Part 1

Quantum Bound

Part 1: Getting Ahead

(Story by Indigocarmine, all artwork by KSG)

“Push!!!” I yell, fighting through the pain. “Come on Erica push!!!”

I feel all four of our hands clutch the rough hospital bedspread and our back arch. From beside me Erica growls and I feel our abdominal muscles clench and push. It hurts so fucking much! But I need to keep it together, head in the game.

Panting and sweaty I turn my head and make eye contact with Erica, face inches away on our shared shoulders. She glances at me and whimpers, an animal fear in her eyes. Pain radiates from our distended belly and dilated vagina. I wince and take a deep breath. “Erica,” I say, “you’re doing great! You got this.”

“Almost there,” the attending OB says, sounding bored. Asshole.

“Hear that Erica? You’re almost done! You’ve come all this way, and the, owwww fuck! Sorry, the finish line is right there!” Erica looks exhausted and I wish I could help her push, but as much as I get to experience all of the joyful pain, I’m just a passenger in this. 

“I’m going to need you to push again,” the doctor says like he doesn’t even care.

“Okay Erica! 1, 2, 3, PUSH!”

“Fuckkkkk!” Erica screams and pushes, and I feel us stretch and tear, and the giant planet inside of us finally break through into the world. Erica tearfully moans and the doctor extricates the rest with a truly alien sensation. 

And then we hear the sound of a baby crying. 

“Congratulations,” the doctor mutters, “it’s a boy.”

“You did it Erica!” I say, “Did you hear that? You have a son!”

Erica looks at me, a potent mix of elation and just absolute fuck off fatigue on her pretty face. 

“I’m so proud of you!” 

Erica smiles a dreamy, weary smile, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Thanks Coach.”

And then the doctor is placing Erica’s son on our chest and I’m....

***

“AHHHHHHHHHH! Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck!”

Elsewhere.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I feel our body take a breath and before it can scream again I say, “Honey, I’m gonna need a minute here. Okay?”

“What the fuck!?”

I squeeze my eyes closed and try to ignore the sickly feeling of fear and adrenaline in our belly. “I’ll explain everything in a sec. I’m just having a wild day, even by my standards.”

More timidly now, “Please, I just need to know what’s happening.”

I sigh and open my eyes and see us reflected in a bathroom mirror, me and her. Convenient. We’re naked and a blow drier is wooshing away on the floor, so my assignment must have just gotten out of the shower. I look us over, studying our configuration. I’m pleased to see we have two heads and that I have my own neck, which is always a luxury. My head is on our right and is the familiar round faced, green eyed blond with the practical short bob. The other head perched on the left of our very wide shoulders is darker and thinner than mine. She has a sharp elegant nose, a thin lipped mouth, and shoulder length wavy black hair still a little wet from the shower. I wink at her and she frowns. Below our shoulders our chest has three prominent, perky breasts with long pointy nipples. We only have two arms, slender with elegant fingers which I notice are stained faintly with something black. Our flat but not very muscular torso has two belly buttons nestled next to each other, but otherwise is fairly normal. Our lower body is another story. Our hips are wider than our extended shoulders and sprout three thin legs, the middle one ending in a weirdly configured foot bracketed by two big toes. As a consequence of this, I see we have two vaginas between our three thighs, each with its own identical landingstrip of pubic hair, one dark and one blonde. Presumably we must also have three ass cheeks and a pair of buttholes too. Okay, I can work with this. “Not so bad.”

“Not so bad!? I’m a freak!”

“We’re a freak actually. But don’t worry no one will notice.”

The woman looks confused in the mirror, “What do you mean?”

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Elizabeth, but I go by Eliza.”

“Hi Eliza, I’m Coach.”

“Coach?” A puzzled eyebrow elevates.

“Just roll with it. Eliza, do you believe in magic?”

“No, that’s ridiculous!”

I smirk at her playfully in the mirror. “Said the one head to the other on the suddenly conjoined girl.”

She frowns thoughtfully at that. “I might have to reassess my opinion,” she says quietly.

I laugh and she smiles a little, tentatively. Good. “Let me tell you a little story. Once upon a time there was this young woman who wanted to be a life coach. Since being a new life coach pays worse than being a social worker, she was forced to side hustle in the gig economy to make ends meet. One day her maid service app sent her to a handsome old Victorian mansion on a hill. It was a beautiful house, covered in tiny craftsman details and dollhouse flourishes, but it was painted charcoal grey and black, like a beautiful widow in mourning. The owner of the house seemed like a nice old lady, plump and jolly, dressed in a fuscia house dress, totally at odds with the place. So the aspiring coach swallowed her fear and got to work. The inside of the house was amazing, filled with all kinds of weird artifacts and curios and all of the dust on Earth. As the woman cleaned her curiosity got the best of her, and she started to poke around a little, to study and look at all the treasures. Which is why the old woman caught our hero digging through a jewelry box and accused our wannabe coach of stealing from her. The coach stammered, promised she was just looking, swore it wasn’t what it looked like, but the jolly old woman was having none of it. And the old woman was changing, becoming less jolly and plump, in fact becoming lean and harshly beautiful, green skinned, and clothed in a sheer black gown. Total wicked witch vibes. And the old woman, kindly voice turned hard and cold, told our hero that she would be punished! Cursed! The witch, for that is surely what she was, commanded the young woman hold still, which she did compulsively, while she drew out a purple ribboned choker with an amethyst stone, and tied it around her throat.” In our reflection I cranked my neck, letting the light sparkle on the gem of the choker that can’t be removed. “The young woman was me.”

“I got that,” Eliza says quietly, reaching up to touch the choker, finding it seamlessly fused to me; to us.

“So the witch grabbed me by my cheeks, twisted, and lifted my head clean off my body which vanished into thin air. She held my disembodied head up to her eyes and smirked, asked me if I’d ever seen the show Quantum Leap.”

“Quantum Leap?”

“I know, right? I looked it up and apparently it was a TV show from like, the early 90s where Scott Bakula got lost in time. Basically the premise is that Bakula ends up suddenly inhabiting the lives of strangers and has to solve some sort of life problem for them before he can Quantum Leap into a new life and wacky problem.”

“So it’s basically Sci-fi Littlest Hobo?”

“What’s Littlest Hobo?”

“A retro Canadian melodrama about a dog who is a hobo and goes from town to town solving people’s problems.” Eliza blushes and averts reflected eye contact. “It’s corny but cute.”

I laugh playfully. “Okay, so I’m the Quantum Hobo here okay? I’ve been cursed to find myself suddenly conjoined to people, and I’m stuck to them until I help coach them through some sort of problem. And then...” I do an elaborate pantomime blink, “I’m stuck to someone new and the cycle restarts.”

The woman hefts our triple tits and then blushes, “What’s up with the extras?”

“No idea, but try not to worry about them. Another part of my curse is that no one will think your breasts or three legs are weird. They’ll notice them, but to them you’ve always been a tripod and no one will even think it’s weird or worth commenting on.”

“Wild...”

“It’s bigger than that too: your clothes will all fit, your ID will match, you’ll have three legs in your old photos. As far as I can tell reality will have been rewritten so this is just how it is.” I grin like I’m shrugging. “Magic.”

Eliza knits her dark eyebrows and ponders, “I wonder if that’s why no one thinks magic is real.” We’ve got a sharp one here.

“Could be. The other curse thing you should know is that no one else will notice me. They can’t see me, they can’t hear me, and they won’t even notice when you talk to me. People just seem to gloss over my existence like I’m not even here. So yeah, don’t worry about the extra head thing or looking crazy talking to me since it’ll all be basically invisible.”

“Okay,” she says. She twists our hips to get a better look at our body. “Does this go away when you do? Do I go back to normal?”

I chew my lips, “I don’t actually know. Once your problem is solved I’m outta here so I have no clue what a post-me person looks like. I hope things reset though.” I twist my neck back and forth. “Also you should know that I have no control of our shared body except for my head and neck, but that I can feel every sensation in the whole thing. I’m basically a passenger for the duration.” I turn to look directly at her and flash my warmest smile, “does that answer your basic questions?”

Eliza turns to look back and nods, “I think so.”

“Okay, Eliza, now for the big question: what am I here to help with?”

***

We’re sitting at Eliza’s home workstation in front of a pair of massive retina displays and an expensive drawing tablet on a very modern standing/sitting desk. She has dressed us, not without some charming difficulty, in unorthodox black underwear, three-legged black tights, a smart pencil skirt, and a chunky grey crewnecks sweater. She has also applied a small amount of makeup, pulled her black hair back into an efficient looking bun, and put on her glasses, a pair of decidedly chunky nerd-designer specs. Eliza hums quietly as she works, arranging files on her desktop, sorting out her presentation. 

While Eliza works I study her small apartment. The walls are painted a renters white and hung with black and white photo canvases of wrought iron architectural decorations, presumably by Eliza judging from the SLR camera kit scattered on a sidetable. The furniture is spare with clean modernist lines and is almost a uniform grey. One wall is lined with white bookshelves filled with art and design books sorted into colour blocks. On her plain grey stained wooden coffee table is an open sketch book filled with exquisite charcoal drawings of nude women in rapturous poses. The kitchenette is minimalist, black countered and white subway tiled, but in a way that somehow avoids hipster rustic chic. There are houseplants everywhere, big leafy guys arranged in bright corners, and succulents perched in the halo of every window. There is definitely taste at work here, but it’s also kind of lonely, like a very well decorated hotel room. I don’t see any pictures of Eliza with family, friends, or romantic partners nor any evidence of a regular houseguest. (I’m relieved to note that there is also no wedding band on our shared fingers.) This is the home of someone with a rich internal life but not much going on in the way of human company. Hmmm.

“Okay,” Eliza says timidly, “I think I’m ready, Coach.”

“Alright, tell me why you deserve a promotion.”

When she first explained to me that she wanted a promotion, naked in front of the mirror, she could only stammer something about how Bradly, a junior coworker, had been promoted to Senior Designer which was totally unfair. Since Eliza had been there longer and was the much better graphic designer, it was a promotion and raise she felt she deserved more than him. When I asked her why *she herself* deserved a promotion she seemed to run out of steam, averted her eyes, and meekly said she was very good. I restrained a sigh and asked if she’d ever spoken to her boss about any of this. She craned her neck as far from mine as she could and murmured that no she was too nervous. I could see I had some work to do here. And so I ordered her to get dressed in something confidence boosting, put some coffee in our body because I like it and correctly guessed she would have the good stuff, and instructed her to put together a proper pitch explaining why she was a valuable member of her team who deserved a promotion. Apparently she was ready to try this again.

On the nearest monitor a slideshow begins showing a small army of logos, many of which I recognize. “I’m a graphic designer at an advertising firm, Coach. I work on a team that does visual identity work, particularly logos, which are kind of my specialty. I contributed significantly to every one of these projects.” She advances to the next slide which shows a page of hand drawn ideas scanned from a sketchbook. “The way our team works is we meet with the client and get our brief and then split up to work individually, so that we can all independently come up with concepts . It’s a way to avoid group think and harness the creativity of every team member. I like to work here in my apartment.” She clicks ahead and three of the sketches are now digital creations, iterated across the page going from simple black shapes to flat colour mockups. “Each one of us choses our two or three favourite concepts and then we meet, put them all in one document, and pick two to four designs to carry forward.” She advances to a slide that shows her three designs mixed with about twenty others and then clicks again circling three, two of which were by her. “We then break apart again and iterate on the chosen designs, tweaking and refining.” Another click and one of the designs, notably the one not by Eliza, sits at the top left corner of a slide. Across the rest of the slide are variations of this design with alterations and adjustments, until at the bottom right corner sits a new, professionally constructed version that is, in some ineffable designy way, much better. “We meet again, compare our refined versions, discuss good and bad elements and then create a consensus final version. Which is usually something I do.” She clicks to a new slide with the previous logo surrounded by refined versions with highlighted aspects. In the centre is a final version that looks remarkably like Eliza’s version with a few tiny flourishes. “Then we present the client with our refined versions and let them choose or test market them.” Another slide advance and there are three logos, two of which originated with Eliza and the third the one she overhauled. One last click and there is blown up image of one of Eliza’s designs and a picture of it on the front of a large department store. My bodymate clearly has game.

She proceeds through the slideshow, highlighting her specific contributions to a number of important big client logos. I can see her fingerprints on virtually every logo in her catalogue, usually forming the foundation of the design, and even if not, many of her suggestions or tweaks show up in the final design. By the time she clicks through to her final slide it’s pretty obvious that she is the single largest contributor to her design team, at least as far as logo design goes. “Yeah,” I say with a whistle, “I’d say you deserve that promotion.”

She blushes and looks away, clearly unable to take the compliment. “Well, it’s still a group effort...”

I repress a frown, “Eliza, the time for false modesty is not when you’re asking for a raise.” She mumbles an apology. “You were great when talking about the designs; I want to see that energy the whole time. Show some confidence! Own your accomplishments! Run me through your slideshow again and be assertive about your contributions. And then maybe we can work on negotiating.”

“Yes, Coach.”

***

We’re sitting at a large common desk in Eliza’s painfully modern workplace waiting for her boss to finish an important call. The office is very fancy but surprisingly small, with only a few necessary rooms, like it has been distilled down to the essentials by telecommuting. The main room is a coworking space filled by a large common table with outlets for laptops and a pair of semi-enclosed workstations with fancy graphic design interfaces like Eliza’s home setup. There is also a self-serve snackbar and a kiosk for a very pretty young office manager/receptionist. Sprouting from this main space is a boardroom for team meetings and two offices; a shared one for calls or whatever and a larger one for the team leader. It’s all rather austere: white walls and furniture, big officey plants, and art reproductions of some of the designer’s greatest hits hanging on the walls. It’s like the workplace equivalent of Eliza’s apartment. 

We had come into the office for a critique meeting, one of the sessions where the group discusses refinements to a design. Apparently a fussy client had rejected their best ideas and now they had to work out a plan B. It was instructive to sit through the meeting as an invisible head and watch the office dynamics play out. Tim, Eliza’s boss, seemed like a good manager of creative types, letting them spin their ideas while keeping them focused on the larger picture. I got the sense that he was a tough but fair guy who seemed to value his underlings. I also got to see Bradley in action. He was dressed in too tight slacks, a blue Oxford shirt, a knit tie, and enormously chunky glasses that I’m half convinced are a pose. Despite the faux geek eyewear the guy was slick, figuring out how to package his ideas into digestible stories that others could buy into. I could tell that even if he wasn’t an especially great graphic designer, having a guy like that on the team to interface with clients and management types would be handy. But it was also pretty clear that he didn’t have a ton of ideas about the project itself. He was valuable to the process but not the product. Eliza for her part seemed nervous at first, but as they got deeper into the technical discussion she seemed to loosen up. (Although maybe she just needed a minute to see that no one cared about her third tit or extra gawking head.) Once she got rolling, it was obvious that everyone in the room really respected her ideas, that Boss Tim and even hotshot Bradley listened to her with a lot of weight. If her presentation hadn’t already sold me on her value, this meeting certainly would have.

“Tim’s ready for you now,” pretty manager/receptionist chirps at us from her station.

“You can do this Eliza,” I say to her, giving her my best encouraging smile.

“I-I don’t know, I feel likeI could puke,” she whispers back to me, glancing around to see if anyone noticed, which of course they didn’t because magic. I can feel our heart hammering in our chest and sweat making our palms clammy. 

“That’s just the adrenaline kicking in. You can do it. Just show him your presentation,” which Eliza had been picking at while we waited, “and remember I’m going to be in there too and no one but you can hear me.”

Shakily she stands and nervously walks us to Tim’s office in her odd three-legged gait. I’d’ve advocated for something more in the determined stride category, but tripod baby steps; at least she’s moving in the right direction. Bradley is hovering in the office and notices Eliza’s hesitant marching. “Oh,” he says, giving us a long look, “if you’re doing what I think, well, good luck! Elle, you deserve it!” I raise an eyebrow, either Bradley is better at faking sincerity than I give him credit for, or he’s actually rooting for Eliza. I mentally downscore his douche rating. Eliza squawks at the interruption and starts to falter, “Say thanks and keep moving,” I admonish. “Thanks,” she murmurs. And then we are in Tim’s office. 

Tim is seated at his desk, his jacket draped over his chair and the sleeves of his paisley shirt rolled up. He gestures to his guest chair and smiles warmly, “You wanted to talk Eliza?”

“Mmhmm,” she says blushing and arranging our three legs within our skirt as we sit. “I mean, y-yes. Yes I do.”

“Okay? About what?”

She is staring exactly three inches above Tim’s eyes and blurts, “I found out Bradley was promoted to Senior Designer and I think that if he deserves that so should I....”

I groan, “Eliza, don’t make it about Bradley. Explain why *you* want and deserve a promotion. Now take a deep breath and start again.”

“Sorry Coach,” she says and then takes a long slow breath. “Sorry Tim, can I start over?”

Tim smiles wryly and nods. Clearly he is used to Eliza and her ways.

“I just learned that there is a Senior Designer position, and while this is a team effort,” “Eliza....” “I think I’m the most valuable graphic designer on your team. I work very hard and contribute to every project. If you’ll give a me a second I’ve prepared a presentation that shows my contributions to the team...”

Tim holds up his hands. “That won’t be necessary. Of course I’ll make you a Senior Designer. All you had to do was ask.”

“What?” Eliza asks while I smirk.

“I’m good enough at my job to recognize that you’re the driving creative force behind a lot of what we do here. I mean, everyone on the team contributes, but you’re great at creating strong concepts and have a keen editorial eye for other’s work. I’m not sure I could replace you, frankly. I gave Bradley the promotion because he is also a very important part of this team: he helps sell your ideas and helps me handle clients and agency management. And best of all he isn’t too ambitious or a total dickhead.” He smiles and shakes his head, “I’ve wanted to promote you for almost a year now, but agency policy is no unsolicited promotions, so you had to ask. I’ve been dropping hints for months...didn’t you notice?”

“I thought you were flirting with me...” Eliza says while blushing.

“Oh honey,” Tim says. “You know I’m gay, you’ve met my husband a bunch of times.”

Eliza looks at the floor and blushes darker. “I thought it was maybe performative...”

“Oh Honey...” Tim and me both say.

Tim sighs and rubs his nose, “Moving on... Yes I’ll promote you to Senior Designer and give you the same raise that I’ve given other Senior Designers.” Tim winks, “Although, if I were in your position I’d maybe ask for 5% more...” 

“No, um, the same pay rate is fair...” “ELISA!” “Sorry, I mean, I would please like 5% more? If it’s possible...”

Tim chuckles, “You drive a hard bargain but sure.” He shakes Eliza’s hand, “I’ll put the paperwork in tonight. Now I’d love to take you out for a celebratory drink, but I have to call the client back and get them to like our designs. You’re totally right that Design #2 is perfect for them and Bradley managed to learn over drinks that the marketing dept likes it, so now I just need to get their execs on board.” Tim gives Eliza a weary look, “One day when you run a team like this, find yourself a Bradley.”

***

We’re drunk and watching a corny Canadian TV show about a German Shepard solving melodrama. The very cute theme song kicks in and another episode starts. I instruct Eliza to pour us another glass of a very nice Gamay Noir and hold the cup to my mouth for a sip. Ahhhh, it’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed a wine night. “This Gamay has got game-y,” I say giggling like a tipsy idiot.

Eliza snorts and almost spills our glass, dribbling wine on our t-shirt. “That’s terrible!”

“I’m the Coach not the Comedian,” I say mock pouting. She giggles and takes a long drink of our wine. I don’t taste it, but I do feel it fill her mouth and slide down her throat. It turns out two-headed ladies can get wine drunk twice as fast.

We are celebrating Eliza’s promotion since I’m inexplicably still attached to her despite the job being done. I figure I’m maybe here until the paperwork is filed or the first pay cheque arrives or something? Magic is fickle. And why not make the most of it? It’s been a long time since I could just relax and have fun for a night. It’s cool to actually celebrate one of my good deeds for once.

Eliza scoops up another slice of takeout pizza and offers me a nibble before attacking it herself. I’m grateful for the quiet night since a public party as an invisible head seems awkward, but I do feel guilty Eliza isn’t having a bigger celebration. “Is there someone you want to call over? A friend or boyfriend or something? Don’t cancel the party on my account.”

She shakes her head, “Pizza, wine, and Hobo in my, sorry, *our* underwear is perfect right now.” She smiles, and tucks our three bare legs up under us, “besides, all my best friends live out of town, so I’ll just call them in the morning. And boyfriend,” she rolls her eyes and makes a pfah sound.

“No one in the picture?”

She shakes her head ruefully, “I guess I’m just focusing on my career?” She stops and bites her lip, takes a long drink of wine, and blushes. “Actually that’s not true. Coach, it just never seems to click for me. I’ll maybe meet a guy who’s nice enough but then... I dunno? No chemistry? Something anyway.”

“What about Bradley,” I ask slyly, thinking of the thumbs up he shot her on the way out. “I think he likes you...”

“Ewwww!” Eliza giggles, “No coworkers! And he’s so *hairy* and *oily*! Gross!”

I laugh, “Okay...”

“What about you?” She asks, swirling our wine. “Do you have a guy in the picture?”

I raise an eyebrow at her, “Girl, I’m a cursed ghost head that swaps bodies on assignment. So not at the moment.” I pause until she takes a big sip of wine, “I’m just focusing on my career.” 

She chokes and almost spits wine everywhere. “That was funny! Did you have someone before?”

I nod for more wine and take a good long sip. A little escapes my mouth and runs down my chin and Eliza gently brushes it off my face in an almost caress. “Yeah, I had a boyfriend when the curse kicked in. He’s this nice sort of chill flannel guy, a carpenter and handyman who’d like, renovate your kitchen or fix your roof. He had this really annoying habit of undercharging or doing repairs on barter for people who couldn’t afford the work. He’s a super sweet guy.” Who has no doubt moved on to a nicer chick after his difficult girlfriend mysteriously disappeared. Unless of course the curse has rewritten reality so that he never even knew me at all. I grimace and sniff, this is a celebration and I will not cry. Wine you are a mercurial beast.

Eliza nuzzles her head against mine and wraps our arms around our body. “Sorry I asked.”

“It’s fine, I asked first.”

Fortunately the mood is saved by The Littlest Hobo who jumps out a door and tackles a would be murderer with a rifle. I laugh out loud hard enough that Eliza almost spills the wine. This show is bonkers! The first ‘modern’ episode features a dog parachuting out of an airplane and every episode since has been a lesson in kitschy madness. The totally normal dog has helped a prima ballerina defect from the Soviet Union, solved several murders, foiled gold and diamond thieves, helped a reporter investigate the Sasquatch, and taught a paraplegic boy to play frisbee. It is a treasure.

As I bask, floppy necked and drunk, I realize something: I’m horny. Well, I guess we’re horny. And since I don’t normally find drunkenly watching dog antics sexy, this must mean that Eliza is horny. I look over at her and she glances away blushing. I guess getting tipsy after getting a promotion is grounds for feeling frisky. And well, it’s been a while since I’ve had an orgasm; every other ghost head assignment has been a quicky or too intense for fooling around. Plus most people find the whole extra head thing a total romantic buzzkill. I savour the sensation of warm butterflies in our stomach and think I could actually be down for this. It is a celebration after all. “It’s okay if you want to.”

Eliza goes super red in the face and our heart beats faster, “I-I don’t know what you mean...”

I can feel the arousal radiating from our twin pussies, feel us both start to breath faster. I drink it in, it’s been way too long. She better not back out on me. I smirk at her, look pointedly down at our crotches, “You might be in denial, but the Tigris and Euphrates down there are also mighty *wet*.” 

She stares at the floor, face somehow even redder. “Coach...”

I groan, “Eliza, I haven’t cum since being cursed, and we are both clearly in the mood. I’d do it myself, but you’ve got the arm control here.” I let my voice get husky, give it a little bit of phone sex heat, “Don’t leave me hanging.”

She actually moans, hand sliding down and into her side of our three-legged panties, finger sliding along our leftside sex. I gasp at the sensation, that too long missed feeling of a sexual touch. “More,” I murmur. She obliges fingers sliding back and forth along our wet vulva, rubbing up against our hard little clit. “The other one too,” I say, and she slips our other hand into our panties. “Yesssss...” I hiss as fingers start to play with our rightside clit too. She wiggles our hips and draws our panties down to our knees, hikes our tshirt up around our neck baring our three firm breasts. She rubs a hand on our lower stomach and strokes our hard middle nipple. I make a kind of whining noise and see that she’s watching me. I blush, girls aren’t usually my bag, but this is really good. “Don’t stop,” I plead. And she doesn’t, but she doesn’t hurry either, stretching it out now, caressing us, pinching, rubbing slowly, slipping a finger into one or both of our pussies. I’m panting and moaning and so is she, but in the moments between eyes squeezed shut I see her watching me. “Nownownownow,” I beg and she obliges, fingers rubbing away at our slick cunts, grinding against our swollen clits. I gasp and whimper and then groan as I feel an orgasm ripple through one cunt and yelp a little as a second orgasm explodes in the other. Eliza makes makes a quiet, almost silent moan as she rides out our orgasms and our body arches violently. And then we are panting, red faces pressed together, giddy and boneless. 

Eventually, I pull back and look at her, and she looks back with a kind of rapture. It seems that it was good for her too. I smile at her and she smiles shyly back. And fuck it, I go in for a kiss, long and hot and passionate, which she returns with a startling intensity. I pull back eventually and she is looking at me with wonder. “Fuck me, Coach... I think I’m gay....”

***

....and suddenly I’m elsewhere.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

Here we go again.

***

Part 2: Call Me Cooch