So Damn Wanky
a crack story extraordinaire
by Downy Glen
inspired by my equally perverted friend whom we shall call Ernie
Introduction
A tell-tale squeaking sound resonates off the walls of the dimly lit bedroom, occasionally accompanied by the low groaning of a particularly red-faced jock. Santana's eyes drag around the room with mild interest, noting a framed picture of him and his girlfriend on his nightstand. She knows it's a terrible thing to do but she can't bring herself to care. She looks down at him underneath her. He has his hands gripping her hips, brow scrunched in concentration, and mouth slightly agape. Santana rolls her eyes at the jock's constipated expression. This is going to be a long night, she notes.
The poor boy is too worried about pleasing her that he's taking forever to cum himself, while she just wants it over and done with so she can go home and sleep through the rest of her drunkenness. She inwardly curses Brittany for daring her to take his virginity to add to her popularity. Santana runs a hand through her hair and settles it on top of his chest for a better balance. At least he doesn't have weird pyramid nipples like Finnocence, she thinks smirking to herself.
The jock takes her smirk as a little personal victory and she can practically see his ego swell. "Ugh, like that huh?" He asks her with a husky voice. Santana suppresses another eyeroll and grinds down particularly hard to shut him up. She feels like she's hovering over herself and watching the scene below, unattached to whatever is happening. Ease on the drama Santana.
She doesn't know what provokes it, maybe it's the football equipment dropped unceremoniously in a dark corner of his room, but she finds herself thinking of what happened earlier that day with coach Beiste. The glee boys thinking of her to not cream their pants... classic. "You close babe?" He breathes. She shoots him a dark look. "Shut up. I told you, I don't talk during." He looks conflicted for a moment but continues his slightly unsynchronized humping. Does it work though? She chances another look at the jock beneath her and notes that it can't get any worse. Nevertheless, she's curious.
She pictures Beiste pulling on her knee-high socks, glancing up at her with an intense stare. Santana's lips part slightly as goosebumps start forming on her skin. The hell, am I freaked out or turned on? She thinks back to the time when she saw her deadlifting alone through a small crack that was left open by the door in the boys' locker room. She remembers how Beiste's muscles tensed in anticipation, how her skin looked flustered from the exertion, how a single drop of sweat hit the floor.
Santana surprises herself when she feels a moan bubbling in her throat, but brushes it off as being due to the alcohol. I mean, what else could it be, right? She remembers how Beiste wiped her brow and drank from a bottle of water, some of it trickling down her shirt. She remembers how they locked eyes through the crack, and how tense the air around them felt. Beiste was the one to break the stare by nodding her head at Santana in recognition and turning around to put the bottle in her bag. As she bended over, Santana rested her gaze on Beiste's backside and the strong legs that were attached to it. So damn wanky.
Before she fully realizes what's happening, Santana feels herself teetering over the edge as her walls contract hard around the jock that she had forgotten about. She grips his shoulders as she rides out her orgasm, back hunched and hips jerking erratically. As she falls down next to him on the bed, she has only one thought on her mind.
What. The. Fuck.
