It's Prom

Women’s bathrooms are legally required to be at least twice the size of men’s.

The double entendre of it is that there’s more space allowed for fucking (verb form) Shen Xiaoting.

Music is outside — not copyrighted for educational use as the school’s last chance to improve the students’ English proficiencies. A few cubicles have their indicators on red — occupied. The room doesn’t reek, not really — the opposite of being overtly grandiose and squeaky clean, more like.

(There are too many em dashes in a row now — wasteful and fucking self-indulgent.)

A little establishing just for world-building: Shen Xiaoting is, by no means, not a popular girl. She ticks off every goddamn checkbox to be the school’s, to have it politically correct and inclusive, royalty: deific face, teachers’ darling, vocal cadence that entraps every soul. The name itself doesn’t elicit fear — mostly admiration and awe. She has her own adversaries, of course. To quote a Fincher tagline: you don’t get to [some big number] friends without making a few enemies. The pressure on those who speak against her is just immense, however.

Then, there’s you: some jackass who’s just ambivalent about her.

Like someone’s dream, your artistic taste is meticulously curated. It has been crafted through years of perseverance and a constant desire for exploration. Melody, plot, prose — they made up a sizeable chunk of you. You have your preferences: pop, rom-com, then more rom-com, but to close the door and bask in the comfort of your genres would be, to you, naïve.

It’s not really a case of two worlds colliding. You do have your folks. You do have your kind of popularity with your shuttlecock skills. You do have your own rivals. Still, it’s a pairing that makes bystanders do a double take, then a triple take, then a quadruple take.

The attraction is genuine, still.

It started with a post-match bouquet from Xiaoting. You gave one back. Then there was the chocolate. There was the white chocolate after that. Until a date came by — second, third. It’s a matter of initiation and reciprocation of affection and some empathy. As cliché as it is, think of badminton. Some hits are too hard. Some hits are too soft. You never give up chasing the shuttlecock until it lands, despite all odds, and Xiaoting doesn’t let up as well.

That was the groundwork.

Speaking of coordination, your right hand, which normally holds a racket or picks a song, is dearly holding the back of Xiaoting’s head. Her now-messy hair is a byproduct of your calloused fingers tangling in it. Your left hand — mostly free and wholly soft — is on her supple rear as you piston your cock into her cunt. Xiaoting makes this unequivocally pretty noise every time you hilt deep inside — melodic, chromatic. It’ll surely keep the occupants from walking out of their little, now-suffocating-by-your-moans cubicles.

The purple dress doesn’t pose itself as an obstacle. Its hemlines are soft enough for you to fold it up onto her cute tummy as you rail her completely. The fabric feels soft on your hand, and you can’t help but caressing her shapely ass through the garment. Xiaoting keeps begging for more of it — the external overstimulation on top of your dick inside her heat. She’s that greedy.

Each thrust into her is nothing short of divine. Those nerves really are feeling the quakes coursing through them. With a few more variables: the way she looks at you, the way she whispers these sweet nothings, and you’re completely doomed by this woman. It’s a perfect chord between the two of you, and you’re doing absolutely nothing to ruin it.

Xiaoting locks you in a place with her legs, eventually. You can only move your hips back and forth to destroy yourself with the tightness and the wetness and the heat of her pussy. The notion isn’t out of your grasp: your fertility with hers for a new life.

The tells are there for both of you: the wine-like breaths quickening, the lips clashing into each other, the clamping of her cunt around your cock. There’s no prudence nor foresight for your lives in this act. You just need each other, and that’s more than enough.

It crashes into you as hard as it wrecks her. You quake inside her as you unload yourself into her heaving cunt. The moans are a bit too loud for the walls that are way too thin, not speaking about the ones sitting on the toilet yet. A gush of liquid leaves her pussy as well, branding your slacks as hers along with your soul. Walking out of this bathroom while smelling like her squirt is going to be so fucking wonderful.

The feeling of fading out feels less painful than when you are alone. You twitch lightly, dispensing the last drops of your sperm into Xiaoting. Your body shivers with her in the aftershocks that flow through — relentless. Her face becomes a little more relaxed, chest moving up and down. You feel her heart beating fast against yours, and that’s how you know that it’s real. You and Shen Xiaoting — it’s fucking real.