It all started with Rachel being a drama queen. That didn't really narrow it down, but after Mr. Schu said the week's assignment would definitely be boy bands from the 80s, Rachel stormed after without bothering to pick up her phone. Quinn grabbed it for her and tried to find her at the bus pick-up, but she'd already gotten a ride with her duo-dads, so screw it. Quinn would give it to her tomorrow. It wasn't like Rachel's phone line was getting lit up.

Of course, neither was Quinn's. Brittany and Santana were off sixty-nining or sixty-sevening or whatever, and Quinn was not riding the Puck/Finn roller coaster again. Tina and her boytoy were so couple-y that Quinn would feel like Liz Lemon if she spent five minutes with them together, and they were always together. That left Mercedes, and Quinn wasn't in the mood for a Tyler Perry movie.

So, she was flying solo. She'd done her homework, and that made her feel like Rachel Berry. Her phone was on Quinn's desk so she wouldn't forget about it—Rachel hadn't thought to call it yet, but Quinn could just imagine Rachel going insane vigilante after twenty-four hours without her Bedazzled panda bear cover. And Quinn was going to be nice and just leave Rachel's phone alone, but then, Rachel had stolen her boyfriend. Both of them. So, screw it, karma would leave her alone.

Besides, what gal pal didn't change their friends' cell phone settings? She still hadn't forgiven Santana for having her phone belt out Niggas In Paris while she was in Trig. Quinn wouldn't do anything that bad – just maybe give her a ringtone from Evita. The Madonna version.

She opened it up, guessed Rachel's password in two tries (not 'Streep', but 'Meryl'—they must've been on a first-name basis in Rachel's delusions), and checked it out. Rachel had a Twitter, of course, with two followers. Even Finn wouldn't get in on that. Quinn felt a little sorry for her; she'd add the idiot later. Mostly, Rachel just kept up with the feeds for Playbill, Entertainment Weekly, and a disturbing number of songwriters. Andrew Lloyd Webber had actually retweeted her. That couldn't be good.

And Rachel hadn't had a call in at least five days. All the outgoings were to Mr. Schu. Quinn could guess the subject. Well, fine. Rachel was ambitious and a perfectionist. There were worst ways to be a bitch. Quinn had experimented with most of them.

And here she was, defending Rachel in her head. That boded well for both of them. Quinn wasn't a bitch and Rachel had a friend. Quinn was glad this was all in her inner monologue. It was the only way she was avoiding an attack hug.

Then she looked at Rachel's saved messages. There were twenty-four. The one on top, saved since 2004, was a cover sheet. Quinn guessed it was backed up from her hard drive; the file name was "ingénue". The last time Quinn had gotten laid she'd ruined her life and gotten pregnant; she still felt safe in saying Rachel really needed to get laid.

Quinn moved to the next one. It was a phone pic of some kind of pink cylinder, rounded at the top and flat at the base, with a weird prong at the middle. A caption pointed an arrow at it and said I can't help but use this when I think about you. It's the only way I get to sleep when I'm lying awake in bed and you're not with me.

Holy shit. It was a dildo. It was totally a fucking dildo!

Quinn almost dropped the phone. Rachel was sending sexts. Or not sending sexts, but holy crap! Who had naughty pictures on their cell phones? Didn't they know that hackers did nothing but play World of Warcraft and break into cell phones looking for naughty pictures? Quinn would have to have a talk with her; find a nice, nonjudgmental way to bring up the subject. Like 'oh, I was thinking of taking some sexy pictures with my cell phone but then I thought better of it. What a good decision that was.'

She'd better keep going, just to see how bad it was. Had Rachel just photographed herself in costumes from Cats or had there been shots out of a Sears catalog? Or, Christ, nipples? She hit the next picture.

Rachel was in a tubetop, camera phone pointed at the mirror. Her top was lower cut than Quinn had ever seen it and God, who knew that Rachel'd had those under wraps all this time? Quinn understood dressing conservatively, but how could she resist showing those off? Even on Halloween, Rachel actually dressed scary.

Her head was tilted back, mouth open in an uncomfortably sexual manner, like she'd snapped the photo just as she'd… finished with that dildo of hers. And another arrow pointed to her neck, captioned All I can think about is you biting me here, and everywhere. I know you might not be into that, but I'd do anything to make it up to you. Pleasepleaseplease bite me.

Before she had time to think, Quinn clicked the next picture. It was worse. Rachel was sitting in front of that cheval mirror of hers, her legs splayed, her pants off, and she wasn't wearing granny panties. Quinn didn't even know what they were called, but they were skimpy and white and a little translucent, so Quinn could almost make out her… God.

And as if she couldn't see it, there was an arrow pointed there, with the caption Lick me here. I stare at your tongue in class all day, whenever you talk. I ask you questions just so I can see it, and to hear your voice, of course. I don't know where I want to feel your tongue first, you can put it wherever you want, so long as it ends up here, giving me an intense and long-lasting orgasm.

Quinn only realized she was biting her lip when she felt the sting of her teeth breaking the skin. Still she sat on her bed, staring at the picture, reading that caption again. Just like Rachel to turn sex into a Powerpoint presentation. She sucked on the cut and that just made her think of the last picture, of biting into Rachel like an apple. Forbidden fruit.

What the hell was she doing? Just because Rachel had a much, much nicer body than she'd imagined (or emphatically hadn't imagined), she was thinking of… gross!

The next picture was still in front of the mirror, but now Rachel was touching herself, the camera at eye level, looking down to Rachel's hand between her legs, also capturing the reflection just to leave no doubt of what Rachel was doing. Quinn could almost see what color Rachel was, but then she jerked her eyes away. The caption was pointed predictably. I think about your fingers here all the time. When you put your hand on my shoulder or my wrist, I think of grabbing it and shoving it between my legs. I'm touching myself right now and imagining it's your fingers, but your fingers are so long and slender. You could go so much deeper than I ever could.

Fuck it. Quinn was never talking about this, never bringing it up. Let Rachel get hacked. She would give Rachel her damn phone and pretend she'd never done more than picked it up. But first…

It was amazing how Quinn hadn't even realized how turned on she was until her hand was down her pants. Fuck, that felt good. She didn't even like masturbating, but this… she definitely liked.

Quinn almost growled in frustration when she saw the next picture. Rachel'd moved on from her pussy—and wasn't that the appropriate word, pussy, not something Quinn would ever call it in normal conversation, not something she'd ever talk about at all, but it felt good thinking it. She had seen Rachel's pussy and now she could see Rachel's tits, so good, not obnoxiously big like the girls in Puck's pornos but definitely well-sized. Quinn had never been so angry at a K-mart bra before. The arrow pointed out the clasp.

My bra is very easy to open. I made sure of that when I bought because I keep thinking that when we're alone, you're going to throw me on the ground and rip it off, and I don't want my bra ruined then. But you never do :(

Next picture. A close-up. Quinn could see Rachel's nipple. She didn't know what made nipples good, but Rachel's definitely wasn't bad. Did you know that touching breasts relieves anxiety and decreases the risk of cancer? I enjoy having my breasts
A. Squeezed
B. Licked
C. Sucked
D. Bitten
E. Pinched
I don't think I'd like nipple clamps, but I would be willing to try them in exchange for biting me. I thought about you biting one of my breasts while you put a clamp on the other and I had to use Elphaba on myself for a whole hour.

Elphaba? Had Rachel named her dildo? Who named a dildo?

Quinn ignored the caption and looked at Rachel's nipple again. She could definitely use Elphaba just then. She clicked on the next picture and just had to close her eyes, just her to take control of herself for a minute as her hand stopped idly rubbing at her crotch and sought out her clit, more prominent than it'd ever been before, buzzing with pleasure the moment Quinn touched it. She opened her eyes again.

There were Rachel's breasts on display, not at all covered by the hand Rachel was using to fondle herself. Quinn could just imagine where Rachel's other hand was, down below frame. Rachel was licking her lips, the coy look in her eyes immediately giving Quinn suspicions about what she was tasting, the caption confirming it. I lick my fingers clean when I'm done. Sometimes I lick my dildo, but not often. I can't pretend it's you. Whenever I taste myself, I wonder if it's how you taste. Or would your pussy be sweeter? I know pineapple makes semen taste better, but what effect would your diet have on vaginal secretions? I'm gagging for it so hard that I stare at you in the cafeteria, trying to figure out how your lunch makes you taste.

Holy shit. Rachel was a lesbian. Well, duh, obviously, but despite all her taunts, Quinn had never thought that Rachel was actually out of the closet. Maybe she'd caught it from Santana and Brittany. Was this supposed to get her a threesome with them? That little factoid would definitely top Megan Fox's next interview.

The next picture was of Rachel on all fours, her panties around her ankles, the camera catching one hell of a nice ass. If it weren't for Rachel looking over her shoulder, flashing the camera a Rachel Berry smile that was so goddamned inappropriate it was actually hot, Quinn never would've guessed it was her.

Note the panties that you're welcome to take home with you.

"Yesss…" Quinn moaned unconsciously. She was burning up. There was no time for analysis, no time to wonder how a few still pictures of Rachel Berry could've reduced her to such a state. She had to come. Dropping the phone next to her on her bed, she jerked her skirt and panties haphazardly down her legs. She couldn't get them all the way down and she didn't bother to try, leaving them criss-crossed over her thighs, her pussy perfectly exposed. She used both hands on herself, exerting all her control in holding back, in not slamming into herself like Finn at second base. Instead, she worked her body like Rachel would sing a song, stroking the soft depths of her pussy with two fingers while caressing her clit with her other hand in a merciless, wonderful rhythm.

Her nipples were hard, chafing against her bra, and Quinn wished she'd thought to strip all the way down before doing this but there'd been no time, she'd had to capture this before it got away. She'd never been this aroused, never enjoyed anything sexual this much, but she was finally going to know what everyone else was so hot for. She just wished Rachel was there to squeeze her breasts, lick them, suck them, all of the above. She didn't need to masturbate, she needed to be fucked. That's what this feeling was. It was like she was fucking Rachel without her even being there.

Quinn forced her eyes open and looked at the picture again. Rachel's perfect ass, her pert breasts, her wet panties just begging for Quinn to rip them the rest of the way off her legs. She heard slurping noises from her pussy as her fingers fucked in and out just before she came, a scream as loud as Rachel's last solo forcing its way out of her mouth but she clapped a hand over her mouth first, tasting herself. She imagined mentioning that to Rachel when she got her stupid phone back. "Oh yeah, in case you were wondering, I taste kinda mango-ish. Don't believe me? I can prove it…"

Funny as hell, she'd just practically squirted and she felt like doing it all over again, right now. She clicked over to the next picture. Rachel, naked, both hands between her legs, holding herself open. A caption pointed inside like it was auditioning for Elphaba's job: For Quinn's perusal ONLY.

Well well well. That simplified things.

Quinn did the shark/bleeding seal thing the next time she saw Rachel, grabbing her by the backpack in the hallway and dragging her into the science lab that'd been abandoned since the anti-evolution demonstration got out of hand. "C'mon, we're playing hooky."

With the lights off and the shades drawn, the empty room was practically an oasis from the cheap fluorescents the school lit itself with. Quinn had already chased off the stoners, so they had it all to themselves.

After her initial squeak of surprise, Rachel gathered her wits. It was kinda funny, actually, Quinn knowing exactly what she must've been thinking. She smoothed out her skirt nervously. "While I'm not sure what career you might be contemplating where academic excellence is not a prerequisite, I happen to value my education and so should you!"

Quinn folded her arms. "I found your phone."

"Oh. That's excellent! If you'd like a reward; I could sing at your birthday party or a romantic dinner…"

Quinn put herself in Rachel's space, close enough that Rachel had to cant her head up to meet Quinn's eyes. She held out the phone. "I guessed your password."

"Oh," Rachel said, a little tinier than before. She papered over the crack quickly. "That was very industrious of you. Perhaps you should—you could participate in one of my more intellectual after-school activities with me…"

"I changed the lock screen."

"Okay."

"Check it."

Rachel turned on her phone. On the screen was a picture of a bed with rumpled sheets, a damp spot in the middle. "I don't understand."

"That's my bed," Quinn said, getting even closer, her crossed arms now against Rachel's chest. "After I was done looking at your pictures."

All the nervousness on Rachel's face couldn't hide the lust in her eyes. "Pictures?"

"You know. The ones you were going to send me." Quinn smiled. It was pure predator, a shark's smile if that shark was about to get some. "But never did."

"I can explain those!" Rachel said hurriedly, as if to make up for the twenty seconds of open-mouthed silence before that. "It was an artistic—role-playing exercise designed to—explore the inner facets of my own-womanly—"

They'd never get anywhere if Quinn started waiting for Rachel to finish a sentence, so she just took hold of the oversized buttons on Rachel's cardigan and started undoing them.

"Yah-yah-yah," Rachel broke off, as if she had a sneeze coming on. "You're doing something to me! Something with touching!"

Quinn grabbed Rachel's blouse. More buttons. Tinier ones. Rachel was even frustrating to have sex with. "It's called sex. I'm pretty sure there've been a few songs about it."

Forty seconds of open-mouthed silence. Ample time for Quinn to feel Rachel out. Who knew how long she would've spent on a mental No Signal if she hadn't gasped when Quinn roughly pulled her panties… out of the way. "Oh! Quinn Fabray, I must—that's very nice, but—just for future reference, when did I say you could do that!"

Quinn smirked. "Picture twenty-one."