Catalyst

Chapter 3

Berry withdrew her head from between her legs and gave Quinn a glare, "Would you please relax? I'm nervous enough without you withdrawing like that."

The blonde swallowed, "Right." She added, "Sorry."

Rachel put her mouth back and started to lick more enthusiastically. Quinn did as she was told and relaxed, hooking her leg further around the brunette. It had the added benefit of pressing the small girl closer, practically suffocating her. She had to close her eyes because she felt overwhelmed with all the new sensations. If her first time had been like this, she didn't remember and didn't want to. It was Man Hands, who no one could deny was going to go places, not Puck, the Lima Loser, who was steadily bringing her to something, something wild and unexplainable.

She'd never touched herself, not even after her dreams, so she wasn't familiar with the tightening of her abdominal muscles, of her labored breathing, of the way her well-trained tool would disobey her in the most delectable way. But what she was aware of was the sound of her cross across the gold chain as she moved her head, and the sudden awareness that God was watching her. God was watching her get her intimates licked by the Jewish daughter of a gay couple. And then, after a few seconds, she wasn't thinking of anything.

When the cheerleader managed to open her eyes again, Tranny was still lapping gently, and she made a small noise before unhooking her leg and pushing at her head. She was too sensitive down there for any more. Stubble's stood up straight. Her mouth was shiny, even in the low lights, and her eyes were half-lidded and content looking. Quinn hesitated before grasping her shoulders, pulling her closer and kissing her. The smaller girl's mouth was still, just for a moment, before she kissed her back.

Her lips were impossibly soft and Quinn could feel the little puffs of her breath on the side of her face as she breathed through her nose. She made a small noise before pressing her lips against the other girl with a little more force. Something like a sparkle shot through her and made her lashes flutter before she opened them again. Tranny's eyes were closed. Her eyes traced the side of the smaller girl's face, drinking in her features, marred only by her furrowed brow. Quinn held her breath because otherwise she felt like she would hyperventilate. The brunette withdrew first and opened her eyes to look at the cheerleader. Their eyes connected and the Jewish girl leaned forwards. At first, the blonde thought she was going to kiss her again, before she angled her head so she was by her ear and said, "I hope you enjoyed it. Never again, Fabray."

The brunette turned and headed to the stage again, where she rolled her book bag to the other exit, on the back side of the auditorium, which led right to the back lot of the school. Quinn closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath of artificially cooled air. Her lips tingled, still, and she found herself smiling as she pulled her underwear on.

The next day, she threw a cherry slushy into Berry's face in the middle of lunch. Her jaw gaped open and then shut. The brunette gave her a look that even Sue Sylvester couldn't manage and stormed off. It was the first ever diva storm-off and it was all recorded on that creep Jacob Ben Israel's phone because it had such a nice view of Rachel's ass. Quinn never told anyone how once she was home she played the video over and over again, wondering why she'd done it instead of speaking to her. When the answers didn't come, she turned the computer off and crawled into her bed even though it was only five o'clock. She was tired and needed the rest.

When she woke up, it was six thirty and her mother was shaking her shoulders. "Quinnie, dear," She said, "I know that Coach Sylvester works you hard, but you need to wash up for dinner."

She gave a tremendous yawn, covered by her hand of course, and said, "Yes, mom. I'll be down in a little."

Her mother pecked her on the forehead and made sure to close the door on the way out. Quinn rubbed at her eyes and rolled out of bed to stand directly in front of her bedroom mirror. She stood up straight and flattened her shirt over her stomach. She wondered what she would look like in nine months and slammed her eyes shut. There was no need to think like that; she wasn't even sure if she was pregnant. Google wasn't the most reliable source and it was most likely stress. Or, or even a hysterical pregnancy. She'd heard about those and those weird women who would fake it for months, even years sometimes, pretending to have miscarriage after miscarriage in order to avoid suspicion. She'd just been having a hard time that was all.