor this dim, really? She’d deeply admired this hot, sexy man. Indignant, she stood up, to gain a little dignity back. That left her alarmingly close to the Professor’s personal space, his rugged sweater, his craggy face. “There are DOZENS of things YOU can do. You could just lie around and breed dozens of co-eds in skimpy outfits! All day!”

“I beg your pardon?” Professor Anderson said.

“And I’m just-- ME, Professor. And I’m sorry, but I learned when I was like, twelve, that if you’re the quiet girl who doesn’t know what anyone is thinking, who sits in the back row, you are never going to ever actually matter. To ANYONE. That’s how it WORKS.”

Peyton sniffed. She looked around, although Professor Anderson was looming in her vision. The air had a scent to it she was learning to not just love, but crave. There was a big mug of tea on the desk, that looked pink, to her. Blue, to him? And there was also the important clue of the big, long snake tenting the front of his pants. That was objective. She could work with that.

“Professor, I know you’ve been growing a nice, big cock,” she said. “You’ve gotta service the girls with it.”

“I--” Professor Anderson’s breathing caught. “Service. Yes. Well. We shouldn’t-- change the subject. Your self-esteem is--- I’ve been watching you girls get so-- so-- pneumatic. So impossible. The whole school rings with co-eds cumming. I figured my self-abuse was...”

“Mmmmm, yes, you have,” Peyton shook her head. Well, of course. She’d noticed it immediately. His tissue box was far too low. She’d been in his office four days ago, and it had been full. He’d been jerking off nonstop. “You gotta big dick, Professor. You’ve been drinking big dick water. I bet you’ve been eating big dick cookies, too. I got it all plotted out. The water supply was compromised three days ago, and I know you’ve been to our cafeteria four times. You weight one hundred eighty-one pounds, at the start. You gotta dick that’s ten and three-quarters inches long. That’s a big dick.”

He still seemed a tad frozen, so Peyton helped. Part of her wanted to see the big dick, and stroke it, and touch it, just for herself. Peyton firmly put that away. There was something better she could do.

She could finally give back. She reached out and found his zipper.

“Mm. There’s the big dick. And it started out big, didn’t it, Professor? I always knew it was nice and long and thick. I used to think about it during class, you know, even before I got all hot and dumb.” His fingers dug into the wood of his desk. This wasn’t him touching her, it was her touching him. Peyton slid forwards, onto her knees. She unzipped his fly and let it spring loose. It would’ve been nice if she had a ruler, but, still, she was pretty good at estimating sizes.

He certainly looked ten and three-quarters inches long.

Peyton wrapped her fingers around the length, as best she could. A little thicker than she’d figured, but apparently there was some variation in the drugs. Part of her wanted to put her mouth on it, just to see, just to tell if the enormous volumes of drugs she’d consumed could push past her being her. But no--- too selfish.

She hoped he’d be happy with an entire school of willing, horny co-eds, dressed in sexy work-related costumes, competing with each other to squeeze more loads into their nubile pussies.

“Peyton! I-- this is--- you are half my age---”

“I KNOW how old you are, Professor,” Peyton husked. “I know all sorts of stupid stuff.” And he’d still be useful. Oh yes. He was dripping usefulness onto her palms. Peyton leaned forward, to examine just how big he was, and also so he wouldn’t squirt over the nice dress the girls had worked so hard on. It was an angry red cock, perfectly functional. Big balls in there, too.

“Peyton, listen,” Professor Anderson said. She looked up, eyes still soft. “Let me clear. You earned this, you fucking hot slut.”

Professor Anderson came all over her face.

Wet strands slicked from her hair down her face, and a lot of them fired at her mouth.

Warm waves of gratitude flooded her. He appreciated her. The proof was sticky on her face. She didn’t have to figure anything out, just kneel and wait. Warm, sticky cum was objective proof. She was a hot, dumb slut.

Peyton obligingly opened up her mouth, which he seemed to like. So much so that Professor Anderson rammed his still-shooting dick in there, and stayed inside, while Peyton carefully cleaned him up, with her tongue. He smelled like warm cream.

“We gotta get you into the Polycule,” she concluded, once his cock reluctantly pulled out. “I think tryouts are still going on.”

---

”Okay, shoot, we gotta find her, everyone!” Brianna said. “Whatever else you’re doing, it can wait!”

Peyton had run out sobbing, and the entire school couldn’t find her. Everyone felt terrible about the situation. “Look behind things! And up! Try looking up, too!”

At least everyone had joined in to look for her. But everyone had also gotten extremely bad at hide and seek, or anything similar. Reese, for example, was checking for Peyton behind a small rock.

“Reese, you dummy, she’s not there. She’s got huge titties. Whatever she might be hiding behind, it has to at least be huge-titty sized!”

“Where haven’t we already looked?” Hazel said. She’d gotten side-tracked, like so many of them, making out with some of the girls. The hunt for Peyton had also been a good opportunity to get some girl kisses in from outlying girls. The mutual service spreadsheet was getting very jumbled, but it was for a good cause.

“She likes--- I don’t know--- computers. Crosswords. Go see if she’s behind a bunch of crossword puzzles or something,” Brianna punched a wall. “I hate this! She knows everything about us, we should know SOMETHING about her! I don’t even know what she tastes like!”

---

They walked together. Both of them needed the support. Peyton because although what she was doing, turning over prime A+ extra-special cock to others to enjoy, was for the good of the world, it was an awful lot to ask of a girl. Also her thighs were soaked in her own juices, and she was a little worried she’d slip on her own pussy slick. It was also nice, in a bittersweet way, to cling to the arm of her yummy-yum Professor, especially with the scent of his spunk still heavy on her face.

For his part Professor Anderson seemed a little dazed at the prospect of his new life, continuously pleasuring sexy twenty-three year olds. About forty-six of them.

“That’s--- Samantha,” he said, as they made their way through the noisy halls. He seemed to have more trouble than Peyton putting names to faces. Kind of ironic, Peyton thought. Probably, she figured, because the girls were extra-bouncy, super-curvy versions of their selves from several days ago. Their hair was bursting with life and volume, and even their skin was the shiniest, glossiest version of itself. “Samantha was-- is--- was? She doesn’t look like that. And she’s--- she’s getting her pussy licked, in the hallway.”

She definitely was. To be fair to Professor Anderson, it had to be hard to fit the gaunt, shoulder-slumped girl Samantha had been with the delighted girl with her legs spread wide, her mouth making a shocked, permanent O. It wasn’t clear who was licking away, although whoever it was, she had the prettiest pink pussy of her own. The snatch-licker wore a cheerleader outfit with a white poodle skirt, and her snatch was nestled in between two generous ass cheeks.

Cheerleader, damn it, Peyton thought. She hadn’t even thought of the secondary jobs like that.

A crowd descended as they walked on, towards the boy dorms.

“Peyton! Ohmygosh--- we’ve been looking for you! We even checked underneath the hoses! Oh, you’re with the Professor!” All the girls were all in great moods. Their outfits were a mix of occupation and completely debased slut. Overalls with tits bouncing, unbound. White blouses matched with a collar, and pencil skirts cut obnoxiously high. A trio of nurses went by, in handmade white tailored suits, pink crosses on their little caps.

“I’m not a Professor anymore,” Professor Anderson said, heavily. “Good god. What happened with these girls? What happened to all of us? I shouldn’t be--- I can’t fuck all of these girls. It’s---”

“I’ll explain later. And there’s a BIG spreadsheet,” Peyton said, on his arm. “I think. actually, after seeing your cock, you can fuck all of them. And they’ll handle everything else!”

They passed the cafeteria, where buxom girls waited patiently in a long line for Polycule Fuel, not one of them in footwear less than a four inch heel. Some of the outfits didn’t have obvious practical usage -- Patricia wore a feather and nylon outfit that seemed best on a performance stage -- but to Peyton it just said that the Polycule had grown to include arts and culture. They probably had an architect as well. Maybe the girl getting snacks underneath the table, the one with the long braid prying legs apart. They seemed happy-- well, they smiled and waved. Probably at Professor Anderson.

“It’s actually not that complicated-- oooooh” Peyton said. Professor Anderson, despite his confusion, had decided to walk her with one hand firmly on Peyton’s butt. Peyton was glad for the support. Walking in this body was a new experience. With a big butt behind her, and two big boobs in front of her, she was effectively a suspension bridge.

Chloe and Lily were in Zachary’s room. They both looked--- tired.

They were dressed very similarly. Business outfits for the busy bimbo. Matching blue blouses with matching adorable red cravats, bouncing between their equally big boobs. They seemed to be the only girls to rival Peyton for sheer tits, and even had some support -- white vest-corsets with brass buttons. They wore gray flannel skirts about as long as a finger, and shiny bikini briefs.

The very last few stragglers were in a line in front of them, one holding hula-hoops, the other, Hannah, clutching a mop like a life preserver. Peyton blew past them. A new man was an important development.

“He would like to apply, for service,” Peyton said, heavily. There. She’d multiplied.

Chloe and Lily needed a moment. Their makeup couldn’t hide the dark bags under their eyes. The room was full of paper -- printed out version of her original spreadsheet, but huge butcher sheets of it, tacked onto all the walls. Listing girls, roles, schedules, timetables, all written on a pink gel. Theirs was a command-and-control fuck polycule, a hardline communist eternal blowjob orgy. Peyton’s eyes tracked some obvious inefficiencies. They could easily squeeze a dozen more cums out of Zachary, for starters.

“Peyton! We’ve been-- looking for you--- EVERYWHERE!” Lily said. She rubbed her eyes. “Professor Anderson?”

“Reporting for duty, I suppose,” Professor Anderson said, as heavily as he could. But all the girls could smell his interest, not to mention see his increasingly mammoth cock rise to the occasion. “Girls, I have to-- you should all look in a mirror. I mean, you look fucking hot, and you smell--- so good, but you’ve become erotic parodies of---”

“It’s fine,” Peyton interrupted. “I figured all that out. Chloe, Lily, I think he should be deployed as a general sex machine, freeing Zachary up for mobile fuck-and-suck operations, so the girls can stay where they are. If it was up to me.”

Another pause greeted this. Everyone’s brains just worked more slowly, these days.

“Sorry, did you say you know why I grew--- these?” that was Hannah, who was first in line, hefting her own enormous titties. “I’ve been--- kinda wondering?”

Peyton blew a hair out of her face, annoyed with herself. Right, she probably should’ve told someone. Dumb, Peyton.

“So we’ve all been heavily-- HEAVILY drugged by a buncha different compounds and hormones that turn us into dumb, hot sex-crazed girlies. And the boys get big fun cocks. These two girls -- Morgan and Misty -- found a bunch of them at the Ruhk Goodwill and put them in all the food and water and stuff and that’s why sucking dick is so awesome now. It’s permanent. But it cures cancer apparently.”

She waved her hand around, vaguely. “And if it matters, which I guess it doesn’t, it’s all thanks to this old mind controlling bimbo-making secret underground group that learned how to turn everyone sexy and dumb. Prince Street. It turns out there’s a whole world of mind controllers that basically runs the globe. I think our polycule is essentially a combination of their drugs, their old 90s-era female subservience website that Zachary found, and a breed-and-multiply hypno sheet. And we’re not even done yet, we’re gonna get even hotter, I know, right?”

“And-- how do you KNOW this, Peyton?” Professor Anderson said. “I know its YOU---”

“Zachary did some initial research. Then I just--- followed up!” Peyton never knew how to handle that question. The information was just out there on the internet for people to find. True, there was some password cracking involved, but it wasn’t HARD. Even a silly bimbo like her could do it. “Anyway! Not gonna do us any good to know that. It’s one-way irreversible stuff. Enjoy the Professor’s big dong. I figured I owed it to everyone for--- you know. Putting up with me. I’m going to go--- I don’t know.”

Peyton generally and vaguely and for the last time waved to the world. To somewhere that wasn’t the Polycule, to a place by herself.

Chloe and Lily exchanged a look. And since they had been heavily medicated with fuck drugs, they also rubbed at each other. It was better, Peyton found, than the looks. Pussy rubs were simplier.

“Peyton,” Chloe said, gently, “you’re, like, the smartest girl in our class, and your only fault is you have the self-esteem of a--- what’s a really small animal? Or like a little bug?”

Five bimbos and a former Professor tried to think of something, and couldn’t.

It was starting to smell like aroused male in the room, and that never helped with factual recall. Professor Anderson was starting to get ideas about what it would be like to fuck every single one of the attractive co-eds he’d watched wiggle their rears for day after day. There were timetables.

“It’s her shitty parents,” Lily explained, to Professor Anderson. “Awful, awful people. I will slap them if I meet them. They just ground it into her soul that she was worthless.”

“Okay, well, whatever,” Chloe said, shrugging. “We’ll do it again, and Peyton this time you KNOW we’re telling the truth because we’re too dumb to lie! You proved it with science! We kept inviting you to stuff because we LIKE YOU! And we DO need you! You can be our--- uhhhhhh----”

Peyton waited, sure in the knowledge that there was nothing.

“Detective, remember?” Lily said. “We talked about this.”

“Oh yeah. That’s good. Detective! Detective Peyton! You can go find stuff out, you’re the BEST at that!”

Detective. Peyton sounded it out.

She could wear a dark black trenchcoat, albeit with nothing else on.

She WAS kinda good at finding stuff out.

“And also you gotta help us plan stuff,” Lily added, waving at the sheets of paper. “It’s like, really hard. We accidentally added a-- what’s it called-- an ampersand to your spreadsheet and it dorked it all up.”

“I could help with that,” Professor Anderson said.

“No, you’re booked through like, next May with cumming in pussies. And if you’re okay with it, we’ve got a list of girls that want to be knocked up,” Chloe said. She picked up a list with a few dozen names on it, and tossed it over.

“Can you start today?” Lily said. “It’s easier if we do it on the hour. So ummmmmm. In twenty-five minutes. Hey, you should fuck Peyton! And then she can help with the rota for fucking you. Whoa. That’s like, ouroboros or something.”

Professor Anderson didn’t need any more urging.

He took hold of Peyton, who was still more than a little stunned, and led her over to a table that had clearly already seen a number of girls bent over it. His very strong hands placed her firmly on top of it, and he took the trouble to kick her legs apart. But after that he slowed down, taking the time to wet his finger and explore the dripping folds of her pussy, fondling tickling each part, and also running his fingers along the breadth of her ass.

It was going to be her first time.

Never ever ever had Peyton dreamed it would be in company, to the watchful, envious eyes of her roommate, her other roommate, and two girls that she didn’t know particularly well. She hadn’t really dreamed it would happen at all. Professor Anderson’s pants hit the floor. More and more girls were filtering in, to see the new dick. And to see her, clutching the table, pussy exposed to all of them.

The first few inches slid in. There was a general sigh. A lot of girls wishing they were her.

“Group hug on Peyton!” Chloe called out. “Be careful though because the Professor is going really hard in her, wow. Wow, Professor, geez.”

He was going objectively really hard in her pussy.

Soon enough they would be-- Peyton would be connected to them. They’d feed each other, clothe each other, lick each other, sleep in each other’s warm arms. That in particular seemed nice. She’d never sleep alone again. They’d serve together. Professor Anderson bottomed out in her, and grunted. “I’m gonna cum,” he grunted.

They’d even multiply together.

---

Martin wasn’t sure how she’d found him.

The Abilgaards had a vast organization. And although they relentlessly pruned it at biquarterly intervals, certain hardy weeds found a way to survive.

Martin prided himself on being one of those weeds. Over time he’d coagulated a number of approvals, permits, and go-aheads in his person, without having to do any actual thinking, leading, or other management.

“Martinnnnnn,” the girl on the phone whined. “Are you touching yourself? For me?”

“Yes. Yes!” Martin whispered. The pictures and videos and calls-- god the CALLS -- had just started showing up. How had she found him?

“Are you looking at my pussy picture?” the girl said. “Do you like it? What’s your favorite pussy hair color, Martin? It’s okay if the answer is, no hair at all. We have so many pussies here, Martin.”

“Black. I like it black,” Martin said. He was trembling. The door to his office was locked.

“Oh, okay. Hey, one of my slutty friends wants to talk to you, okay? Oh, and Martin, you got rid of that lil order to bulldoze the school where all my whore buddies live, okay?”

“Yes, of course, of course!” Martin croaked.

“Good. Okay, here’s Isabelle. Isabelle do you have black pussy hair? Oh, it fell out. Well, I think that’s probably okay. Okay, I’m handing it over. Remember, no bulldozers!”

A new voice came on the line. “Thanks Pey! And hi Mister! Can I tell you how much I want to suck your dick?

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