Learning Bead By Bead

Charity slumps over her textbook, elbows on the table, hoodie hanging loose. Lorraine leans back, fingers drumming her own thigh, calm like she’s just poured them both water. “Seven right. You want the rules again?” Charity smirks, thumb tapping the eraser. “Pull one for every correct. Last bead gone, I get you. Whole.” Lorraine turns on the stool, skirt already hiked. She spreads, hips tilted so the thin silicone string shows, the first bead bulging dark against her hole. Charity steadies her breath, then tugs. Slow. The muscle gives, spreads, sucks back tight after the bead pops free and drops into Charity’s palm, warm and slick. Next question. Four answers down, three to go. Each time Charity nails it, Lorraine presses her ass out like an offering. The second bead catches at the rim; Charity hooks two fingers, pulls gentle, the pucker stretches, drags, releases. She watches the way Lorraine shivers. Takes the bead anyway. By the sixth answer the string hangs empty. Only the last bead remains. The widest. Lorraine reaches back, spreads herself wider, hole shiny, breathing tight. Charity wraps the string round her knuckles and pulls. The muscle fights, clenches, then opens around it with a wet pop that fills the small room. The final bead comes free. Lorraine groans, hole flexing, vacant. No words after that. Charity stands, belt clinks, Lorraine crawls forward and turns, cheeks spread. Charity sinks in deep on the first stroke, hips slapping Lorraine’s bare ass, using every inch the game left behind.