Thursday.
The free-use cohort of twenty-nine arrived early, still tangled from Wednesday’s tomboy-quad forging. Sam, Jordan, Casey and Morgan walked as one unit—hands linked, baggy clothes abandoned for soft open shirts and short skirts that made their new dynamo bodies easy to reach. Dom/Domme teachers waited with the usual tools. The staff-room door stood unlocked. The drama studio had been cleared and lit like a stage.
Five new notes. Five glasses of special milk. Five empty houses.
The Drama/Music Five Wake
They had always been the artistic ones—the ones who dreamed of being the new Saturdays: chart-topping, camera-ready, harmonies tight enough to stop traffic.
Lila and Serena — both in serious opera training, sopranos with voices that could already fill a hall, posture perfect, mouths made for long, controlled notes.
Harper — flute virtuoso, delicate fingers, quiet intensity.
Quinn — clarinet, expressive, always slightly dramatic.
Blake — alto sax, the boldest of the five, already half-famous in local jazz circles.
They woke on their shared eighteenth birthday to the scent, the silent houses, the parental notes, and the tall glasses of glowing special milk.
They drank.
The lock hit like a perfect high C.
All five came hard—cunts clenching, milk beading on sensitive nipples, the rewrite flooding them with free-use hunger and a sudden, overwhelming need to make sound while they did it. The old dream of polished pop stardom cracked open into something rawer: they wanted to cum louder than each other, to turn orgasm into performance, to fill every room with the music of their pleasure.
They dressed in soft rehearsal clothes that clung, still trying to hold the old artistic poise, and walked to college together already dripping, already humming under their breath.
The Gates
The twenty-nine were waiting.
Leah’s smile was warm and wicked.
“Lila, Serena, Harper, Quinn, Blake. Happy birthday. Extra credit. New responsibilities. Staff room. Now that you’re eighteen. The whole nest has been waiting for the music set.”
They were walked in gently. The staff-room door locked behind thirty-four bodies.
Morning Initiation — From Saturdays to Sopranos of Cum
Clothes came off under soft orders. Five classically trained, smokingly beautiful bodies stood bare and glowing in the centre of the room—milk already leaking, cunts shiny, the old performance nerves rewritten into pure free-use readiness.
The cohort and teachers did not break them the way they had broken the cool kids. They tuned them.
The two opera sopranos — Lila and Serena — were fucked mercilessly for sound.
The Dom teachers and impatient parents took them hard and deep from the first minute, but the goal was never just use—it was volume and beauty. Every thrust was timed to pull the longest, purest, most wrecked notes from their throats. When Lila came the first time she hit a perfect, soaring high note that made half the room moan in answer. Serena answered with a richer, darker climax-cry that vibrated the windows.
After that the room made it a game and a worship.
They were kept full—cocks, straps, fingers, tongues—rotated without real rest. Every few minutes another orgasm was forced out of them. Their trained diaphragms and open throats turned each climax into music: cascading runs, broken arias, helpless sustained notes that cracked into sobs and then rebuilt. The more they came, the louder and more beautiful the sound became. They started competing without meaning to—each trying to out-sing the other’s orgasm—until the staff room rang like a concert hall of pure free-use ecstasy.
They were fucked through dozens of climaxes. Multiple orgasms stacked until their legs gave out, until they were limp and still singing through the next wave, until they were passing out in short, blissful blackouts only to be kissed awake and filled again so the next note could rise. Milk sprayed in time with the high notes. Cum overflowed. The entire cohort stopped just to listen and stroke themselves while the two sopranos turned the absolute age into living opera.
By mid-morning Lila and Serena were wrecked, glowing, barely conscious between waves, and completely addicted to cumming as loudly and beautifully as possible.
The three virtuosos — Harper, Quinn and Blake — were treated as beautiful souls.
No heavy domination. No humiliation. Just endless, reverent, thorough pleasure.
The tomboy quad claimed them first—Sam, Jordan, Casey and Morgan rough-housing them into soft scissoring piles, pinning them gently, eating them out with athletic hunger, then offering them open to the rest of the room. The wider cohort and teachers followed with the same care: slow fingers, worshipful mouths, deep but tender fucking, constant praise for how beautiful they looked and sounded and felt.
Harper’s flute-trained fingers were wrapped around cocks and guided.
Quinn’s expressive mouth was filled and praised.
Blake’s bold sax energy was answered with long, rolling orgasms that made her arch and laugh.
They discovered they gave amazing head—years of embouchure and breath control turning into the most devoted, skilled, long-lasting blowjobs the college had ever received. Every person with a penis (and several with straps) queued for them. The three virtuosos sucked in harmony, sometimes literally, turning face-fucking into chamber music while the tomboy quad and others licked and fingered them in return.
They were pleasured constantly—never rushed, never degraded, always treated like the classically trained beauties they were. By the end of the morning they were soft, overflowing, milk-spraying, and deeply in love with being free-use instruments of pleasure.
The five no longer dreamed of being the new Saturdays.
They just wanted to cum louder than each other, to fill every room with the sound of their pleasure, and to keep their mouths and cunts full while they did it.
Parallel Threads — Kinks Deepen, Americans Arrive
While the music set was tuned, the rest of the nest kept exploring.
Priya and Oliver spent free periods on their knees behind teachers and the YOI five, kissing and rimming with even more devotion; the thrill of taste only grew stronger.
The YOI five remained in exquisite orgasm control—edged through lessons, ordered to hold, then released into screaming multiples that left them limp and grateful.
The former cool three stayed hot and bothered on purpose, begging for denial and cooling-off sessions.
The tomboy quad rough-housed the new music girls between rounds and then offered themselves as a set to anyone who wanted four athletic free-use bodies at once.
Alex, Debbie and Eleni moved through everything like proud older siblings, holding, initiating, and taking their own pleasure.
Then, just after lunch, the side entrance opened again.
Eight American eighteen-year-old girls walked in together.
Their parents had just started at the embassy—postings arranged before the absolute age rewrote the city—so the girls had been due to start at the sixth-form anyway. They had been locked for the last week or so already: special milk at home, free-use families, full knowledge of what the college now was. They knew exactly what was expected.
They looked like they had stepped out of a high-school movie:
the blonde cheer-captain type, the brunette mean-girl beauty, the redheaded quirky one, the sporty one, the shy bookish one with glasses, the twin-looking best friends, the soft goth, the all-American sweetheart. Perfect casting. Underneath the looks they were deeply insecure—new country, new rules, terrified of not fitting in even though their bodies were already dripping and ready.
The cohort met them with care.
No harsh breaking. No public humbling. Just gentle, thorough claiming.
Leah, Alex, Debbie and Eleni took the lead—soft voices, soft hands, constant reassurance.
“You’re safe. You’re wanted. You’re already locked, so you know. We treat the insecure ones carefully here. You still get used. You still get filled and milked and written on. But we hold you through it. You belong now.”
The eight were stripped gently in the drama studio, praised for how beautiful they were, and folded into the free-use engine with deliberate tenderness. Teachers and impatient parents took them, but the orders stayed warm. The tomboy quad rough-housed them lightly until they laughed. The music set sang through orgasms beside them. Priya and Oliver kissed their asses with reverence. The YOI five showed them how good it felt to wait for permission. The former cool three shared denial tips.
Insecurities cracked open and were replaced by belonging. By the end of the afternoon the eight Americans were glowing, marked, overflowing, and no longer performing high-school-movie roles—they were simply free-use students who knew they were wanted.
The college free-use count stood at forty-two.
End of Thursday — Louder Than Each Other
The open studio after the final bell was pure symphony.
Lila and Serena were kept in the centre, fucked without real pause, cumming every few minutes in soaring, competitive, beautiful cries until they were passing out and being kissed awake for the next wave.
Harper, Quinn and Blake gave endless skilled head while being pleasured in return by the tomboy quad and half the room, treated the entire time like precious, beautiful souls.
The eight Americans were passed gently but thoroughly, held through every orgasm, told they were perfect exactly as they were.
Everyone else layered their kinks on top—rimming, orgasm control, risk, breeding, restraint, exhibition, group claim, Dom/Domme orders—until the mats were destroyed and the air itself felt thick with milk, cum, and music.
When the principal finally called time, the five music students could barely stand. Lila and Serena were limp, throats raw from singing their climaxes, still twitching with aftershocks. The three virtuosos were soft and smiling, lips swollen, cunts overflowing. The Americans clung to whoever was nearest, insecure edges smoothed into happy free-use certainty.
“Tomorrow: six more birthdays,” the principal said. “Biggest single day yet. Same gates. Same milk. Same staff room. You forty-two will help bring them in. Understood?”
Forty-two voices answered, some still hoarse from screaming pleasure.
“Understood.”
The group chat that night was a filthy, joyful chorus:
Music set locked and tuned. Lila & Serena are living orgasm-operas—fucked mercilessly, cumming every few minutes, beautiful loud notes, passing out from multiples. Harper/Quinn/Blake give god-tier head and get worshipped as beautiful souls. Tomboy quad claimed them hard (in the soft way).
No more Saturdays dreams. Just who can cum louder.
Eight embassy Americans arrived—high-school-movie looks, deep insecurities, already locked a week. Treated with care. Folded in gently. They’re ours now.
Forty-two strong. Kinks still deepening across the whole nest.
Friday: six birthdays. The week’s peak.
Love you. Sleep full and singing. The absolute age keeps composing.
Far away the original triad felt the five new musical sparks, the eight carefully claimed American sparks, and the rising daily tally, and pulsed pure delight. Athena updated the living map. Dionysus raised a cup to the sopranos. The Fates measured Friday’s six and smiled like the final movement was about to begin.
Thursday had taken the drama/music set’s polished dreams and turned them into raw, competitive, beautiful free-use sound. It had welcomed eight insecure American girls with care. It had let every kink in the nest run deeper.
The absolute age kept perfect score.
And tomorrow the number would rise one last time for the week.