Basic Biology
The boiler room hums its steady, mechanical lullaby, but something else cuts through—metal scraping against concrete, the shuffling of feet that don't belong.
Felishia's head tilts, ponytail swinging.
Fuck!
Better not be vermin!
She moves without sound, work boots finding the familiar grooves in the concrete floor her grandfather poured decades ago.
The dull light of the basement catches the silver ring in her nose as she rounds the corner, and there they are—two boys pressed against the wall like specimens pinned to a board, arms full of corrugated plastic signage that reads "STEM EXCELLENCE 2025" in peeling vinyl letters.
"You're in my basement," she says.
The taller one—lanky, with a mess of brown curls and glasses —stammers something about the Science Fair.
The shorter one, round-faced and sweating through his vintage calculator T-shirt, clutches a stack of metal brackets that clatter against his knee.
"STEM signage," the tall one manages. "Linus Cache. This is Chip Syntax. We're—"
"I know what you are." Felishia's screwdriver taps against her palm, a slow rhythm matching the boiler's thrum.
"You're the lizard boys. Second floor lab, terrarium room. I empty your cricket bins."
She steps closer, close enough to smell the nervous sweat breaking through their deodorant.
"You're in my zone, in the vixen's lair."
Chip's throat works visibly.
"We just need the holes. The mounting holes. For the display tomorrow night."
Felishia's gaze drifts to the signage they carry—four-foot panels of white corrugated plastic, each punched through with perfectly circular holes where last year's projects hung.
Her thumb traces the edge of her screwdriver, feeling the worn grooves her father's fingers have polished smooth.
"Holes," she repeats.
The word sits in her mouth like something tasty.
"You came all the way down here for holes."
Linus adjusts his grip on the panel, and she watches his forearm tense, the tendons standing out like cables under too much load.
"The new principal won't approve new materials. We thought—we thought if we reused—"
"Resourceful." Felishia hums to herself, the same tune she uses when bleeding radiators.
"Lizard reproduction, yeah? You study how they make more lizards."
She watches the colour drain from Chip's face; flood back twice as hot.
"Ever watch them fuck? The male mounts, the female takes it. No talking. No negotiation. Just biology."
"We're—we're focusing on parthenogenesis in some species," Linus blurts, as if scientific terminology might shield him.
"Asexual reproduction. No male required."
"Shame." Felishia's nose ring catches the light as she tilts her head.
"You boys ever done it the genuine way? The way that requires two?"
The silence stretches, humid and thick as the basement air.
Somewhere, a pipe ticks as it expands.
"Ummm," Chip starts, then stops.
"Virgins," Felishia finishes for him.
She doesn't smile, but her shoulders loosen.
"Twenty years old, studying fucking for a living, never done it yourselves."
"Nineteen," Linus whispers.
"Nineteen." She rolls the number in her mouth.
"I was nineteen when I first took a girl apart in the supply closet. Before that, a boy in my father's truck. Learned early that theory and practice are different animals."
She sets the screwdriver on a nearby pipe, the metal clink echoing.
"You want to use my basement? My holes? There's a toll."
Chip's mouth opens, closes.
Linus's glasses have slipped down his nose.
"The holes in your signage," Felishia says, reaching out to trace the rim of one perfect circle with her fingertip.
"They're the right size. The right height, if you're on your knees." She looks at each of them in turn, her blue eyes steady as pressure gauges.
"You want to mount your project? I'll show you how mounting works."
She takes the panel from Linus's unresisting hands, turns it vertical, and props it against the concrete wall where two rusted pipes create a natural frame.
The holes align at groin height—four of them, two stacked above two, the corrugated plastic flexing slightly under her pressure.
"Your specialty is reproduction," she says, stepping back to survey her work.
"Time for field research."
She unclips one shoulder of her overalls, then the other, letting the faded denim hang at her waist. The white tank underneath is thin, worn soft by years of washing, and she pulls it free from the waistband, leaving her stomach bare.
Her nipples press visible against the fabric, and she doesn't hide them—lets the boys see what they've never touched.
"One on each side," she instructs, and her voice carries the same authority she uses when training new staff.
"You don't come in. You don't touch me. You put your dicks through the holes, and I decide what happens next."
They move like they're dreaming.
They slip into virgin opportunity.
Linus goes left, Chip right, and she hears the fast sounds of zippers, the rustle of cotton underwear.
The first cock emerges through the upper left hole—Linus, longer than she expected, curved slightly upward with a vein pulsing along the underside.
The second follows—Chip, thicker, the head already dark and slick with pre-cum that beads and drips.
Felishia sinks to her knees on the hard floor, her overalls bunching around her hips, and reaches for both simultaneously.
Her palms—rough from wrench work, from scrubbing, from years of useful labour—close around shafts that twitch at her touch.
Linus gasps, a sharp inhale like he's been punched.
"Uuhhh!"
Chip makes a noise like a wounded animal.
"Rraaghh!"
"Quiet," she says, and strokes them both once, base to tip, feeling the heat and the pulse of blood.
She takes Linus first, guiding him through the hole toward her mouth.
His cock slides past her lips, salt and musk flooding her tongue, and she doesn't tease—takes him to the root in one motion, her nose pressing against the corrugated plastic, her throat opening around him.
He chokes on his own cry, hands slapping the wall on his side of the barrier, and she holds him there, breathing through her nose, feeling him throb against her tongue.
Gug, gug, gurgle, one slight gag; then gug, gug, spitty gug.
She pulls back with a wet sound, spit stringing between her lips and his shaft, and turns immediately to Chip.
He's thicker, stretches her jaw, and she works him with her hand while she sucks, twisting at the base where the skin is softest.
His hips buck against the plastic, trying to thrust, and she pulls back enough to speak.
"Still. You stay still. I move."
They learn.
Well, their balls tighten.
She alternates, mouth on one while her hand works the other, the rhythm building like the boiler's steady hum.
Her free hand slips beneath her tank top, finds her own nipple, rolls it hard between dirty fingers.
She's wet—she can feel it, the cotton of her underwear clinging, and she rocks slightly on her knees, grinding against nothing, the pressure just enough to keep her climbing.
Linus breaks first, his breath coming in ragged gasps she can hear through the plastic.
"Aahh! —I'm going to—"
She pulls off Chip with a pop, turns her face up, and catches Linus's cock in her hand, pumping fast and tight.
He comes across her cheek, her nose, her closed eye—hot stripes of it, thick and sprout-smelling, dripping down to her lips.
She opens her mouth, catches the last pulse on her tongue, and he's still shaking when she turns to Chip.
"Your turn," she says, and takes him deep.
Chip lasts three strokes of her throat before he's groaning, his cock flexing, and she pulls back just enough to let him paint her—chin, throat, the hollow of her collarbone where her tank top has slipped.
Gooey pearl drops mix with Linus's spend, drip down her chest, and she keeps working him until he's softening, whimpering, too sensitive.
"Oorggh! Uhh! Uhh!"
She sits back on her heels, breathing hard, her face glazed and dripping.
Both boys have gone silent on their sides of the wall, and she can picture them—pants open, cocks wet and spent, staring at the holes where her mouth was.
"STEM excellence," she says, and laughs.
She wipes her palm on her thigh—her own wetness this time, not sweat—and reaches for her screwdriver.
"Get your signage. Get out. And next time you need holes, ask permission."
They scramble, zippers catching, brackets clattering.
She doesn't watch them go, stays on her knees until the basement door slams distant and hollow.
Then she touches her face, the cooling mess of them, and brings her fingers to her mouth.
The boiler hums on, indifferent.
Felishia swallows, tastes salt, and smiles against the empty air.