Sammy 2times Chapter 1

By H. T. Duck

The author does not wish to receive feedback
Copyright 2026 by H. T. Duck, all rights reserved

[11,334 words]

* * * * *
This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and sexual activity of preteen and young teen children for the purpose of punishment. None of the behaviors in this story should be attempted in real life, as that would be harmful and/or illegal. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now. 

Sammy was fourteen years old, slim with blonde pony tail hair and big blue eyes.
He had two cocks, one four inches long and one five inches long, both were uncircumcised and about four inches around mid shaft.
He was kind of shy, his cocks made him feel like a freak.
Unlike the modest boys on the program Sammy had a reason to be bashful, his secret always turned into a nightmare of teasing and bullying.
Sometimes to the extent of abuse.
Sammy's mother got a transfer to another office in a different city giving him one last chance to live a normal life.
All he had to do was be careful but not too careful, walk the fine line of keeping his secret without looking modest.
He spent the week-end getting to meet some of his neighbours, the Luther family next to the store and a brother and sister who lived next to them.
The boy's name was Brad and he had been stripped as he was a modest boy but had had some medical intervention, the sister Ruth seemed a bit odd but pretty.
Monday came and Sammy walked into his new school for the first time.

The Principal was a large bald man who smelled of oregano and lemon, his thick fingers drummed on the desk as he studied Sammy's transfer papers.
"No disciplinary notes," he muttered, squinting.
"Either you're well-behaved or very good at hiding things."
The air conditioner hummed too loudly in the silence that followed.
Sammy's palms stuck to his thighs he'd worn jeans, loose ones, but suddenly they felt like they were squeezing the breath out of him.

The laminated student card was still warm from the printer when the secretary handed it over.
"Left pocket, not right," she instructed without looking up.
Sammy stuffed it away too fast and the plastic edge caught his thumb.
Math class was Algebra equations scrawled across the board in frantic pink chalk, the scent of eraser dust and pencil lead thick in the air.
He kept his legs pressed together under the desk until his thighs cramped.
Science was worse.
Lab stools.
No backs.
Nowhere to hide the twitch in his posture when the girl beside him dropped her pen and leaned too close to retrieve it.

PE hit like a gut punch.
Coach Reynolds blew her whistle twice, once for attention, once to summon the modest boy lingering near the equipment shed.
He stood perfectly still in his nakedness, sunlight glinting off the smooth, hairless skin.

Sammy kept his eyes on his shoelaces, but the scent of chlorine and sweat made his stomach twist. The communal shower was a wall of fogged tiles and dripping pipes.
He waited until the bell rang before peeling off his shorts in one jerky motion.
The air nipped at his skin as he bolted for the farthest stall, water hitting his chest.
He scrubbed fast, soap stinging his eyes—better that than someone noticing the way his two cocks twitched when the hot water ran down his thighs.

Damp socks squelched in his sneakers as he yanked his jeans up over wet skin.
The fabric clung, seams rubbing raw where they shouldn't.
He'd just gotten his shirt over his head when voices spilled into the locker room, laughter, the smack of a towel on bare skin.
Sammy froze, shoulder pressed to the cold metal of his locker.
The boys passed without slowing, their shadows stretching across the floor.
One of them kicked a stray jockstrap toward the benches.
"Modest Boy left in a hurry," someone snorted.
Sammy exhaled through his teeth.
They didn't mean him.
They couldn't.
They hadn't seen anything.

The bell for next period rang before he could bolt.
He took the stairs two at a time, nearly colliding with a trio of eighth graders lounging against the railing.
Their uniforms were crisp buttoned collars, pleated skirts—but their legs were bare, thighs pressed together as they giggled over a shared phone screen.
One of them flicked her gaze up as he passed.
"New meat," she whispered, not bothering to lower her voice.
Sammy's neck burned.
He didn't turn around, but he heard the rustle of fabric as they stood to follow.

The hallway stretched unnaturally long, lined with bulletin boards papered over with neon flyers. One advertised the upcoming Health Fair in bold red letters: Special Exhibition: Modest Boy Anatomy Q&A!
Below it, someone had tacked up Polaroids from last year's event rows of chairs filled with students craning to see the front, where a blurred figure stood with arms raised.
The caption read Mark T. (16) demonstrates proper hygiene techniques!
Another photo showed Mark grinning, hands clasped behind his head as a girl in a lab coat pointed at his exposed groin with a wooden ruler.

Sammy ducked his head, but the images burned behind his eyelids.
He'd counted seven so far, seven naked boys frozen mid-laugh or stiff with practised nonchalance, their bodies on display like museum dioramas.
One had been chubby, his stomach folding softly over his thighs, another was all sharp angles, ribs pressing against skin stretched too tight.
None of them had what he did.
None of them flinched when a locker door slammed nearby.

Miss Evan's classroom smelled like turpentine and pencil shavings.
The door wheezed shut behind him just as the second bell trilled overhead.
A dozen heads swivelled his way, half the students perched on stools, the others clustered around easels smudged with charcoal.
Their stares prickled against his neck.
"Samuel Carter," Miss Evan announced without looking up from her clipboard.
She wore fingerless gloves, the tips stained blue and yellow.
"Take the empty seat by the kiln.
And for God's sake, stop hunching.
You look like a question mark."

He barely registered the snickers.
All he saw was her, perched on a low platform draped in rumpled velvet, one knee drawn up to her chest.
Golden hair tumbled over bare shoulders, catching the light slanting through the skylight.
She held a pose straight out of a Renaissance painting, chin lifted, right arm extended as if offering an invisible apple.
Except she wasn't holding fruit.

The studio lights caught the sheen of sweat along her collarbone.
Cathy, because of course her name was Cathy, had the smug stillness of someone who knew every eye in the room was tracing the curve of her waist, the dip below her rib-cage.
She didn't flinch when a boy in paint-splattered overalls leaned too close to sketch the shadow between her thighs.

Sammy's pencil snapped.
The sound ricocheted off the kiln's metal door.
Cathy's eyes flicked to him, lingered on the splintered graphite rolling across the floor.
Her lips quirked.
Not a smile.
A dare.

Miss Evan clapped her hands.
"Half-hour mark. Cathy, thank you. Volunteers?"
The silence curdled.
Air thickened with the scent of linseed oil and something sharper—panic, maybe?
Sammy counted the cracks in the linoleum until his vision blurred.
Then a stool screeched.
A boy from one of the back roads, Harold stood.
His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt, but his voice didn't.
"I'll do it."

Harold whipped the shirt overhead with forced bravado, flexing biceps that barely dented his skin. "Like this?" he grunted, arms cocked at cartoonish angles.
A girl snorted into her sketchpad.
Harold's elbows wobbled almost immediately, the pose collapsed into a self-conscious hunch.
Miss Evan sighed.
"Anyone else? We need gesture, not gym bro."
Her gaze landed on Sammy.
"New kid. You look limber."

Sammy's heart fell.
He knew what was about to happen but couldn't avoid it without looking like he was avoiding it. Hands behind his back, fingers interlaced, he stood and walked to the podium, looking up as if squinting into the sun.
Cathy hadn't moved from her perch, one foot now dangling off the platform.
The nail polish on her toes was chipped cobalt, the same shade as the paint smeared on Miss Evan's gloves.

"Better," Miss Evans muttered as Sammy took position.
He let his shoulders drop, adopting the same casual lean he'd practised in bathroom mirrors.
The stool was still warm from Harold's weight.
Somewhere behind him, a pencil scratched paper, slow at first, then faster, angrier.
The kiln's hum thickened the air until breathing felt like swallowing syrup.
He wondered how many of them knew.
How many could see the truth through his clothes.

The request came after the second water break.
One of the girls, small, freckled, with a voice like peeling tape cleared her throat.
"Make him do the fountain," she said without looking up from her sketch.
Miss Evan paused mid-sip, her brow furrowing.
"Elaborate, Heather."
The girl's grin was all teeth.
"You know. Posing like he's taking a leak. We haven't done dynamic musculature since last semester." A murmur rippled through the class.
Cathy's foot stopped swinging.

Sammy's bladder contracted before his brain processed the words.
The plastic tray gleamed under the studio lights, its ridged edges warped from years of tempera paint scrubbing.
"Thirty seconds, Carter," Miss Evan sighed, nudging it closer with the toe of her boot.
The scent of ammonia and cheap plastic bloomed between them.
Sammy's fingers fumbled at his waistband, just the left one, he'd practised this but the denim caught on the smaller shaft, pulling it taut against his thigh.
A hot trickle seared his boxers before he could wrench the other free.

The arc was weak at first.
A sputtering stream that hit the tray's rim and splattered back onto his sneakers.
Cathy's nose wrinkled.
Then, as if sensing his humiliation, the second cock jerked awake inside his pants, pulsing warmth down his inner thigh.
The class erupted, not laughter, but the sharp, rustling sound of sketchpads flipping to fresh pages.
Pencils flew across paper, capturing the way his shoulders hunched, the tremble in his knees as urine darkened his jeans from crotch to knee.

Miss Evan massaged her temples.
"Christ, you're making a Pollock out of my floor."
She tossed him a roll of paper towels without breaking eye contact with Heather, whose smirk had gone serious.
Behind her, Harold mouthed *what the fuck* to a snickering group.
Sammy's hands shook as he mopped at the puddle spreading between his feet.
The tray sloshed when he kicked it aside, its contents lapping at the base of Cathy's platform.
She lifted her toes delicately, cobalt nails flashing.

"Next time," Miss Evan said, "we use a funnel."
The bell cut through the room's electric silence.
Sammy didn't wait for dismissal.
He bolted past easels, past Cathy's outstretched leg, still raised, still pristine and into the hall where the Polaroids from the Health Fair grinned down at him.
His own reflection shimmered in the trophy case glass, jeans ruined, shirt untucked, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
And behind him, three girls from the railing earlier, their footsteps synchronizing with his as they turned the corner toward the nurse's office.

The bus smelled of diesel and bubblegum.
Sammy claimed the rearmost seat, pressing his forehead to the cool window.
Through the smudged glass, Heather's silhouette moved toward the front, hesitant, shoulders hunched under her backpack straps.
She glanced back twice before sitting, first when the driver braked too hard, then when Sammy's knee jerked involuntarily, bumping the seat ahead.
Her eyes weren't laughing anymore.
They were wide, almost liquid, like she'd seen something she couldn't unsee.

Rain speckled the window as the bus lurched forward.
Sammy traced the droplets with a fingernail, counting stops until home.
Five. Ten.
The fabric under his thighs had gone stiff with dried urine, the denim chafing where it shouldn't. At the third stop, Heather twisted in her seat, mouth opening as if to speak but the girl beside her tugged her sleeve, whispering something that made Heather's shoulders stiffen.
She turned away, digging through her bag with unnecessary force.

His mother wasn't home yet.
Sammy kicked his sneakers off in the entryway, letting them skid across the linoleum.
Upstairs, he peeled the ruined jeans away from his skin, wincing as dried fabric tugged at tender flesh.
The mirror above his dresser showed the damage: twin cock-heads peeking from their foreskins, flushed pink from friction.
He'd almost made it, almost gotten through the first day when Heather's voice had slithered under his skin like a fishhook.

Down the block, Brad's garage door stood open, revealing the modest boy sprawled nude on a lawn chair, one arm draped over his eyes as Ruth painted his toenails neon green.
A radio crackled static.
Sammy's curtains fluttered in the sudden draft as he reached for the shower knob, then froze.
The bus stop bench across the street was occupied.
Heather sat rigidly upright, her sketchbook balanced on her knees.
She wasn't drawing.
Just staring at his window, at the gap between the curtains where his silhouette would be unmistakable.

The shower spray hit his chest like needles.
Sammy scrubbed until his skin burned, but Heather's expression clung tighter than the soap scum, not disgust, not curiosity.
Something sharper.
His hands shook as he rinsed between his legs, the smaller cock twitching under the assault of water pressure.
Three houses down, Ruth's laughter spiralled over Brad's indignant yelp.
Sammy counted the tiles on the ceiling.
Twelve by twelve.
One hundred forty-four chances to pretend today never happened.

Towelling off felt like performing surgery on himself.
Each dab at his groin sent fresh heat crawling up his neck.
The bathroom mirror fogged over except for one clear stripe where his reflection's mouth should be. A grotesque grin.
Behind him, the doorknob rattled.
Not Heather, she'd still be on that bench, watching but his mother's key in the front door.
"Sammy?" Her heels clicked up the stairs, pausing outside the bathroom.
"You okay in there?" The question mark hooked into his ribs.
Normal mothers didn't ask.
Normal sons didn't piss themselves in art class.

Sammy dressed methodically, briefs first, then sweatpants with the drawstring triple-knotted.
The window was still cracked open.
Heather's sketchbook lay abandoned on the bench, its pages fluttering in the wind.
Brad's garage door slammed shut.
Somewhere, a dog barked.
Normal sounds for a neighbourhood that no longer felt safe.

The sketch-book's cover was warm from the sun.
He flipped it open with his thumbs, avoiding the dark smudges along the edges where Heather's charcoal-stained fingers had gripped too tight.
The first page was anatomy studies, wrists, elbows, the delicate hinge of a knee, but halfway through, the sketches twisted.
Here was Harold mid-flex, his arms comically exaggerated.
Here was Cathy's smirk rendered in strokes so violent the paper had torn.
And here, centre page, outlined in red, was Sammy.
Not as he'd stood on the podium, but bent over the plastic tray, shoulders hunched, jeans soaked.
Beneath it the words I am so sorry.

The fridge hummed as his mother poured lemonade.
"New friends already?" she asked, nodding at the sketchbook.
Ice cubes clinked.
Sammy's fingers spasmed around the pages.
He could lie, say it was a yearbook, say he found it, but Heather's fingerprints were everywhere. His mother's smile faltered when he didn't answer.
She reached for the book.
He let her take it.

Her knuckles went white around the spine.
The lemonade glass hit the counter hard enough to crack.
"Oh."

Sammy watched the condensation slide down the glass' side.
He hadn't meant to say everything, just bits, stitched together with pauses thick enough to choke on, but once he'd started, the rest came out in jagged pieces.
The plastic tray's chemical stench.
Cathy's chipped toenail polish.
How Heather's stare had drilled into his back long after the bell rang.
His mother's breathing hitched when he described the twin arcs, how one had betrayed him before the other even woke up.

She turned a page too fast.
The sketch of Harold mid-flex tore at the corner.
"Miss Evans just..." Her voice cracked like the ice cubes she was crushing between her teeth.
"She *watched*?"

Sammy rubbed his thumb over the condensation ring on the table.
The program pamphlets in the principal's office had been very clear.
*Refusal equals modesty.*
*Modesty equals escalation.*
And escalation for a boy with two cocks wouldn't stop at nude art classes.
He'd seen the Polaroids taped to the nurse's door, older boys bent over gym mats with their ankles strapped to wrist restraints, girls in lab coats pointing laser pointers at their exposed groins while the whole health class took notes.

Heather's abandoned sketchbook flapped open.
The last visible page wasn't Sammy pissing himself.
It was a detailed study of Brad's garage interior, lawn chair, radio, the nail polish bottle Ruth had left uncapped.
And in the corner, barely sketched, a figure crouched behind the half-open door.
Watching.

Sammy's mother pressed her lips together so hard they blanched white.
"You need to do what you need to do," she said, snapping the book shut with finality.
Her fingernails left crescent moons in the cardboard.
"But you can't let them put you on that damn program."
The ice cubes in her untouched lemonade had melted into jagged little teeth.
She reached across the table suddenly, gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise.
"So if you have to reveal everything," she whispered, her breath smelling of tart lemons and something fiercer, "do it with a smile.
So you can still get dressed afterwards."

The dream came in fragments, wet velvet clinging to Cathy's thighs as she leaned forward, her perfume thick as motor oil.
"They'll want to measure," she murmured, tapping a ruler against her palm.
Behind her, Heather's freckles swam like tadpoles across her cheeks, her charcoal-stained fingers twitching toward Sammy's waistband.
Ruth's laughter coiled around them all, neon-green nails clicking against Brad's garage door frame. Sammy tried to step back, but the podium had melted into the plastic tray, its ridges biting into his bare heels.

He woke with his smaller cock throbbing under the sheets, the fabric bunching in damp folds around his hips.
Moonlight striped the floor, interrupted only by the sketchbook his mother had left propped against his desk chair.
The pages fanned open where she'd rifled through them, Heather's frantic strokes, Cathy's smirk rendered in pencil so deep it had dented the paper.
And in the margins, barely visible, tiny, precise notes.
Cute new boy has pretty penis, Scientific observations disguised as art.

Art class waited like a bad joke at the front of his schedule.
Sammy's sneakers stuck to the linoleum as he approached the door, same classroom, same kiln humming in the corner, but the air smelled different today.
Sharp.
Like vinegar and burnt sugar.
Miss Evan stood by her desk, unwrapping a fresh pack of charcoal with her stained gloves.
She didn't look up when he entered, but the students did.
Their easels were already angled toward the platform where Cathy had posed yesterday.
Today it held only a wooden stool and a gallon jug of water.

Harold caught his elbow near the supply closet.
"Don't drink it," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the jug.
His breath smelled of spearmint gum and something acrid, fear sweat, maybe.
"They spike it with diuretics for the fountain poses."
Behind them, Heather's stool scraped backward.
Her sketchpad was open to a fresh page, the charcoal stick in her hand snapped clean in half.

Miss Evan clapped once, the sound cracking like a starter pistol.
"Volunteers for today's dynamic study?"
She hefted the jug, sloshing water ominously.
No one moved.
Not even Harold with his gym-bro bravado.
The silence curdled until Cathy, perched on the edge of a table in her pleated skirt cleared her throat.
"New kid owes us a rematch," she said, twirling a lock of golden hair around one finger.
"Unless he's modest."
The word dropped like a lead weight.

Sammy's bladder clenched before his brain caught up.
The stool waited centre-stage, its wooden legs bolted to the floor.
Heather's pencil hovered over her sketchpad, the broken charcoal staining her fingertips black.
Miss Evan smiled, tilting her head.
"I think he took his turn quite boldly yesterday.
Not a modest boy thing to do."
She turned to the class.
"Anyone else?"

Silence.
Cathy examined her nails, cobalt again, freshly painted.
Sammy inhaled the sharp tang of linseed oil and held it until his lungs burned.
Then Brad's sister, Ruth, raised her hand from the back row.
"I'll volunteer," she said, standing before Miss Evan could respond.
Her neon-green toenails flashed as she kicked off her sandals.

Ruth climbed onto the platform like she owned it.
She didn't strip, girls never did, but she might as well have with the way she moved.
First pose: one hand on her hip, the other twirling a strand of dark brown hair, knee cocked just enough to hike her skirt hem up three dangerous inches.
Second pose: arched over the stool, elbows propped behind her, breasts straining against her tank top as she pretended to examine the ceiling.
Third pose: legs spread wide on the velvet drape, fingers walking up her inner thigh to the hem of her shorts while the boys' pencils snapped like gunfire.

Harold cracked first.
"Bullshit!" he barked, slamming his sketchbook shut.
Charcoal dust mushroomed into the air.
Harold tore off his shirt with the same preformative rage as yesterday.
This time he didn't flex, just stood there, skinny ribs heaving, daring someone to comment.
Miss Evan sighed and gestured to the empty stool.
"Harold, sweetheart, if you're going to volunteer—"

The stool creaked ominously when Harold sat, his thighs pressing white-knuckled against the wood. Ruth smirked and rolled onto her stomach beside him, propping her chin in her hands, her cleavage spilling forward, her neon toenails kicking lazily in the air.
The contrast was obscene, Harold's hunched shoulders versus Ruth's liquid sprawl, his clenched jaw versus her lazy grin.
Heather's pencil moved frantically, capturing the tension in Harold's spine where his vertebrae stuck out like knuckles.

Miss Evan nudged the plastic tray forward with her boot.
"Let's avoid yesterday's plumbing issues, gentlemen. Harold, pants off. Desk. Now."
Her tone brooked no argument, the same one she'd used when Sammy pissed himself.
Harold's fingers trembled at his fly, the zipper sticking halfway down.
Someone coughed.
Ruth exhaled pointedly, blowing a strand of hair from her face.
When Harold finally shoved his jeans down his thighs, the class inhaled collectively.
His briefs were already tented, the fabric darkening at the tip.

He kicked the denim toward his desk like it burned him.
The waistband of his briefs caught on his erection as he shuffled back to the podium, leaving them hooked just below his hips, an accidental tease.
Ruth smirked and rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand.
"Better view," she purred.
Harold's ears turned scarlet.
Miss Evan sighed but didn't correct her.
Rules were different when girls observed.

Sammy's throat tightened as Harold reached for the jug.
The water sloshed violently when he lifted it, not from the weight, but from the tremor in his arms. Ruth's neon nails drummed against the velvet drape.
"Chug, chug, chug," she chanted softly, just loud enough for the front row to hear.
Harold's Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, water spilling down his chin onto his collarbones.
The jug was half-empty when he set it down with a thud that made Cathy's pencil skid across her page.

His cock twitched under the scrutiny, foreskin bunching like a wrinkled turtleneck over the flushed head.
Thick, not obscenely long, but dense enough that Sammy could see the vein running along the underside pulse when Harold shifted his weight.
A thatch of fiery curls at the base clashed with the mousy brown hair on his head, as if his body couldn't decide which pigment to commit to.
Sammy's own cocks stirred uncomfortably in his sweatpants.
He pressed his knees together before the tenting became obvious.

The plastic tray looked smaller today, or maybe Harold's aim was worse.
The first spurt hit the rim with a hollow *plink* and arced back onto his thighs.
Ruth's giggle was a scalpel between ribs.
Harold's knuckles whitened around his shaft, trying to angle the angry red tip downward, but the diuretic-laced water had done its job too well.
His erection strained upward like a compass needle pointing to disgrace.
Another spurt, this time landing on his own sneakers.
Miss Evan massaged her temples.
"Lean forward, Harold. Pretend it's gym class and you're doing crunches."

Harold's groan vibrated through his clenched teeth as he bent at the waist.
The shift made his balls swing forward, brushing the tray's edge with a wet *thwack*.
His stream finally connected, a hissing, uneven jet that painted the plastic in erratic zigzags. Heather's charcoal flew across her sketchpad, capturing the way his shoulder blades jutted like broken wings.

Ruth's palm slapped the velvet drape beside her thigh.
"Tilt your hips, dummy," she stage-whispered.
Her neon nails flashed as she pantomimed the adjustment, an exaggerated pelvic thrust that made Harold choke mid-flow.
Urine splattered sideways across his kneecaps.
Someone's water bottle hit the floor with a hollow *clang*.

Then Ruth moved.
Quick as a switchblade flick, she straddled the stool behind Harold and hooked her chin over his shoulder.
One hand gripped his hipbone, "hold still," while the other wrapped around his cock like she was gripping a stubborn garden hose.
Harold's entire body jerked, his stream cutting off with a strangled gasp.
Ruth tightened her grasp and aimed him downward.
"Let it loose," she ordered, thumb pressing the frenulum hard enough to make him whimper.

The class erupted.
Charcoal sticks snapped.
Easels toppled.
Harold's urine hit the tray in a perfect, pressurized arc, no splatter, no misfire, just clinical precision under Ruth's guidance.
Her neon nails dug crescent moons into his shaft as she adjusted the angle minutely, her breasts pressed flush against his back.
"See?" she murmured, lips brushing his ear.
"Easy when you're not fighting it."
The last few spurts trickled out pitifully, his cock softening in her grip like a deflating balloon.

Miss Evan clapped once—the sound like a judge's gavel, and gestured to Heather's sketchpad.
"Note the collaborative aspect," she said, tracing an invisible line between Harold's hunched shoulders and Ruth's smirk.
"Modesty isn't just about exposure. It's about control."
Heather's pencil hovered, then dove, capturing not Harold's humiliation, but the exact moment Ruth's thumb had stroked upward, milking the last drops from his slit with surgical detachment.

The bell shattered the tension like glass.
Sammy's legs carried him before his brain caught up, threading through clusters of students who pretended not to stare at Harold still trembling on the podium.
Ruth hopped off the stool, neon nails gleaming as she wiped her hand on Harold's discarded shirt.

Gym smelled of chlorine and old rage.
Sammy changed in the farthest stall, back pressed against chipped tiles while the other boys' locker room banter swirled around him like fog.
No one glanced his way, too busy rehashing Harold's meltdown in vivid detail.
"Dude pissed like a fire-hose with that bitch's hand on his..."
"Shut up, she'll hear you..." A deodorant can clattered against concrete.
Sammy pulled his gym shorts on under the stall door's cover, waistband snug over both erections.
For once, modesty paid off.

Coach Reynolds's whistle pierced the chatter.
"Five laps, maggots!"
Her clipboard tapped against meaty thighs as she eyeballed the stragglers.
Sammy kept pace with the slowest runners, not Harold, who'd mysteriously developed a "knee injury" between periods, letting the rhythm of sneakers on track asphalt drown out the echo of Ruth's laughter.
Class went well.
Nobody pointed.
Nobody whispered.
Just sweat and routine and the blessed anonymity of being mid-pack.
His lungs burned sweetly with normalcy.

The locker room's humid stink hit like a wall.
Sammy timed his entrance perfectly, while Coach Reynolds was busy berating Cody McMasters for forgetting his jockstrap, and ducked into the last shower stall before anyone noticed his deliberate delay.
The spray came out rusty at first, then scalding, but he didn't adjust the knob.
Let it hurt.
Let it erase the phantom pressure of Heather's stare still branding his spine since art class.
He scrubbed methodically, starting with his hairline (where sweat pooled thickest), working down to the twin cocks he now washed with clinical detachment.
Smaller one first, it always leaked more after PE, then the larger.
The soap stung where his nails scraped too hard.

Cathy's voice sliced through the steam like a scalpel.
"Knew I saw something yesterday."
Not whispered.
Not even hushed.
Just... stated.
As if commenting on the weather.
Sammy froze mid-rinse, water sluicing between his shoulder blades.
His reflection in the cracked shower tiles fractured into a dozen panicked fragments, each version of himself caught mid-motion, hands hovering over groins that shouldn't exist in multiples.
The communal shampoo bottle hit the tiles with a wet smack.
Someone's flip-flops squeaked closer.

"If you cover up I have to report you."
Cathy leaned against the stall divider, one cobalt-nailed finger tracing the gaps where rust had eaten through the metal.
Steam curled around her wrist.
She didn't look at his face, just lower, hungry in a way that made his smaller cock shrivel while the larger twitched traumatically.
"I just want to see them," she murmured, hooking a finger through a ventilation hole.
"Close up. Like really see them."

Sammy pressed his back against the tiles so hard the grout lines imprinted on his shoulder blades. The shower-head coughed suddenly, spraying ice-cold droplets that made Cathy jerk backward, just enough for him to grab his towel off the hook.
He wrapped it around his waist in one practised motion, the terrycloth tenting obscenely over both erections.

Cathy's laugh was a silver blade between his ribs.
She flicked water off her wrist toward the bulge.
"Your mom didn't teach you towels count as clothes?"
Behind her, Brad's sister Ruth appeared like a phantom, neon toenails flashing as she stepped over puddles in her flip-flops.
She didn't speak, just watched with her head tilted, eyes dark as the bruises Harold would probably find on his hips tomorrow.

Sammy's pulse hammered in both throbbing cocks.
He could feel Ruth's gaze like a laser levelling his towel's uneven drape.
Rules screamed in his skull, *Modesty equals program.*
The terrycloth slipped as he forced his hands to his sides.
Steam curled around Cathy's smirk when the towel hit the tiles with a wet slap.

"Better," Ruth murmured.
Sammy exhaled through his nose and spread his stance wider, letting them see the full twin arc, smaller one still soft from fear, larger twitching under their scrutiny.
Cathy's breath hitched.

Ruth's flip-flop squeaked forward.
"Now turn."
Not a request.
Sammy's knees nearly buckled as he pivoted, the shower's rusted faucet digging into his spine. Cathy's cobalt nails scraped the stall divider when she crouched.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
Behind him, Ruth's chuckle warmed the back of his neck.
"Bet the health teacher would cream her pants for this."

Steam fogged the mirrors but not their eyes, hungry, clinical.
Against his will, they began to rise.
Both of them.
The smaller twitched first, its involuntary lift betraying the same terrified curiosity that made him stare at car wrecks.
The larger surged next, a damning inch at a time, until the tip glistened level with Cathy's parted lips.
She didn't touch.
Didn't need to.
Her exhale alone made them jump like startled animals.

Ruth's fingers skimmed the stall's metal edge, neon polish catching the fluorescent light.
"Health class is Thursday," she murmured, as if discussing a grocery list.
Sammy's knees locked.
The program's timeline unspooled in his head, art class exposure, health class dissection.

"Please," the word scraped his throat raw.
"Just keep this between us?"
His smaller cock wilted, but the larger pulsed traitorously when Cathy leaned closer.
Her breath smelled of the strawberry gloss she'd reapplied between classes.

Ruth snorted, flipping wet hair over one shoulder.
"Between us?"
She tapped a neon nail against his larger shaft, making it twitch.
"Like your PE towel was between your legs?"
The laughter died when she crouched beside Cathy, both girls staring now at what shouldn't exist.

Cathy's finger hovered near the smaller cock's slit, where pre-cum beaded like a dewdrop.
"Do they both..." She swallowed hard. "Work?"
Sammy's hips jerked involuntarily when a drop fell onto her outstretched wrist.

Ruth snorted and flicked the larger shaft with a neon nail, making it bob obscenely.
"Better question, does one cum harder?"
Her fingers closed around the base experimentally, thumb pressing the frenulum in rhythmic pulses. Sammy's knees buckled as his larger cock throbbed in her grip, the smaller twitching in sympathetic agony.
"Ohhh," Ruth drawled, watching the dual responses with predatory fascination.
"They're wired together."

Cathy's cobalt nails scraped against tile as she scooted closer, eyes locked on the smaller cock's flushed tip.
"Bet I can make the little one win," she murmured, breath hot against the underside where veins branched like lightning.
Her tongue darted out, just a teasing stripe along the seam, and Sammy's hips jerked forward involuntarily.
The smaller cock spasmed, dripping onto her chin.

Ruth's grip tightened around the thicker shaft.
"Bullshit," she snarled, twisting her wrist in a brutal upstroke that made Sammy's knees hit wet concrete.
Her thumb swirled over the leaking slit, spreading pre-cum in glossy circles.
"Bigger always finishes first. Basic anatomy."
She punctuated this with a sharp tug that forced a choked gasp from Sammy's throat.

Cathy countered by sinking her fingers into the soft flesh below his smaller cock, massaging in slow, cruel circles.
"Then why's this one twitching like a rabbit?"
Her other hand traced the underside with feather-light strokes, nail catching on the frenulum every third pass.
The smaller shaft jerked violently, smearing a wet streak across her knuckles.

Ruth growled low in her throat, half frustration, half arousal, and shifted her grip higher, thumb pressing into the slit of Sammy's larger cock hard enough to make his vision white-out.
"Hands only," she stated, punctuating each word with a punishing twist of her wrist.
The girls fell into rhythm, matching strokes like synchronized swimmers determined to drown him in sensation.

Sammy's fingers scrabbled against wet tile as Cathy switched tactics mid-stroke, her teeth grazing the smaller shaft's underside while her thumb circled the weeping tip.
The dual stimulation short-circuited his nervous system, his larger cock pulsed in Ruth's fist while the smaller one spasmed against Cathy's tongue, leaking clear streaks down her chin.

Ruth's nostrils flared.
"Cheating," she hissed, but Sammy barely heard her, his vision tunnelled on Cathy's lips parting around the smaller cock-head, the obscene *pop* as she took just the tip between her teeth.
A strangled noise escaped his throat when she bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make his knees buckle sideways into the shower stall.
Ruth cursed and adjusted her grip, her neon nails digging angry crescents into the thicker shaft's base.

Cathy's tongue flicked experimentally against the underside where veins branched like lightning, her cobalt nails digging into his trembling thighs.
"Tastes like salt," she murmured against flushed skin, breath hitching when the smaller cock twitched against her cheek.
Ruth responded by dragging her thumb through the pre-cum pooling at Sammy's larger tip, smearing it in slow circles that left glistening trails in the fluorescent light.

The stall door creaked suddenly, not from motion, but from Sammy's death-grip on the metal frame. His reflection in the cracked tiles fractured further as his hips stuttered forward involuntarily, the smaller cock bumping Cathy's bottom lip while the thicker one pulsed in Ruth's tightening fist. "Fuck..." he gasped, spine arching as Cathy's teeth grazed the frenulum.
Ruth's other hand slid around to grope his ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave crescent indents.

Cathy's cobalt nail traced the smaller shaft's vein with clinical precision.
"Look at it," she whispered, flicking the twitching head.
"Practically begs."
Ruth responded by twisting her wrist in a brutal corkscrew motion around the larger cock, her neon polish catching the fluorescent light with each stroke.
The simultaneous sensations overloaded Sammy's nervous system—his knees hit the wet concrete just as the first spurt arced wildly, streaking Cathy's cheekbone.

Ruth's laugh was a razor against his spine.
"Little one first after all," she taunted, watching the smaller cock pulse weakly against Cathy's chin while her grip milked the thicker shaft with relentless efficiency.
Cathy licked the streak off her face without breaking eye contact, her tongue slow and deliberate as a scientist noting results.

Sammy's hips jerked again, helpless, twitching things, as the larger cock erupted in Ruth's fist. Hot strands painted her neon nails in opaque stripes, some landing with wet plops on the tile between her knees.
She didn't flinch, just tightened her grip at the base and watched with clinical detachment as each contraction wracked his frame.

Cathy's fingers dug into his thigh, anchoring him when his legs gave out completely.
His smaller cock still dribbled weakly against her collarbone, making damp spots on her school blouse.
"Fuck," she breathed, not recoiling but leaning in closer, as if memorizing the spasms.
Ruth smirked and gave the softening shaft a final, cruel twist that made Sammy whimper.

She held up both sticky fingers in a V—victory or peace, it didn't matter, and his cocks mirrored the gesture perfectly, twitching apart before shrivelling into exhausted symmetry.
Cathy's phone clicked rapidly, the flash bleaching the humid air between them.
"Got it," she murmured, swiping through the evidence, his flushed face, the twin streaks glistening on Ruth's knuckles, the way his larger cock had arched mid-cum like it was trying to escape its own skin.

Ruth wiped her hands on Sammy's discarded towel, neon nails catching the fluorescent light.
"Please don't tell anybody Sammy begged," Ruth, rolling her eyes when Cathy snorted.
"I *have* to tell my sister."
She tossed the soiled towel at Sammy's chest, where it stuck with damp finality.
"But I won't tell my brother."

Cathy's phone flashed again, capturing Ruth's smirk, Sammy's trembling knees, the twin cocks now limp and glistening.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, cobalt nails tapping against the screen.
"I *have* to tell some friends," Ruth conceded, but of course if you show them I don't have to send pictures, agreed?

Sammy grabbed the towel, pressing it against himself with shaking hands.
The terrycloth stuck to damp skin, but the real humiliation was the way his larger cock twitched weakly at Ruth's words, as if begging for another round.
Steam curled around Cathy's wrist as she scrolled through the photos, pausing on one where his smaller cock pulsed mid-air, a pearly strand connecting it to Ruth's thumb.
"This one's art-class worthy," she mused, swiping to the next, Sammy's face contorted, mouth open in silent agony as both shafts spasmed in unison.

"I... I'll do it," he croaked, throat raw from swallowed screams.
His fingers tightened on the towel.
"Whatever you want. Just..."
The words tasted like bile.
"Keep it private."
Ruth's neon nails tapped against her thigh—slow, considering.

Cathy grinned and nudged Ruth's shoulder.
"Told you he'd cave."
She leaned in, lips brushing Sammy's ear.
"You'll pose for our art project tomorrow, not in class, in Ruth's garage."
Her breath smelled of strawberry gloss and spearmint gum.
"Full fountain. Both cocks."

Sammy shuddered. The towel slipped again.
Ruth caught it before it hit the tiles and pressed it back into his hands, not to cover him, but to wipe himself clean.
Her neon nails grazed his hipbone.
"We'll get proper lighting," she murmured, thumbing a streak of cum off his thigh.
"Make sure we capture *all* the angles."

The girls left him there, dripping and hollow-chested, their laughter echoing down the locker room corridor.
Sammy dressed with mechanical precision, boxers first (cotton, loose), then jeans (button fly to minimize accidental exposure), shirt tucked in military-tight.
His reflection in the fogged mirror showed nothing amiss, just another boy who'd stayed late to lift weights.
If his hands trembled tying his sneakers, nobody commented.

The walk home blurred, sidewalks warped underfoot, trees bent at unnatural angles.
His backpack straps dug trenches in his shoulders, weighted with unopened textbooks and Cathy's phone number scribbled on a torn receipt.
*For emergencies*, she'd said, pressing it into his palm with a wink that made his smaller cock twitch traumatically against denim.
He took the long route past the condemned gas station, where broken glass glittered like Ruth's neon nails in afternoon light.

Sammy's front door stuck halfway open, jambs warped from last winter's humidity.
He kicked it harder than necessary, relishing the splintering sound as wood gave way.
The house exhaled stale air and silence.
Mom's shift at the clinic ran late on Thursdays, she wouldn't smell Ruth's strawberry gloss lingering on his neck or see the way his jeans tented when he thought about "proper lighting" and "all the angles".

He dumped his backpack on the kitchen tiles hard enough to make the silverware rattle.
Escape routes flickered through his mind like defective neon signs, Report the blackmail?
Program would classify that as modesty.
Transfer schools?
They'd flag his records for "social adjustment monitoring."
Faking illness only bought twenty-four hours, Cathy would still have the photos, Ruth's garage would still have the folding chair with the hole cut in the seat.
Even running away required money, and his emergency fund was three crumpled twenties buried in a Hollow Knight case under his bed.

The fridge hummed with judgment as he gulped straight from the orange juice carton.
The tartness made his throat constrict, same acidic bite as Ruth's laughter when she'd said *proper lighting*.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the juice dripping onto linoleum.
Couldn't even drink properly without making a mess today.

"You're home early."
His mother leaned against the doorway, still in her mint-green scrubs, stethoscope dangling like a noose around her neck.
The microwave clock glowed 2:17 PM He'd walked out of school the second the final bell rang, speed-walking past Harold's empty locker where someone had taped a printed meme of a bursting fire hydrant.
"Everything okay?"

Sammy stared at the juice puddle spreading toward his shoelaces.
"Fine." The lie curdled in his throat alongside the orange acid.
She'd know.
Mothers always knew, especially his, with her therapist's eyes that dissected every twitch.

"A nice hot bath," she suggested abruptly,  "Soak your troubles away."
Her smile didn't reach her pupils, which dilated slightly when she glanced at his tented jeans. "Maybe those girls want to be friends?"

Sammy nearly crushed the juice carton.
*Friends.*
Like Cathy's teeth hadn't left crescent welts on his inner thigh.
Like Ruth's neon nails weren't still etched into the base of his larger cock.
The refrigerator hummed louder, drowning out his pulse.

"Maybe," he lied, watching his mother's stethoscope sway.
It swung hypnotically, left, right, like Ruth's hips when she'd sauntered out of the showers.
His smaller cock twitched against denim at the memory.
His mother's gaze dropped instantly.

Her lips pursed.
"Sammy." A single word, weighted with decades of clinical detachment and maternal concern.
The stethoscope stopped mid-swing.
"You're fourteen."
As if that explained anything.
As if fourteen year old boys with *dual equipment* got girlfriends who didn't threaten to leak photos to the entire junior class.

The orange juice puddle reached his sock.
Cold seeped through cotton.
His mother stepped closer, scrubs whispering against the linoleum.
"Maybe Heather?" she tried, fingers twitching like she wanted to adjust an imaginary clipboard.
"She sketches you so often."

Sammy's gut clenched.
Heather's abandoned sketchbook still lurked under his mattress, pages filled with forensic-level studies of his anatomy from art class.
He swallowed hard.
"Heather's... different."

His mother's stethoscope swayed as she tilted her head.
"Different how?"

Sammy's fingers curled into his palms, nails biting crescents into flesh.
The memory of Heather's sketches flashed behind his eyelids, not just his exposed anatomy, but the way she'd drawn Harold mid-stream, Ruth's fingers splayed possessively over his hipbones.
"She watches," he muttered.
"Too much."

His mother's eyebrows lifted, stethoscope swinging as she leaned forward.
"The Ruth girl," she prompted, clinical tone laced with something sharper.
"You mentioned a project?"

Sammy's fingers twitched toward the juice spill, anything to avoid the knowing glint in her eyes. "Art assignment," he muttered, watching orange droplets slide down the fridge door.
"Thursday. In her garage."
The lie tasted metallic, like biting a battery.
His larger cock pulsed traumatically against his zipper at the phantom sensation of Ruth's neon nails digging into his frenulum.

The bathtub faucet shrieked when he turned it on, drowning out his mother's footsteps retreating downstairs.
Steam fogged the mirror instantly, erasing his fractured reflection.
He stripped mechanically, jeans first (button fly sticking), then boxers (cotton, damp) before stepping into scalding water that turned his skin lobster-red within seconds.
Submerging his head didn't silence Cathy's voice whispering "full fountain" against his ear, the memory of her teeth on his smaller cock making both shafts twitch violently in the water.

He scrubbed until his thighs burned, but Ruth's neon nail polish lingered in his mind's eye, electric green against his flushed skin, smearing pearly streaks as she'd milked him dry.
The soap slipped from his fingers when his larger cock bobbed to the surface, already half-hard at the memory.
"Fuck," he hissed, grabbing it roughly, as if punishment could override programming.

Downstairs, the landline rang once before his mother's muffled voice answered.
Sammy froze, ears straining, then exhaled when he recognized Heather's mother's cadence.
The pipes groaned as he leaned back, letting the water lap at his collarbone.
Through the steam, his reflection warped in the fogged mirror, a pale smudge of limbs, the darker smudge of his dual cocks floating like separate creatures.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but Cathy's laughter echoed behind his eyelids.
"Both cocks," she'd demanded.
"Full fountain."

A creak on the stairs made his stomach drop.
His mother's silhouette paused outside the bathroom door.
"Heather's coming over," she announced through the wood.
"Her mother says she's been crying since art class."
The doorknob turned slightly, testing, then stopped.
"Sammy. Are you decent?"

Water sloshed over the porcelain edge as his larger cock twitched involuntarily.
He watched both shafts bob obscenely in the soapy water like buoys marking a shipwreck.
"It's okay Mom," he called back, voice cracking.
"You can come in."
The words tasted like surrender.
He sank deeper until water lapped at his chin.

His mother entered with the practised neutrality of a clinician, though her nostrils flared slightly at the sight of his erection breaching the water's surface.
She perched on the toilet lid, stethoscope swinging like a pendulum.
"Heather's been drawing you," she said carefully, "but not from art class. From memory."
Her fingers tapped the ceramic, a staccato rhythm that matched Sammy's pulse.
"Detailed sketches, positions the art teacher never assigned."

Steam curled between them as Sammy's hands drifted instinctively to cover himself.
His mother's gaze tracked the motion clinically.
"Modesty," she murmured, more to herself than to him, before reaching into her scrubs pocket.
The picture she produced was from the clinic's developing machine, Heather's unmistakable shading style capturing Ruth's neon nails wrapped around his larger cock, Cathy's lips stretched obscenely around the smaller.
"Found these in her locker during the wellness check."

Sammy's smaller cock twitched violently in the bathwater.
"She was spying on us?"
The words came out strangled.
Behind his mother, Heather's shadow darkened the hallway, hesitant footsteps, then the soft *thump* of her sketchpad hitting carpet.
His mother turned the photo sideways, revealing Heather's meticulous annotations in the margins: *Observed cross-stimulation effects during dual-shaft manipulation. Note synchronization despite size disparity.*

"I just wanted to see," Heather whispered from the doorway, her eyes locked on the twin erections bobbing in the soapy water.
Her fingers twitched toward her absent sketchpad, pupils dilating with scientific hunger.
Sammy's larger cock pulsed visibly, autonomic betrayal, sending ripples across the tub's surface. Heather's tongue darted out to wet her lips.
"For science."

Sammy's mother plucked a mother picture from her scrubs pocket with disturbing preparedness, holding it between thumb and forefinger like a scalpel.
"No more," she said, pressing it into Heather's palm with deliberate force.
"And you keep his", she glanced at Sammy's traitorous anatomy... "configuration confidential. Or else."
The unspoken threat vibrated in the steam-clogged air:

"I'll leave you two to get to know each other," his mother said, already halfway out the door, stethoscope swinging like a pendulum.
The bathroom tiles shuddered under her footsteps, two sharp stomps, before she paused in the threshold.
"Thoroughly."
The door clicked shut with surgical precision.

Heather's Converse squeaked on wet tile as she crept forward, fingers twitching toward her missing sketchpad.
Steam curled around her wrists when she knelt beside the tub, breath hitching at the sight of Sammy's larger cock bobbing near the surface.
"Can I..." She swallowed hard.
"I just need one measurement."

Sammy's smaller organ twitched beneath the soap bubbles, a visceral betrayal.
Heather's gaze snapped to the movement, pupils dilating.
"Fascinating," she breathed, leaning closer until her nose nearly touched the water.
"Independent motility despite shared nerve clusters."
Her fingers skimmed the bath's edge, nails bitten raw from sketching.
"Can you flex them separately?"

The question, clinical, detached, made his larger shaft thicken against his thigh.
Heather noticed instantly.
"Oh!" Her hand darted forward, then froze.
"May I?" The politeness felt grotesque compared to Ruth's neon claws.
When he didn't answer, she pulled a measuring tape from her hoodie pocket, the kind seamstresses used and held it up like a forensic tool.
"Just circumference first?"

Sammy's breath hitched as the cold metal tab touched his larger shaft's base.
Heather's fingers trembled, but her precision was terrifying, looping the tape just tight enough to indent flesh without restricting blood-flow.
"Six point two centimetres," she murmured, scribbling on her wrist with a ballpoint pen.
Her tongue poked between her teeth as she stretched the tape toward his smaller cock.
"May I compare—?"

Her breath hitched when his smaller cock breached the water's surface beside it, twitching in apparent synchrony.
"Oh god," she whispered, not looking away.
The tape measure dangled forgotten from her other hand, swaying like his mother's stethoscope.
Sammy watched her throat work as she swallowed hard, the way Cathy had when Ruth made him spurt across her cheek.

Steam curled around Heather's wrist as her fingers traced the larger shaft's ridge with trembling precision.
"You can feel this?" she murmured, clinical tone cracking when his hips jerked.
Her nail, short, unpainted, scraped the frenulum lightly, and Sammy's back arched against porcelain as both cocks pulsed violently.
Water sloshed over the rim onto her jeans.

Sammy bit back a groan, watching Heather's pupils dilate with methodical hunger.
She leaned closer, her breath fogging the water's surface near his smaller cock.
"Fascinating," she whispered, her lips brushing the tip as she spoke.
The measuring tape slipped from her fingers, sinking silently beneath the soapy surface.

His mother had left the pictues balanced on the sink's edge, Heather's own forensic evidence of Ruth and Cathy's torment, now warping in the humid air.
Heather barely glanced at it, her focus locked on the twin shafts bobbing before her.
Her fingers, calloused from gripping charcoal, traced the larger cock's veins with unsettling precision.
"Does this hurt?" she murmured, pressing a thumbnail into the sensitive ridge.

Sammy hissed, watching her nostrils flare at his reaction.
"No," he lied, and knew she'd catalogued the tremor in his voice.
Heather's tongue darted out, leaving a damp streak on her lower lip, not seductive, but anticipatory, like a scientist preparing to dissect.

Her fingers moved with terrifying efficiency, thumb circling the larger cock's tip while index finger pressed experimentally against the smaller shaft's frenulum.
Steam condensed on her glasses as she leaned closer, fogging the lenses but doing nothing to obscure her clinical focus.
"Simultaneous stimulation induces..." she murmured, pressing both pressure points at once.

Sammy's hips bucked violently, sending water cascading over the tub's edge.
Heather didn't flinch, merely adjusted her grip like a technician calibrating equipment.
Her wet jeans soaked up the overflow as she pinned his larger shaft against his belly with her forearm, freeing her other hand to probe the smaller cock's slit with alarming precision.

"Wait..." The protest died in his throat when she exhaled sharply across both tips, her clinical detachment fracturing for one breathtaking second.
Her glasses slipped down her nose, revealing dilated pupils that tracked every involuntary twitch. The measuring tape brushed his inner thigh underwater, a phantom caress.

"Please," Heather whispered, suddenly breathless, fingers tightening around the base of his larger shaft.
Her thumb swiped a bead of pre-cum from his smaller cock's tip and brought it to her lips without breaking eye contact.
"For science."

Sammy's hips jerked involuntarily as she tasted him, her tongue darting out with the same clinical precision she'd used when shading his pubic bones in charcoal.
The bathroom fan whirred louder, drowning out the wet sound of her swallowing.
Heather blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering as if processing unexpected data.

Her fingers tightened around his larger shaft as she leaned in again, not to taste, but to observe the way his smaller cock wept clear droplets in response.
She reached for his balls, cupping them with terrifying professionalism.

"Wait...don't..." Sammy's protest dissolved into a choked gasp as her thumbnail found the perineal seam behind his sac.
Heather's eyes flicked up, glasses fogged completely now, but her grip remained mercilessly precise. "That's not... part of the program."

Heather's fingers stilled, though she didn't release him.
"Neither is this," she murmured, thumb stroking the larger cock's frenulum in slow circles while her other hand cupped his balls like calibrating weights.
Water sloshed as his hips jerked—betrayed by his own anatomy again.

"Secondary shaft exhibits delayed response but comparable viscosity," she muttered against his smaller cock's tip, breath hitching when it twitched against her lower lip.
Her glasses slipped further, revealing raw hunger beneath clinical detachment.

Sammy's fingers scrabbled against porcelain when Heather's tongue lapped at his smaller shaft with terrifying precision, not teasing, but testing.
Her notebook thumped to the tile, pages fanning open to reveal anatomical cross-sections of his dual physiology annotated in obsessive detail.
"Oral stimulation induces..." she murmured before taking him fully into her mouth, her teeth grazing the ridge in a way that made his larger cock pulse violently against his stomach.

The bathroom fan stuttered as Heather hollowed her cheeks, suction measured and relentless like a lab vacuum.
Her glasses fogged completely when his hips jerked, but she didn't pull back, only adjusted her grip on his larger shaft, thumb pressing into the frenulum with calibrated pressure.
Water sloshed over the edge as his thighs trembled, soaking her knees where she knelt on sodden carpet.

Sammy's fingers dug into porcelain when Heather hummed experimentally, a vibration that made both cocks twitch in horrifying synchrony.
Her tongue mapped the smaller shaft's underside ridge with terrifying precision, pausing to note each involuntary spasm in the margin of her mental spreadsheet.
"Interesting," she murmured against the tip, breath hot where pre-cum beaded.

Her glasses slid off completely when she tilted her head, landing with a plastic *clack* on the tiles.
Without them, her eyes looked oddly vulnerable, dark and dilated like ink spreading through water. "My brother says I have a big mouth," she remarked conversationally, fingers still working his larger shaft in methodical strokes.
"Can I suck them both?" Before he could process the question, she'd already angled her chin up, lips stretching obscenely wide around both tips in a way that shouldn't have been anatomically possible.

The sensation was unbearable, her tongue putting pressure between shafts like a living septum, the wet heat somehow tighter than Ruth's grip but softer than Cathy's teeth.
Sammy's hips jackknifed involuntarily, knees slamming against porcelain as Heather's lips fluttered against the junction where his cocks met.
Her gag reflex triggered instantly, but she didn't pull back, just clenched her fists in the bathwater and swallowed convulsively, nostrils flaring as his larger cock-head bullied past her gag reflex.

Saliva dripped down her chin in thick strands, mingling with the bath bubbles that clung to his pubic hair.
Heather's fingers scrabbled for purchase on his thighs, blunt nails digging half-moons into his skin as she attempted to regulate airflow through her flared nostrils.
A wet, stuttering rhythm developed, three shallow breaths through her nose, then another inch taken down his smaller shaft until her front teeth grazed the base.
Her trachea convulsed visibly beneath the skin, but her eyes stayed locked on his face, cataloguing every micro-expression with scientific hunger.

Sammy's vision blurred at the edges when she hummed again, this time deliberately modulating the pitch to vibrate his larger cock's frenulum while her tongue tip fluttered against the smaller one's slit.
The dual stimulation short-circuited his nervous system, his left leg kicked spasmodically, heel slamming against the faucet hard enough to send metallic echoes through the pipes.
Heather blinked rapidly, tears pooling at her lash line from the strain, but her grip only tightened, one hand kneading his balls with clinical precision while the other worked his larger shaft in counterpoint to her mouth's rhythm.

A strangled noise escaped him when she suddenly pulled back just enough to scrape her teeth along both shafts simultaneously, not hard enough to break skin, but with exacting pressure that sent electric jolts up his spine.
Her lips glistened with a mixture of spit and pre-cum, strands stretching between them as she panted through her nose.
"Fascinating," she rasped, voice wrecked from throat-stretching, "the smaller one tastes sweeter." Her tongue darted out to collect a bead from the tip, eyes rolling back slightly as if analyzing flavour profiles.

Sammy's thighs trembled violently when she pressed her thumb into his perineum without warning, the sudden pressure forcing a gasp from his lungs.
"You didn't want to cum for me?" Heather asked, sounding genuinely disappointed as she massaged the spot with clinical precision.
Her other hand never stopped stroking, maintaining a brutal tempo that made his hips jerk.
"I need baseline data on ejaculatory synchronization."
She squeezed his balls thoughtfully, her grip adjusting like she was calibrating equipment.

The bathtub water rippled with the force of Sammy's involuntary twitches.
Heather's eyes tracked the way his smaller cock pulsed first, followed milliseconds later by the larger, a physiological lag she quickly noted aloud.
Her tongue returned to the smaller shaft with terrifying focus, applying suction just beneath the tip while her fingertips teased his urethral opening.
The dual assault shattered his remaining control; his balls tightened against her palm as the first spurt hit the back of Heather's throat.

Her nostrils flared at the taste, pupils dilating further as she swallowed reflexively.
When the larger cock erupted seconds later, she angled her head to catch the thicker strands across her tongue, eyes rolling back slightly as she catalogued viscosity differences between emissions. Her throat worked methodically, bobbing with each deliberate swallow until his hips finally stilled against the porcelain.

Heather pulled back just enough to let the last weak pulses stripe her chin, her breath coming in shallow pants that fogged his softening shafts.
Without breaking eye contact, she swiped two fingers through the mess and brought them to her lips, sucking clean with the same clinical precision she'd used to measure him earlier.
"Fascinating," she murmured, voice hoarse from abuse.

"I'm going to keep your secret," she finally said, tilting her head as if listening to some internal data stream.
The declaration should have been comforting, but the way her fingers kept idly tracing the larger cock's flaccid veins made his stomach clench.
"I promise." She added the last part like an afterthought, looking up through wet lashes, her face oddly vulnerable without the glasses.
The sadness in her expression didn't match the possessive grip still cradling his balls.

Sammy's breath hitched when Heather leaned forward again, not to taste, but to press her forehead against his thigh with an exhausted sigh.
"Do you think you might someday like me?" she whispered, the question muffled against his skin.
Her grip tightened imperceptibly.
"Or am I too fat?"

The bathtub water rippled as Sammy flinched, not at her weight, but at the sudden vulnerability in her voice.
Heather's fingers trembled against his softening flesh, the clinical detachment fracturing completely.
"I don't..." His voice cracked when she nuzzled the inside of his thigh, lips brushing a fading bruise Cathy had left yesterday.

Rhonda is tall and stacked like a statue from Rome, all marble curves and unapproachable perfection. Patricia is tiny and petite, the kind of delicate femininity that makes boys trip over their own tongues.
But me?" Heather's breath hitched against his skin, her grip tightening as if afraid he'd dissolve. "The boys call me Heifer behind my back. Even my brother."

Sammy's fingers twitched in the cooling bathwater, unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer.
The truth lodged like a stone in his throat, she wasn't fat, just solid in a way that made her seem older than her years.
Her thighs pressed against the tub with undeniable strength, the same muscles that let her sprint across campus when she thought he wasn't looking.

"I don't..." He swallowed as her teeth grazed his inner thigh, not biting but testing, like she was memorizing his taste through skin alone.
His spent cock gave a feeble twitch against her cheek, betraying him even now.
Heather exhaled sharply through her nose, the warm puff of air making him shudder.

She pulled back abruptly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that should've been crude but looked oddly elegant.
Her glasses lay forgotten on the tiles, lenses fogged beyond repair.

"You don't have to answer," Heather murmured, shuffling backwards on her knees until her soaked jeans met the bathroom door.
Her fingers traced the wet fabric clinging to her thighs, leaving streaks in the denim.
"The data is clear enough."

Sammy watched a single droplet slide from her collarbone into the valley of her cleavage, disappearing beneath the rumpled neckline of her blouse.
Her breathing had steadied, the frantic rhythm of scientific pursuit replaced by something heavier, slower.
"I just wanted you to know," she said, fingers twisting in the wet fabric of her jeans as she stood, "that I really do like you."
The admission landed between them like a scalpel dropped on tile, clinical in its precision, devastating in its implications.
Water dripped from her hemline as she turned, leaving dark footprints on the bath mat that evaporated almost immediately in the overheated air.

Her footsteps retreated down the hallway with measured precision, the same careful pacing she used when sketching anatomical studies.
The front door's slam shuddered through the pipes beneath him, making the bathwater ripple against his flaccid flesh.
He counted seventeen seconds before his mother's heels struck the staircase in staccato ascent, too soon for casual coincidence, too late for plausible deniability.
The house's old floorboards groaned under her weight, a sound he'd learned to associate with impending interrogations.

"Sammy?" The knob turned before he could respond.
Her clinical gaze skipped past the spilled bathwater, the discarded measuring tape.
Her nostrils flared slightly, not at the musk of spent arousal, but at the lavender-scented bubbles clinging to his collarbones.
"Are you okay?"

He stood slowly, water sluicing off his thighs in sheets.
Heather's saliva still streaked his inner thighs, the scandalous evidence vanishing beneath the draining water.
His mother's heel tapped against the tiles, impatient.
"Towel." His voice sounded alien, hoarse from swallowed screams.

She plucked one from the heated rack without hesitation, her manicured fingers avoiding contact as she thrust it toward him.
The terrycloth smelled of bleach and lilacs, aggressively sterile against his damp skin.
Sammy scrubbed harder than necessary at his groin, as if he could erase the memory of Heather's teeth scoring delicate crescents along his perineum.

Sleep came in fitful bursts between dreams that dissolved and reformed like wet ink, one moment standing at his locker while classmates giggled at his erection, the next sprawled across the biology dissection table with Ruth's scalpel tracing lazy circles around his nipples.
The worst was the recurring nightmare of gym class, where Cathy's whistle shrilled endlessly as she forced him into push-up position beneath the basketball hoop, his scrotum swinging centimetres above her smirking mouth.

He woke drenched in sweat at 3:17 AM, smaller cock twitching against his thigh while the larger one remained stubbornly flaccid.
The digital clock's glow painted stripes across Heather's forgotten notebook splayed open on his desk, its pages filled with disturbingly accurate sketches of his frenulum.
Sammy rolled onto his stomach, pressing his face into the pillow hard enough to see stars.
The muffled scream that escaped tasted suspiciously like failure.