The line behind Ally was forming now—five, maybe six guys deep. All hard, all hungry, all smirking like they knew exactly what kind of girl she was. Her skirt was bunched around her waist, the thin cotton now just a wrinkled flag of surrender. Her knees were dirty. Her lipstick was gone. Her mascara ran in black streaks down her cheeks, ruined by spit and tears and cum—but her smile? Her smile was radiant.
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“God, fuck,” the one inside her growled—Trent, the tight end with arms the size of Jim’s thighs. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises, thrusting into her fast, loud, the sound of wet skin-on-skin echoing between the trees. “She’s so fucking tight. This pussy’s still trying to pretend it’s not a slut.”
Ally moaned, loud, sloppy, proud.
“She loves it,” Ben added, jerking himself over her cheek, his tip smearing slick trails down her face. “Told me last week she wants to be used. Didn’t you, baby?”
Ally looked up through a mess of hair and nodded, dazed and glowing.
“I wanna be your cumdump,” she whispered. “Fuck me, use me, make him watch.”
A cheer went up behind her—phones out again, flashes popping. Someone shoved Ally's phone in Jim’s hand and muttered, “Might as well record it, little man. It’ll last longer.”
He wanted to throw it. Wanted to run.
But his thumb was already brushing the screen.
Recording.
Ally’s face filled the frame, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, drool bubbling down her chin while Trent slammed into her from behind. His hands slapped her ass, grabbed it, spread it for the camera. Her pussy was wrecked—puffy and slick, stretched wide around him, and still greedy for more.
He pulled out and another took his place without pause.
A new rhythm. New moans. Her body rocked forward from the force of it, and she reached up to stroke the cocks in front of her like she needed them to breathe. They slapped against her tongue, her cheeks, her chest. She took them all—grinning, gasping, laughing like this was the happiest she’d ever been.
And Jim… Jim just kept filming.
“Yo,” one of the guys said, nudging him, “your girl’s a star, man.”
Another leaned over Ally, grabbing a handful of her hair, yanking her head back so her neck arched beautifully, and whispered just loud enough for Jim to hear:
“She came three times already and hasn’t even looked at your dick.”
That was true.
She hadn’t looked at him since she knelt down. Not once. Not a glance. She was too busy choking down cock, soaking the grass beneath her, letting every boy on campus see exactly what kind of girlfriend she was—and exactly what kind of boyfriend she had.
Four inches.
Useless.
Watching.
The guy behind her groaned—loud, sudden—and pulled out just in time to unload thick ropes across her lower back. She gasped, shivered, and smiled as another cock took its place.
And still, the line didn’t shrink.
They wanted her.
And she wanted to be wanted.
“Say it,” someone said, a hand on her throat now, squeezing gently.
She moaned.
“Say it!”
“I’m a slut,” she whimpered, eyes fluttering. “I’m your whore. I love being watched. I love being used. I love being filled by anyone but him.”
And Jim’s cock pulsed in his jeans—leaking, untouched, aching—for a girl who didn’t even need to come home.