Sloppy Seconds Novels & Stories

"Get your heads in the game! If I see one more lazy pass, you can all spend the rest of the week running laps until you puke!" Sloane’s voice echoed through the Chicago Storm locker room like a gunshot. She paced the length of the tiled floor, her footsteps heavy and uneven. Every time she shifted her weight, she felt a sharp, lingering ache between her thighs. The memory of the concrete floor and Tatum’s rough fingers flashed through her mind, making her core tighten. She was still sore, her pussy feeling swollen and sensitive from the intensity of their encounter in the tunnel. The physical reminder of Tatum’s dominance was driving her into a frenzy of irritation.

It’s bigger than the shorter one’s – longer, thicker – and my eyes go wide behind my fear. “Think you can’t take it?” He strokes himself slowly, watching me. “You’ll take it. You don’t have a choice.” He climbs onto the bed. Positions himself between my spread legs. Runs the head of his cock through my dripping folds, coating himself in his partner’s cum. “Sloppy seconds,” he murmurs. “I love sloppy seconds.” He pushes inside. Slow this time. Making me feel every inch. The stretch is intense – more than the first one, almost too much. I whimper as he forces himself deeper, my pussy struggling to accommodate him.

“She is here for seconds.” “You can convert hours into seconds,” The brown one told the blue one. “All hours are seconds.” “All seconds are milliseconds then.” The blue one rolled his eyes. “You are trying to be over smart, but you are foolish.” “No, you are foolish.” “No, you are.” “You know what?” The brown one looked at me. “She is the foolish one.” “I think so too.” The blue one agreed, “She has been staring at us like a dimwitted fool.”

The rain in Manhattan intensified, a relentless clatter against the asbestos roof of the derelict repair shop. Inside, the air tasted of ozone and stale grease. Sophia stared at the red countdown ticking away on the flickering monitor—18:42:15. Time was no longer an abstract concept; it was a physical weight, a noose of reality tightening with every digital pulse.

Sloane had read it four times and put the phone face-down each time, she wasn’t ready for whatever Lila wanted to explain. The music was low, some soft acoustic playlist. Her meeting was in thirty minutes and she already knew how the morning would go with people glancing at her and lowering their voices when she walked by. She pressed the accelerator gently to merge into the left laneand then she pressed the brake but nothing happened. Sloane frowned and pressed again, harder this time, her foot going all the way to the floor but the car didn’t slow. If anything, the slight downward slope of the highway carried it faster.

Mark interjected, his voice hesitant. "Yes?" Caesar turned, his gaze cool as he regarded Mark. "I’m sorry about the rumors. It won’t happen again," Mark apologized, his tone earnest. "It’s fine," Caesar replied evenly. "As long as it doesn’t happen again, we’re cool. Where are you with your project?" "It’s… coming along. Slowly," Mark admitted, his voice hesitant. "I see," Caesar said with a slight nod. "Good luck with it."

Isla laughing with Bear. “Not stupid,” I said. “It’s grief. It doesn’t check a schedule. It shows up at 9:17 AM on a Tuesday.” Chloe breathed. Shaky. “So what’s the move,” Chloe said. Alex thought. CREW hat pulled low. “Move is: no 2:47 PM today,” Alex said. “Move is: we do 9:25 AM instead. Right now. All of us. Eyes closed. 11 seconds. For right now. Not for March 14th. Not for December 31st. For right now.”

There wasn’t time for more. "Boots, Sierra." Marcus tossed a pair at my feet. "We leave in sixty seconds." Five minutes later, we were tearing down the old tunnels in total darkness—damp, echoing, stinking of mold and salt. The bikes’ electric motors whined against the stone walls, our headlights carving little cones through the fog. I stuck close behind Marcus. Every bump sent another jolt through my bruised heel, but I kept the throttle pinned. Beep. The datapad on my handlebars lit up yellow.

Unhurried, I hit answer and switched it straight to speaker. The instant the call connected, store manager Arthur Chapman's unmistakable, gravelly roar tore through the room like a thunderclap. "Inspector Sloane! You're my saving grace! Where in God's name are you?! The tracking system shows you dropped off the grid the second you hit the second basement level! The regional president locked down the front entrance himself ten minutes ago! Please, come out and take control of this—the entire executive team is standing around in the lobby waiting for you!"

Dang, I can’t remember the code! Did my dad say 9122? No, it had an eight in it, I think. I can hear heavy gunfire downstairs and I can’t help but feel overwhelmed. I start to cry because I literally can’t still remember the freaking code! Okay, okay, I need to calm down. Despite the commotion downstairs, I take in a deep breath and I try to calm myself. “9182.” I say to myself and it clicks in my head. That’s the code! “9182.” I say again as I press the numbers on the keypad.