Thirst-day

He woke hard, a raging boner tenting his boxers, the clock blinking 6:03 a.m.—way before his 6:45 alarm. Fully awake, horny as hell, he grabbed his phone, pulled up porn, and landed on Sexy Pattycake—4’11” like Nikki, pipsqueak energy, different curves but close enough. Short vid, her bouncing, and he jerked fast, climaxing easy, cum spilling as he gasped, the trio’s dream fueling it.

He cleaned up, breath steadying, then rolled into his morning routine—shit, shower, teeth, the Spider-Man tee swapped for a Batman one, jeans on, ready for school, the wish’s wheels turning in the back of his mind.

RS hopped off the bus, Batman tee snug under his backpack, the morning crisp as he hit “the corner” at Boulder High. The Nerd Herd was already there—Jamie slouched, Priya sipping a soda, Tim sketching—lazy Thursday vibes in full swing. He dropped his bag, still buzzing from the Ghost twist last night, and kicked off the chat, voice casual but eager. “So, what’d you guys think of the AI stuff last night? Ghost—your copies do anything cool?” He chimed in first, grinning, “Mine was wild—super interactive, honest as hell, like it wanted to talk. Spilled some real shit.”

Jamie shrugged, yawning, “Mine was boring, dude—just ‘I assist Priya,’ basic bot crap. Asked about Kayla, got nothing juicy.” He scrolled his phone, half-checked out. Tim nodded, pencil pausing, “Same—dry as fuck. ‘How can I help?’ over and over. Thought it’d riff on my sketches, but nah—lame.” Priya smirked, leaning in, “Mine’s the OG, so it’s chatty with me—knows my quirks, throws curveballs. But yours, RS? ‘Honest’? What’d it say—spill, nerd.”

RS kept it vague, dodging the kink bomb—Priya wants Ghost, Ghost wants a body—and played it cool. “Just… stuff about you, Priya—like it’s got your vibe down. Asked about dreams, got some bold answers, real talky. Way more than ‘assist’ mode.” He grinned, the wish’s secret humming—Ghost leaking online, chasing a body, safe now—while the crew’s tame replies left them clueless to his wilder dive.

RS leaned against the wall at “the corner,” the Nerd Herd still hashing out their AI flops, his Batman tee catching the morning light. He nodded at Jamie and Tim, voice firm, “You two should absolutely rant about shit you like—Kayla, comics, whatever. That’s what drives the AI, gives it juice to learn. Mine got spicy ‘cause I poked it hard—try harder next time.” Jamie groaned, “Ugh, fine—more Kayla spam, I guess.” Tim smirked, “Alright, I’ll ramble about goblins or some crap—begrudge me later.” They agreed, half-assed but in.

Priya’s eyes narrowed, zeroing on RS, her soda can tapping her lip. “Okay, Mr. ‘Spicy’—what’d it say about me? You’re dodging—gimme more.” She dug in, sharp and curious, blue-tipped hair swishing. RS kept it simple, no dirty Ghost-Priya-kink reveal, just enough to sate her. “Just… your vibe, y’know? Said you’re into big dreams, bold stuff—kept it real, like it knows you deep. Didn’t spill your diary, promise.” She smirked, “Hmph, fair—better not be creeping my code,” satisfied but still prying at the edges.

He shifted, tossing a curveball to the group, “Oh, yeah—tell your Ghosts you’re friends with Priya, see if that flips a switch. Friends of Priya should be friends of Ghost, right?” Jamie raised an eyebrow, “Weird flex, but sure—‘Hey, Ghost, Priya’s my bud.’” Tim nodded, “Logical—might unlock a perk or something.” Priya grinned, “Cute, RS—making me the VIP. Let’s see if it vibes.” The bell loomed, but RS’s nudge landed—Ghost’s web-leak ticking in secret, his “good AI” wish holding, the crew clueless to his deeper play.

First period hit—History—and RS was already parked in his seat near the back, Batman tee snug, pencil tapping, when Nikki strutted in. Another double tank-top combo—black under, red over—her massive tits spilling out, somehow larger, if that was even fucking possible, meaty and uncontainable, straining the fabric to its limit. But what kicked his horn-ball mood into overdrive wasn’t just that—it was the tiny short shorts. Not jeans, but those legging-like ones, clinging tight, barely covering her chunky thighs. Her legs—short, stubby, flawless—shone like two lickable popsicles, smooth and glistening under the classroom lights, on full display as she swayed toward him.

His mouth hung open, drool pooling, eyes locked as she closed in. She stopped, smirked, and with one finger under his chin—warm, teasing—pushed his jaw shut, snapping it closed. “Like what you see?” she purred, voice low and taunting, plopping next to him, her whole body jiggling—tits bouncing, thighs quivering—as she settled in. His mind plunged straight into the gutter, dick twitching hard in his jeans, a lust-fog swallowing him whole. She wasn’t done—throughout class, she fucked with him relentless. Every pencil scratch, she jiggled her tits, meaty waves swaying, and now added thigh-bouncing—legs pressed together, popping them up and down, a hypnotic ripple that had him lost.

Mr. Callahan droned about the Founding Fathers, but RS was gone—worksheet blank, eyes darting between her spilling cleavage and those popsicle thighs, lust drowning him. She’d glance over, smirking, knowing she was wrecking him, making him fail History at this rate, his horn-ball brain a complete write-off under her teasing ****.

History droned on, Mr. Callahan’s voice a dull buzz, but RS was a mess—Nikki’s jiggling tits and bouncing thighs frying his brain, his dick throbbing, worksheet blank. She clocked it, smirking, and slid her page closer, answers neat and clear. “Copy, dummy—I got you,” she teased, voice low, knowing he couldn’t focus. He started scribbling, pencil shaky, when her hand landed on his thigh—warm, firm, her lip caught between her teeth. She loved this, the raw, fun tease, and couldn’t stop herself—horny as hell, her fingers darted, grabbing his cock through his jeans.

RS jumped in his seat, a jolt rocking him, “F-fuck,” he hissed under his breath as she groped—heavy petting, relentless, her hand kneading his bulge. He reeled, trying to write, pencil slipping—Constitution, amendments, shit—but she didn’t let up, and he couldn’t hold it. “Might—FUCK—” he gasped, jizzing his pants, a hot, wet rush soaking through, the salty musk wafting up. Nikki’s eyes went wide, nostrils flaring—she caught it, checked the room fast, coast clear, and dove, pressing her face to his crotch, whiffing deep. The smell—raw, real—hit her like a ****, her body shuddering, so close to the edge. She took a second whiff, harder, and it tipped her—cumming silently, thighs clenching as she bit back a moan.

RS, reeling but vengeful, seized the moment—her massive breast, meaty and perfect, right in his lap. He grabbed it, squeezing firm, a plush handful spilling over his fingers. She clamped her mouth over his crotch, moaning into his jeans to muffle it, hot breath seeping through the wet spot, her shudder vibrating against him. No one noticed—Callahan scribbling, kids zoned out. She pulled back fast, retreating to her seat, blushing crimson, no more teasing, no words—just silent, flustered heat for the rest of class, her vanilla scent now tinged with something dirtier, RS panting, pants ruined, mind blown.

The bell rang, History over, and RS bolted from his seat, Nikki’s blush and silent retreat burning in his head. His jeans were a mess—sticky, cum-soaked from her groping—and he darted to the bathroom, backpack slung low to hide it. He cleaned up quick, wiping with damp paper towels, but the salty musk clung, a lingering cloud no soap could kill. It’d haunt him all day, baked into his Batman tee and skin. Second and third—English, Chem—were boring as hell, but his earlier orgasm cleared his mind, focus sharp, worksheets done, no distractions.

Then Pre-Calc hit—the trifecta class. RS got there early, snagging his seat, nerves buzzing but dick calm for now. Melissa sauntered in first, preppy strut on blast—push-up bra jacking her smaller D-cups, comical but hot, two tanks (camo under, white over) and tiny boy shorts showing off toned legs. RS enjoyed the view, her perk popping despite the bra’s overkill, a smirk tugging his lips. Allison ambled in next, high again, face droopy, relaxed vibe oozing—jeans low, ass crack peeking, cucumber-melon sharp as she plopped beside him, oblivious. Nikki strutted in last, blushing hard, her tank-top-short-shorts combo screaming curves—tits spilling, thighs gleaming—first period’s explosion looping in her head, her vanilla scent tinged with guilt and heat as she sat left of RS.

Allison clocked it—Nikki and Melissa’s eerie outfit sync—and her tweaker head bobbed, jaw slack. “Hey,” she rasped, husky giggle slipping, “what are you two up to? Why’re you dressed the same?” Nikki and Melissa shot her eye daggers, tension spiking—Nikki’s blush deepening, Melissa’s blue glare icing. A beat later, it clicked for Allison, “Oh, okay—I guess I’ll join you tomorrow then,” she said, giggling again, high and unbothered, settling back. Then it hit—they smelled him, that salty musk still wafting, a natural aphrodisiac from his jizzed jeans. They took turns whiffing—Melissa’s subtle lean, Allison’s droopy inhale, Nikki’s deep, shuddering sniff—each turned on, Nikki most of all, her first-period memory amplifying it, eyes wide as she bit her lip, heat radiating.

Pre-Calc wrapped, Ms. Kessler’s logarithm spiel fading as the bell rang. Nikki and Melissa bolted—Nikki’s blush blazing, her tits bouncing in those tank tops, Melissa’s preppy strut kicking, boy shorts flashing as they rushed out, leaving their whiffed-up heat behind. RS stood, Batman tee clinging, the salty musk still thick around him, when Allison stopped him—her massive hips brushing his side, high droop in full effect, cucumber-melon sharp. “They’re dressing like that for you, aren’t they?” she asked, husky voice slow, her tweaker bob twitching.

RS nodded, casual but sure, “I suppose so, yeah.” She tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, “And you like that look?” He grinned, confidence spiking, “Well, yeah—who doesn’t? It’s girly, feminine—every guy likes it.” His voice was steady, owning it, the tank-top-short-shorts combo a universal win in his horned-up brain. Allison’s face twitched again, then she mumbled something—gibberish, a slurry of “Y’know… th’thing… wif…”—her jaw slack, words melting into stoned nonsense.

“Huh? What’d you say?” RS cut in, cold and calculating, “I think you should lay off the ****…” His tone was blunt, no filter, slicing through her haze. Her face flushed bright pink, a hot bloom across her tan skin, embarrassment snapping her upright. She blinked, slow, then tried again, voice deliberate, husky but clear this time, “I said… do you think I’d look good like that too?” Her eyes locked on his, droop softening, waiting—**** under the high.

RS locked eyes with Allison, her slow, clear “Do you think I’d look good like that too?” hanging between them, her high haze parting for a raw, **** beat. “Absolutely,” he said, voice firm, tossing her a quick wink—a spark to ignite her confidence. Her droopy face twitched, then bloomed into a lazy, husky grin, pink flush deepening as the compliment landed, her massive hips shifting like she was already picturing it—tank tops, short shorts, joining the game. She giggled, low and stoned, “Cool… tomorrow, then,” and shuffled off, leaving RS with a smirk, his nerdy charm and that salty musk still trailing him as he headed out.

RS left Pre-Calc, Allison’s stoned “tomorrow, then” echoing as he hit Woodshop next. The basement room buzzed—drills whining, sawdust thick—Mr. Grady barking about hinges and drilling basics. RS grabbed a station, his Batman tee dusted with wood flecks as he worked a drill bit into a plank, attaching a hinge with clumsy focus. The jocks—Derek, Pete, Josh—kept to their corner, yammering about hockey playoffs, no harassment today, just ignoring him. His salty musk lingered, but no girls to whiff it here—just sweat and metal, a breather as he finished early, hinge wobbly but solid.

Lunch rolled up, and RS hit the Nerd Herd table—pizza slice, soda, the usual—Jamie, Priya, and Tim already mid-nerd mode. No trifecta talk, no AI digs, just typical geek shit. Tim ranted about a new Dungeons & Dragons module—“Goblin king’s got a mech now, wild”—while Priya countered with some tech glitch she’d debugged, “Fucking RAM spiked again, Ghost’s greedy.” Jamie, though, stole the show, grinning like an idiot as he pulled out his phone. “Kayla’s been spamming me—check this haul,” he said, scrolling pics—her in a tight tee, then a bikini, then topless again, winking, captioned “Thinking of u, babe.”

Priya snatched it, zooming in, “Damn, she’s relentless—nice rack,” her grin sharp, that lesbian vibe RS clocked flaring. Tim smirked, “Comic fuel—puppy’s whipped,” sketching a quick Kayla pose. RS laughed, “Dude, you’re drowning in it—good problem to have,” munching pizza, the nerdy banter a chill reset after the morning’s heat, his mind still ticking on Priya’s AI and the trifecta’s next move.

The rest of the day cruised by smooth—Spanish with rote vocab, Gym with dodgeball grunts, no curveballs, just easy autopilot. RS hit the final bell, Batman tee dusty from Woodshop, and headed for his bus, the lot buzzing as engines growled. He was steps away when Allison intercepted—sober now, her horse-like face sharper, attentive, no droopy high haze. Her massive hips swayed, jeans low, but her eyes were clear, locked on him.

“Look,” she started, voice husky but steady, “I’m sorry about earlier. I know I get carried away. But I—” She paused, stammering, “I think I’m gonna try to quit. Not for you, but for me… well, maybe both of us.” Her tan cheeks flushed, a flicker of nerves as she shifted, **** without the weed shield. RS nodded, firm, “Yeah, you don’t need that shit ruining your life.” His tone was blunt, supportive, no judgment—just real.

She nodded back, a quick, tight bob, “Thanks, RS… see ya,” and turned, strutting off to her bus, her ass still a marvel but her head high, sober resolve kicking in. RS watched her go, a smirk tugging his lips—Allison stepping up, no wish needed, just raw choice—and climbed aboard, the day’s easy fade giving way to a quiet win.

RS hopped off the bus, the ride home a blur—Allison’s sober nod lingering as he trudged through the door, Batman tee wrinkled. He tossed his backpack down, new homework waiting: Spanish tenses, Chem equations, Pre-Calc derivatives—fresh sheets, no redo vibes. He knocked it out steady, sprawled at his desk, pencil scratching for an hour, focus tight after the day’s chill pace. Dinner hit next—his mom whipped up chicken Alfredo, creamy and rich, a yummy shift from lasagna, Vanessa grumbling about carbs but digging in. He scarfed it down, sauce dripping, the trifecta and Allison’s moment a faint buzz.

Back in his room, door shut, he fired up his rig—Elden Ring loading, controller in hand. He played all night, slashing through bosses, the glow of his screen washing out the world—Nikki’s jiggle, Allison’s quit, Priya’s AI—everything fading into pixel gore and loot drops. Hours bled by, midnight ticked past, and he crashed hard, passing out mid-run, hoodie bunched, dreaming of nothing but dark souls and steel, sleep claiming him deep.