The collage of agony and ecstasy part 10
Sarai's eyes narrowed, a competitive gleam flashing as she leaned against the lockers. She crossed her arms, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Madeline, you really think he'll choose *you*? When he turns eighteen?"
Her lips curled into a predatory smirk and she said, "I'll bet you my first win—that first time he comes for me—that I'll make him crave my attention like a puppy begging for scraps long before then. Watch him follow me down hallways just for a glance."
Lilith snorted, tossing her fiery ginger locks.
"Please. By the time I'm through with him, he'll crawl to me on his knees. I'll have him so addicted to my touch, he'll forget your name." Her eyes flashed with challenge. "Bet?"
Madeline met Lilith’s gaze gaze, unblinking.
"Fine. But I'll win." She turned to Helmi.
"What about you? Planning to sit this one out?"
Helmi leaned against the cool locker, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. She traced a finger along the metal seam, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.
"Not a chance in hell! I'll make Montagne ache for me—deep inside."
She pressed a hand low on her stomach.
"His rod will be in my love tunnel and his semen filling up my womb before he even knows what hit him."
Her gaze drifted toward the nurse's office door, imagining him lying there, vulnerable.
"I'll start slow... accidental brushes in the hallway, 'forgetting' my pencil so he has to lean close to lend me one. Let him catch glimpses where he shouldn't."
A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
"By the time I slide my hand into his pants during study hall, he'll be so hard he'll forget his own name."
Madeline chuckled softly.
"Consider it settled. May the best girl win."
With that, the quartet sauntered down the hallway, their footsteps echoing until silenced by the closing door.
Montagne drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, the nurse’s office cot a sanctuary. When Nurse Maryam gently shook his shoulder an hour later, her cinnamon-scented presence pulled him back. "Lunchtime, dear," she murmured, smoothing his rumpled shirt. "Go easy today—no biking, no straining that mind or body." He nodded, voice thick with lingering exhaustion. "Promise."
He shuffled to his locker, spinning the combination with trembling fingers. Retrieving his backpack, he scurried towards the stairs that led to the roof, making sure that nobody was looking his way as he did so. Then Montagne sat on the side of the brick structure that’s surrounded the door to the roof and retrieved a white plastic bag that held his lunch. Inside, a foam container held *laab*—minced chicken fragrant with lime, chilies, and toasted rice—packed by his mother before dawn. She’d been eighteen, a Georgetown linguistics prodigy, when she met his father, who majored in geography.
Both their parents—Montagne’s grandparents—had navigated the shadowy corridors of U.S. intelligence: Naval Intelligence and CIA. Their connections secured elite educations for their children, sparing them military service. Montagne never corrected Stella’s or anyone else’s assumptions about his background, partly out of respect for his family’s privacy, partly because he lacked the energy to untangle the web of misconceptions. Let them believe his mother was a desperate Laotian sex worker evacuated to America, or a black prostitute born in America, that his father was a deadbeat who’d abandoned them, or soldier/spy who had been killed in action. Let them believe he was a war orphan. Let them imagine white foster parents raising him. The truth—a Georgetown-educated linguist mother and a geographer father, both products of covert operatives—was too complex, too dangerous.
At thirteen, Montagne looked barely ten—a small, slender boy with dark eyes that held too much stillness for his age. The whispers followed him: *War orphan… must’ve seen things… no wonder he’s quiet.* Some classmates approached him with pitying smiles, their voices soft as if he might shatter.
"Hey… where are you from?" they’d ask, leaning in. "Did… did your parents make it out?" He’d freeze, throat tightening, then bolt—down hallways, into bathrooms, behind dumpsters. Once, a group of well-meaning girls cornered him near the gymnasium lockers, their sympathetic faces closing in.
“It’s okay," one murmured, reaching out.
"You can tell us."
Panic seized him; he’d ducked between their legs like a frightened rabbit, scrambling away before they could react. The humiliation burned hotter than Stella’s spanks.
Pwoteje had been born in 1976, one year after Laos In Vietnam had fallen into the communists. 3,000 Hmong had been evacuated from the country in 1975 with the number swelling to 11,000 the next year. Hmong folks continued to flee the country from 1977 onward, due to unrelenting persecution and mass murder by the communist Pathet Lao Government.
Teachers were forbidden from asking students how old they were, and students could not continue asking another student once they refused. But just by looking at Montagne, they could tell that he was either ten like he looked or maybe a little bit older—thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen. People could be older or younger than they appeared. Even if he had been ten, that would mean he’d been born in 1979—large numbers of Hmong were still fleeing Laos then, and would continue to do so for years. Montagne’s small stature and youthful face masked his true age, inviting speculation that danced between pity and suspicion.
Stella Seoid had been teaching at the academy since 1966, fresh out of college at twenty-one. Twenty-three years later, she was forty-four, her silver hair a crown of authority, her methods honed by decades of molding young minds—and backsides. She remembered the first wave of BIPOC children arriving in '79, their wide eyes holding stories she never asked for. Ten years wasn't long enough for her to grasp the complexities of their journeys; she saw only disruptions in her classroom, daydreamers like Montagne who needed her firm guidance. To her, discipline was universal—a language every child understood when spoken with a stinging palm.
The rooftop door creaked open. Montagne froze, his yellowish-brown oiled wooden chopsticks hovering above his *laab*, the tang of lime and chilies sharp in the air. Four silhouettes spilled onto the gravel—Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, Madeline—their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun.
Having heard him eating as they approached the door to the roof, once they were actually on it, they immediately walked to the left side and gathered around Montagne. It was the same predatory stillness Pwoteje had seen in nature documentaries—cheetahs zeroing in on a gazelle, muscles coiled, focus absolute. He didn't dare breathe.
"Montagne," Sarai purred, crouching before him. Her golden braids brushed his knees.
"We're going to play a little game. Let us feed you... then you'll feed us."
The other three girls—Helmi, Lilith, Madeline—formed an impassable semicircle behind her, blocking the stairwell door. His lunch container sat open on his lap, the fragrant *laab* steaming gently. He managed a jerky nod and said in the squeaky voice, "O-OK."
Sarai snatched his chopsticks, her eyes never leaving his. Helmi seized his wrists while Lilith and Madeline pinned his thighs beneath their knees, trapping him against the brick wall. Sarai scooped minced chicken, lime, and toasted rice onto the chopsticks.
“Open wide," she commanded. He obeyed. The flavors exploded—tangy, spicy, earthy—but he barely registered them. Sarai fed him three precise bites, each mouthful delivered with unnerving calm. Then Helmi took the chopsticks, repeating the ritual: three bites, her dark eyes locked on his trembling lips. Lilith followed, her fiery hair brushing his cheek as she leaned close. Then it was Madeline’s turn, and unlike her friends, she fed him three morsels with her hands, making him blush as her fingers lingered near his mouth. The The four girls continued this routine untilfoam container sat empty in his lap, with Madeline being the last to feed him the last of his food.
Sarai snapped her fingers, and Lilith and Madeline hauled Montagne to his feet, dragging him toward the open expanse of rooftop gravel. Helmi snatched his empty lunch container and bag, tossing them aside as Sarai settled cross-legged before him. The other three girls formed a tight semicircle behind him, blocking any retreat. They didn’t grab one to him as that would impede him from his task. Sarai unzipped her backpack and pulled out a bento box filled with glistening teriyaki chicken, steamed rice, and pickled vegetables. She held it out to Montagne.
"Feed me," she ordered, her playful yet, Stern, making it clear to him that this was not a request. Montagne's fingers trembled as he accepted the bento box. He picked up a piece of teriyaki chicken with the chopsticks, the sweet glaze gleaming under the sun. Sarai parted her lips expectantly, her gaze fixed on him with unnerving intensity. He leaned forward, guiding the morsel into her mouth. Her lips closed around the chopsticks with deliberate slowness, her tongue brushing the wood as she withdrew them. A soft hum of approval escaped her throat. "Good boy," she murmured, the praise sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
Helmi stepped forward next, her dark eyes gleaming. She produced a sleek black plastic container from her backpack. Inside, coiled strands of spaghetti clung to plump meatballs, glistening with rich marinara sauce. Two breadsticks, generously coated in garlic-infused olive oil, lay nestled beside them. Helmi handed Montagne a white plastic fork and knife. "Careful," she warned, her voice a low purr.
"Don't spill a drop."
Montagne steadied his hands, slicing a meatball in half with the flimsy knife. He speared one piece onto the fork, twirling spaghetti around it. Helmi leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek as he lifted the fork. She opened her mouth, wider than necessary, her eyes locked onto his. He slid the fork inside, and she closed her lips around it, sucking gently. A droplet of sauce escaped the corner of her mouth. Without hesitation, Helmi's tongue darted out, catching it with a slow, deliberate swipe.
“Delicious," she breathed, her gaze never leaving his flushed face.
"Your turn Lilith.”
Lilith stepped forward, her fiery hair catching the sunlight. She produced a translucent dark pink container from her backpack. Inside lay a meticulously arranged seafood feast: four golden fish sticks, four plump grilled shrimp glistening with lemon butter, four crisp fried oysters, and four smoky sardines nestled in oil. She handed Montagne a polished silver fork, its cool weight unfamiliar in his trembling hand.
"I’m surprised," Lilith murmured, her green eyes narrowing with amusement.
"After everything we did to you in that classroom and the nurse’s—less than an hour ago—you're *still* this shy?" Montagne's cheeks ignited crimson as Lilith’s words sliced through him. He indeed remembered, in great detail, every single thing that his four female schoolmates had put him through. But it still hadn’t fully registered, nor did he get rid of his long held insecurity around the opposite sex, which is why his shyness remained.
The other three girls erupted into a chorus of high-pitched giggles—Sarai’s melodic titter, Helmi’s throaty chuckle, Madeline’s sharp snicker—each sound amplifying his humiliation. Lilith leaned in closer, her voice suddenly dropping into a gravelly boxer’s rasp, rough and commanding.
"Feed me the oysters. Now."
The unexpected shift in tone startled Montagne into action. Impulsively, desperate to escape the spotlight, he silently obeyed, spearing an oyster with the fork. He lifted it toward her lips, his hand trembling only slightly now. Lilith’s eyes flashed with approval as she parted her lips, allowing him to place the briny morsel onto her tongue. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her gaze locked onto his. "Good," she growled, the boxer’s rasp lingering. "Now the shrimp."
One by one, Montagne fed her—a plump shrimp slick with butter, a crisp sardine, a golden fish stick. Each bite was consumed with unnerving focus, her eyes never wavering from his face. When the seafood was gone, Lilith leaned back, licking her lips.
“You learn fast," she murmured, her voice softening back to its usual cadence.
"Madeline’s turn."
Madeline stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She produced a faded light-pink leather lunchbox from her backpack. Emblazoned on its front and back was Marie from *The Aristocats*, flanked by her brothers Berlioz and Toulouse, their cartoonish faces worn but cheerful. Montagne’s gaze flickered over the design—a jarring contrast to the predatory stillness surrounding him. Madeline unzipped the lunchbox with deliberate slowness. Inside lay a clear plastic container packed tight with plump green grapes, its blue cap screwed tight. Beside it sat a Ziploc bag holding a sandwich—whole wheat bread layered with turkey, green cheddar cheese, lettuce, mayonnaise, and mustard. Next to it, another bag spilled with rainbow gummy worms, which weren’t covered in sour sugary dust, and a final bag of baby carrots. A single can of *Canada Dry* ginger ale rested at the bottom.
Pwoteje and the three latter girls, he fed also had drinks: him with aquafina water, Sarai with *Coca-Cola*, Lilith with *Simply Lime* juice, and Madeline with a bottle of *Sunny D*. None of the four of them had drunk in their drinks yet.
Madeline’s eyes locked onto Montagne’s. "I didn’t bring a fork," she stated flatly. Her lips curved into something sharp—a smirk that didn’t touch her eyes. "So you’ll use your hands." Montagne’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He glanced at the other girls—Sarai’s expectant tilt of the head, Helmi’s dark amusement, Lilith’s predatory stillness—then back at Madeline. With trembling fingers, he unscrewed the blue cap of the grape container. The scent of cool, tart fruit washed over him. He plucked a grape, its skin slick beneath his fingertips.
He hesitated, the grape hovering near Madeline’s parted lips. *Don’t touch her*, he pleaded silently. But his hand shook. As he pushed the grape between her lips, his thumb grazed the soft curve of her lower lip. She closed her mouth slowly, deliberately, her tongue flicking against his skin before he could pull away. A jolt shot through him—part shock, part unwelcome thrill. Madeline chewed, swallowed, her gaze never leaving his flushed face. "Another," she commanded, her voice low.
Montagne obeyed, plucking a second grape. This time, as he offered it, she leaned forward abruptly. Her lips closed over his fingertips, sucking lightly before releasing him. The damp heat lingered. Sarai giggled behind him; Helmi’s breath hitched. He fed her three more grapes—each time, his skin brushing her lips, her tongue darting out to taste him. By the fifth, his fingers trembled visibly. Madeline’s smirk deepened. "The sandwich now."
He peeled back the Ziploc, revealing the layered turkey and green cheese. Breaking off a corner, he lifted it toward her mouth. Madeline took the bite slowly, her teeth grazing his thumb pad. A sharp sting followed by the slick warmth of her tongue cleaning the tiny wound. Montagne flinched but didn’t pull away. The girls’ silence thickened, charged like the air before lightning.
Next came the gummy worms. He pinched a sticky purple one between thumb and forefinger. Madeline leaned in, sucking it from his grasp with a wet pop that echoed in the rooftop stillness. Her lips lingered, sealing around his fingertips for a heartbeat too long. He fed her another—red, then green, then blue—each time her mouth claiming more of his skin than the candy. Sweat beaded on his temple. The routine cycled back to grapes, then sandwich fragments, then worms again, an endless loop of trembling fingers and damp lips until her containers sat empty. Only the ginger ale remained.
Madeline tilted her head, studying his flushed face.
“You've been useful," she mused, tapping a fingernail against the Marie lunchbox. "Now, would you mind being my throne?”
His mouth fell open. Sarai’s melodic giggle sliced through the air, followed by Helmi’s throaty chuckle and Lilith’s sharp snort. Heat flooded Montagne’s cheeks, but beneath the shame, a treacherous current of submission surged—a familiar pull toward surrender.
“O-OK," he whispered.
Madeline’s smirk widened into a triumphant grin which her friends expressions mirrored. Montagne turned sideways, lowering himself onto the gravel rooftop with trembling grace. He settled onto all fours, and Madeline said, “Good boy, getting into position without even needing to be told!”
She climbed onto his back horizontally, her weight settling across his spine with a soft grunt. Her legs stretched out along his thighs, calves pressing into his hamstrings, while her feet rested heavily on the backs of his knees. The other girls—Sarai, Helmi, Lilith—shifted to sit cross-legged directly in front of him, forming a semicircle that pinned his gaze forward. Their expressions were masks of casual indifference, but Montagne caught the predatory glint in Lilith’s eyes, the subtle curve of Sarai’s lips. Madeline’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently at first, then massaging his scalp with deceptive tenderness. Her other hand slid down to cup his buttock through his trousers, kneading the bruised flesh beneath the fabric. The pressure was firm, almost grounding, as if anchoring him to his humiliation. She wasn’t light—her weight bore down, compressing his ribs—but he locked his elbows, refusing to buckle.
For six minutes, they talked over him. Sarai complained about calculus homework, Helmi debated the merits of two competing boy bands, Lilith mocked the new gym teacher’s mustache. Their voices wove around him like smoke, deliberate, dismissive. Beneath the chatter, Montagne heard the soft rustle of gravel as Sarai nudged Lilith’s knee—a silent wager on his endurance. He focused on the scent of Madeline’s sweat still clinging to his skin, the ache in his trembling thighs. When his legs finally quivered—a visible tremor—Madeline’s hand stilled on his buttock.
“Legs getting tired, Montagne?” she murmured, her thumb pressing into the muscle. He swallowed.
“Yes,” he rasped.
“Even I have limits. I’d say I have one more minute before I collapse.”
Madeline chuckled, the vibration traveling through his spine. "Such an honest boy," she purred, her fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before releasing him. She slid off his back with surprising grace, landing lightly on the gravel.
"Stand him up," she commanded, Sarai, Lilith, and Helmi.
The girls hauled Montagne to his feet, gravel crunching beneath their sneakers. Madeline stepped close, her eyes dark and approving.
"Such an honest boy," she murmured, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair while her other hand gripped his left cheek, nails digging into the welted flesh. Without warning, she crushed her lips against his—a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of salt and stolen grapes. Montagne froze, then melted into the sensation, his body responding despite the ache in his muscles and the sting on his backside. Fifteen seconds stretched like eternity under the hot sun before she pulled back, leaving him breathless.
Sarai was next, her golden braids swinging as she stepped close. She seized his hair with one hand, fingers twisting tight, while her other palm slapped against his welted left butt cheek—a sharp sting that made him gasp. Her kiss was fierce, hungry, teeth nipping his lower lip before her tongue plunged deep. Montagne trembled, tasting the ghost of teriyaki on her breath. Fifteen seconds of dizzying pressure, then release.
Helmi moved in without hesitation. Her grip was brut
"Madeline, you really think he'll choose *you*? When he turns eighteen?"
Her lips curled into a predatory smirk and she said, "I'll bet you my first win—that first time he comes for me—that I'll make him crave my attention like a puppy begging for scraps long before then. Watch him follow me down hallways just for a glance."
Lilith snorted, tossing her fiery ginger locks.
"Please. By the time I'm through with him, he'll crawl to me on his knees. I'll have him so addicted to my touch, he'll forget your name." Her eyes flashed with challenge. "Bet?"
Madeline met Lilith’s gaze gaze, unblinking.
"Fine. But I'll win." She turned to Helmi.
"What about you? Planning to sit this one out?"
Helmi leaned against the cool locker, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. She traced a finger along the metal seam, her voice dropping to a husky whisper.
"Not a chance in hell! I'll make Montagne ache for me—deep inside."
She pressed a hand low on her stomach.
"His rod will be in my love tunnel and his semen filling up my womb before he even knows what hit him."
Her gaze drifted toward the nurse's office door, imagining him lying there, vulnerable.
"I'll start slow... accidental brushes in the hallway, 'forgetting' my pencil so he has to lean close to lend me one. Let him catch glimpses where he shouldn't."
A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.
"By the time I slide my hand into his pants during study hall, he'll be so hard he'll forget his own name."
Madeline chuckled softly.
"Consider it settled. May the best girl win."
With that, the quartet sauntered down the hallway, their footsteps echoing until silenced by the closing door.
Montagne drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep, the nurse’s office cot a sanctuary. When Nurse Maryam gently shook his shoulder an hour later, her cinnamon-scented presence pulled him back. "Lunchtime, dear," she murmured, smoothing his rumpled shirt. "Go easy today—no biking, no straining that mind or body." He nodded, voice thick with lingering exhaustion. "Promise."
He shuffled to his locker, spinning the combination with trembling fingers. Retrieving his backpack, he scurried towards the stairs that led to the roof, making sure that nobody was looking his way as he did so. Then Montagne sat on the side of the brick structure that’s surrounded the door to the roof and retrieved a white plastic bag that held his lunch. Inside, a foam container held *laab*—minced chicken fragrant with lime, chilies, and toasted rice—packed by his mother before dawn. She’d been eighteen, a Georgetown linguistics prodigy, when she met his father, who majored in geography.
Both their parents—Montagne’s grandparents—had navigated the shadowy corridors of U.S. intelligence: Naval Intelligence and CIA. Their connections secured elite educations for their children, sparing them military service. Montagne never corrected Stella’s or anyone else’s assumptions about his background, partly out of respect for his family’s privacy, partly because he lacked the energy to untangle the web of misconceptions. Let them believe his mother was a desperate Laotian sex worker evacuated to America, or a black prostitute born in America, that his father was a deadbeat who’d abandoned them, or soldier/spy who had been killed in action. Let them believe he was a war orphan. Let them imagine white foster parents raising him. The truth—a Georgetown-educated linguist mother and a geographer father, both products of covert operatives—was too complex, too dangerous.
At thirteen, Montagne looked barely ten—a small, slender boy with dark eyes that held too much stillness for his age. The whispers followed him: *War orphan… must’ve seen things… no wonder he’s quiet.* Some classmates approached him with pitying smiles, their voices soft as if he might shatter.
"Hey… where are you from?" they’d ask, leaning in. "Did… did your parents make it out?" He’d freeze, throat tightening, then bolt—down hallways, into bathrooms, behind dumpsters. Once, a group of well-meaning girls cornered him near the gymnasium lockers, their sympathetic faces closing in.
“It’s okay," one murmured, reaching out.
"You can tell us."
Panic seized him; he’d ducked between their legs like a frightened rabbit, scrambling away before they could react. The humiliation burned hotter than Stella’s spanks.
Pwoteje had been born in 1976, one year after Laos In Vietnam had fallen into the communists. 3,000 Hmong had been evacuated from the country in 1975 with the number swelling to 11,000 the next year. Hmong folks continued to flee the country from 1977 onward, due to unrelenting persecution and mass murder by the communist Pathet Lao Government.
Teachers were forbidden from asking students how old they were, and students could not continue asking another student once they refused. But just by looking at Montagne, they could tell that he was either ten like he looked or maybe a little bit older—thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen. People could be older or younger than they appeared. Even if he had been ten, that would mean he’d been born in 1979—large numbers of Hmong were still fleeing Laos then, and would continue to do so for years. Montagne’s small stature and youthful face masked his true age, inviting speculation that danced between pity and suspicion.
Stella Seoid had been teaching at the academy since 1966, fresh out of college at twenty-one. Twenty-three years later, she was forty-four, her silver hair a crown of authority, her methods honed by decades of molding young minds—and backsides. She remembered the first wave of BIPOC children arriving in '79, their wide eyes holding stories she never asked for. Ten years wasn't long enough for her to grasp the complexities of their journeys; she saw only disruptions in her classroom, daydreamers like Montagne who needed her firm guidance. To her, discipline was universal—a language every child understood when spoken with a stinging palm.
The rooftop door creaked open. Montagne froze, his yellowish-brown oiled wooden chopsticks hovering above his *laab*, the tang of lime and chilies sharp in the air. Four silhouettes spilled onto the gravel—Sarai, Helmi, Lilith, Madeline—their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun.
Having heard him eating as they approached the door to the roof, once they were actually on it, they immediately walked to the left side and gathered around Montagne. It was the same predatory stillness Pwoteje had seen in nature documentaries—cheetahs zeroing in on a gazelle, muscles coiled, focus absolute. He didn't dare breathe.
"Montagne," Sarai purred, crouching before him. Her golden braids brushed his knees.
"We're going to play a little game. Let us feed you... then you'll feed us."
The other three girls—Helmi, Lilith, Madeline—formed an impassable semicircle behind her, blocking the stairwell door. His lunch container sat open on his lap, the fragrant *laab* steaming gently. He managed a jerky nod and said in the squeaky voice, "O-OK."
Sarai snatched his chopsticks, her eyes never leaving his. Helmi seized his wrists while Lilith and Madeline pinned his thighs beneath their knees, trapping him against the brick wall. Sarai scooped minced chicken, lime, and toasted rice onto the chopsticks.
“Open wide," she commanded. He obeyed. The flavors exploded—tangy, spicy, earthy—but he barely registered them. Sarai fed him three precise bites, each mouthful delivered with unnerving calm. Then Helmi took the chopsticks, repeating the ritual: three bites, her dark eyes locked on his trembling lips. Lilith followed, her fiery hair brushing his cheek as she leaned close. Then it was Madeline’s turn, and unlike her friends, she fed him three morsels with her hands, making him blush as her fingers lingered near his mouth. The The four girls continued this routine untilfoam container sat empty in his lap, with Madeline being the last to feed him the last of his food.
Sarai snapped her fingers, and Lilith and Madeline hauled Montagne to his feet, dragging him toward the open expanse of rooftop gravel. Helmi snatched his empty lunch container and bag, tossing them aside as Sarai settled cross-legged before him. The other three girls formed a tight semicircle behind him, blocking any retreat. They didn’t grab one to him as that would impede him from his task. Sarai unzipped her backpack and pulled out a bento box filled with glistening teriyaki chicken, steamed rice, and pickled vegetables. She held it out to Montagne.
"Feed me," she ordered, her playful yet, Stern, making it clear to him that this was not a request. Montagne's fingers trembled as he accepted the bento box. He picked up a piece of teriyaki chicken with the chopsticks, the sweet glaze gleaming under the sun. Sarai parted her lips expectantly, her gaze fixed on him with unnerving intensity. He leaned forward, guiding the morsel into her mouth. Her lips closed around the chopsticks with deliberate slowness, her tongue brushing the wood as she withdrew them. A soft hum of approval escaped her throat. "Good boy," she murmured, the praise sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
Helmi stepped forward next, her dark eyes gleaming. She produced a sleek black plastic container from her backpack. Inside, coiled strands of spaghetti clung to plump meatballs, glistening with rich marinara sauce. Two breadsticks, generously coated in garlic-infused olive oil, lay nestled beside them. Helmi handed Montagne a white plastic fork and knife. "Careful," she warned, her voice a low purr.
"Don't spill a drop."
Montagne steadied his hands, slicing a meatball in half with the flimsy knife. He speared one piece onto the fork, twirling spaghetti around it. Helmi leaned in, her breath warm against his cheek as he lifted the fork. She opened her mouth, wider than necessary, her eyes locked onto his. He slid the fork inside, and she closed her lips around it, sucking gently. A droplet of sauce escaped the corner of her mouth. Without hesitation, Helmi's tongue darted out, catching it with a slow, deliberate swipe.
“Delicious," she breathed, her gaze never leaving his flushed face.
"Your turn Lilith.”
Lilith stepped forward, her fiery hair catching the sunlight. She produced a translucent dark pink container from her backpack. Inside lay a meticulously arranged seafood feast: four golden fish sticks, four plump grilled shrimp glistening with lemon butter, four crisp fried oysters, and four smoky sardines nestled in oil. She handed Montagne a polished silver fork, its cool weight unfamiliar in his trembling hand.
"I’m surprised," Lilith murmured, her green eyes narrowing with amusement.
"After everything we did to you in that classroom and the nurse’s—less than an hour ago—you're *still* this shy?" Montagne's cheeks ignited crimson as Lilith’s words sliced through him. He indeed remembered, in great detail, every single thing that his four female schoolmates had put him through. But it still hadn’t fully registered, nor did he get rid of his long held insecurity around the opposite sex, which is why his shyness remained.
The other three girls erupted into a chorus of high-pitched giggles—Sarai’s melodic titter, Helmi’s throaty chuckle, Madeline’s sharp snicker—each sound amplifying his humiliation. Lilith leaned in closer, her voice suddenly dropping into a gravelly boxer’s rasp, rough and commanding.
"Feed me the oysters. Now."
The unexpected shift in tone startled Montagne into action. Impulsively, desperate to escape the spotlight, he silently obeyed, spearing an oyster with the fork. He lifted it toward her lips, his hand trembling only slightly now. Lilith’s eyes flashed with approval as she parted her lips, allowing him to place the briny morsel onto her tongue. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her gaze locked onto his. "Good," she growled, the boxer’s rasp lingering. "Now the shrimp."
One by one, Montagne fed her—a plump shrimp slick with butter, a crisp sardine, a golden fish stick. Each bite was consumed with unnerving focus, her eyes never wavering from his face. When the seafood was gone, Lilith leaned back, licking her lips.
“You learn fast," she murmured, her voice softening back to its usual cadence.
"Madeline’s turn."
Madeline stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She produced a faded light-pink leather lunchbox from her backpack. Emblazoned on its front and back was Marie from *The Aristocats*, flanked by her brothers Berlioz and Toulouse, their cartoonish faces worn but cheerful. Montagne’s gaze flickered over the design—a jarring contrast to the predatory stillness surrounding him. Madeline unzipped the lunchbox with deliberate slowness. Inside lay a clear plastic container packed tight with plump green grapes, its blue cap screwed tight. Beside it sat a Ziploc bag holding a sandwich—whole wheat bread layered with turkey, green cheddar cheese, lettuce, mayonnaise, and mustard. Next to it, another bag spilled with rainbow gummy worms, which weren’t covered in sour sugary dust, and a final bag of baby carrots. A single can of *Canada Dry* ginger ale rested at the bottom.
Pwoteje and the three latter girls, he fed also had drinks: him with aquafina water, Sarai with *Coca-Cola*, Lilith with *Simply Lime* juice, and Madeline with a bottle of *Sunny D*. None of the four of them had drunk in their drinks yet.
Madeline’s eyes locked onto Montagne’s. "I didn’t bring a fork," she stated flatly. Her lips curved into something sharp—a smirk that didn’t touch her eyes. "So you’ll use your hands." Montagne’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He glanced at the other girls—Sarai’s expectant tilt of the head, Helmi’s dark amusement, Lilith’s predatory stillness—then back at Madeline. With trembling fingers, he unscrewed the blue cap of the grape container. The scent of cool, tart fruit washed over him. He plucked a grape, its skin slick beneath his fingertips.
He hesitated, the grape hovering near Madeline’s parted lips. *Don’t touch her*, he pleaded silently. But his hand shook. As he pushed the grape between her lips, his thumb grazed the soft curve of her lower lip. She closed her mouth slowly, deliberately, her tongue flicking against his skin before he could pull away. A jolt shot through him—part shock, part unwelcome thrill. Madeline chewed, swallowed, her gaze never leaving his flushed face. "Another," she commanded, her voice low.
Montagne obeyed, plucking a second grape. This time, as he offered it, she leaned forward abruptly. Her lips closed over his fingertips, sucking lightly before releasing him. The damp heat lingered. Sarai giggled behind him; Helmi’s breath hitched. He fed her three more grapes—each time, his skin brushing her lips, her tongue darting out to taste him. By the fifth, his fingers trembled visibly. Madeline’s smirk deepened. "The sandwich now."
He peeled back the Ziploc, revealing the layered turkey and green cheese. Breaking off a corner, he lifted it toward her mouth. Madeline took the bite slowly, her teeth grazing his thumb pad. A sharp sting followed by the slick warmth of her tongue cleaning the tiny wound. Montagne flinched but didn’t pull away. The girls’ silence thickened, charged like the air before lightning.
Next came the gummy worms. He pinched a sticky purple one between thumb and forefinger. Madeline leaned in, sucking it from his grasp with a wet pop that echoed in the rooftop stillness. Her lips lingered, sealing around his fingertips for a heartbeat too long. He fed her another—red, then green, then blue—each time her mouth claiming more of his skin than the candy. Sweat beaded on his temple. The routine cycled back to grapes, then sandwich fragments, then worms again, an endless loop of trembling fingers and damp lips until her containers sat empty. Only the ginger ale remained.
Madeline tilted her head, studying his flushed face.
“You've been useful," she mused, tapping a fingernail against the Marie lunchbox. "Now, would you mind being my throne?”
His mouth fell open. Sarai’s melodic giggle sliced through the air, followed by Helmi’s throaty chuckle and Lilith’s sharp snort. Heat flooded Montagne’s cheeks, but beneath the shame, a treacherous current of submission surged—a familiar pull toward surrender.
“O-OK," he whispered.
Madeline’s smirk widened into a triumphant grin which her friends expressions mirrored. Montagne turned sideways, lowering himself onto the gravel rooftop with trembling grace. He settled onto all fours, and Madeline said, “Good boy, getting into position without even needing to be told!”
She climbed onto his back horizontally, her weight settling across his spine with a soft grunt. Her legs stretched out along his thighs, calves pressing into his hamstrings, while her feet rested heavily on the backs of his knees. The other girls—Sarai, Helmi, Lilith—shifted to sit cross-legged directly in front of him, forming a semicircle that pinned his gaze forward. Their expressions were masks of casual indifference, but Montagne caught the predatory glint in Lilith’s eyes, the subtle curve of Sarai’s lips. Madeline’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently at first, then massaging his scalp with deceptive tenderness. Her other hand slid down to cup his buttock through his trousers, kneading the bruised flesh beneath the fabric. The pressure was firm, almost grounding, as if anchoring him to his humiliation. She wasn’t light—her weight bore down, compressing his ribs—but he locked his elbows, refusing to buckle.
For six minutes, they talked over him. Sarai complained about calculus homework, Helmi debated the merits of two competing boy bands, Lilith mocked the new gym teacher’s mustache. Their voices wove around him like smoke, deliberate, dismissive. Beneath the chatter, Montagne heard the soft rustle of gravel as Sarai nudged Lilith’s knee—a silent wager on his endurance. He focused on the scent of Madeline’s sweat still clinging to his skin, the ache in his trembling thighs. When his legs finally quivered—a visible tremor—Madeline’s hand stilled on his buttock.
“Legs getting tired, Montagne?” she murmured, her thumb pressing into the muscle. He swallowed.
“Yes,” he rasped.
“Even I have limits. I’d say I have one more minute before I collapse.”
Madeline chuckled, the vibration traveling through his spine. "Such an honest boy," she purred, her fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before releasing him. She slid off his back with surprising grace, landing lightly on the gravel.
"Stand him up," she commanded, Sarai, Lilith, and Helmi.
The girls hauled Montagne to his feet, gravel crunching beneath their sneakers. Madeline stepped close, her eyes dark and approving.
"Such an honest boy," she murmured, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair while her other hand gripped his left cheek, nails digging into the welted flesh. Without warning, she crushed her lips against his—a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of salt and stolen grapes. Montagne froze, then melted into the sensation, his body responding despite the ache in his muscles and the sting on his backside. Fifteen seconds stretched like eternity under the hot sun before she pulled back, leaving him breathless.
Sarai was next, her golden braids swinging as she stepped close. She seized his hair with one hand, fingers twisting tight, while her other palm slapped against his welted left butt cheek—a sharp sting that made him gasp. Her kiss was fierce, hungry, teeth nipping his lower lip before her tongue plunged deep. Montagne trembled, tasting the ghost of teriyaki on her breath. Fifteen seconds of dizzying pressure, then release.
Helmi moved in without hesitation. Her grip was brut
31-35, M