Chapter 13: Glenn Quagmire – Giggity Overdrive
Glenn Quagmire had never needed an excuse to get laid.
But after the portal mishap in his bathroom (the one that turned Cleveland into a walking stamina battery and Peter into a forest-fucking buck), Glenn came back changed in a different way.
His libido, already nuclear, had gone supercritical.
His cock stayed perpetually engorged—ten thick, veiny inches even soft, balls churning like they were on a twenty-four-hour production line. Pheromones leaked from his skin like expensive cologne mixed with pure sin. Women (and a few men) within twenty feet of him started breathing heavier, thighs clenching, pupils dilating.
He didn't even have to speak.
They just knew.
It started at the Drunken Clam on a Thursday night.
The usual crowd was there: Peter nursing a beer, Joe in his wheelchair trading war stories with Cleveland, Brian pretending to read the newspaper while judging everyone.
But the moment Glenn walked in—leather jacket open, shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, that crooked grin locked and loaded—the atmosphere shifted.
Every woman in the bar turned.
Diane Simmons (the hot news anchor) dropped her martini glass.
Jillian (his on-again-off-again flight-attendant fuckbuddy) bit her lip so hard it bled.
Lois Griffin—sitting with the girls—crossed and uncrossed her legs three times in ten seconds.
Even Bonnie Swanson's cheeks flushed dark red; she squeezed Joe's shoulder a little too tight.
Glenn didn't say a word.
He just walked to the bar, ordered a Scotch neat, and leaned back on his elbows—cock visibly thick against his jeans like a coiled snake.
Jillian was first.
She slid off her stool, walked straight to him, grabbed his tie (he was wearing one for no reason), and pulled him into the back hallway without a word.
The door barely closed before she was on her knees.
She yanked his zipper down. His cock sprang free—heavy, uncut, already leaking a thick pearl. She swallowed him to the root in one greedy motion. No gag. Just wet, sloppy throat-fucking. Drool poured down her chin, soaking her blouse. Glenn gripped her hair with both hands and face-fucked her hard—deep strokes that made her eyes water and mascara run in black rivers.
He pulled out just before he came, aimed at her open mouth, and unloaded. Thick ropes blasted across her tongue, lips, cheeks—painting her face like abstract art. She swallowed what landed inside, licked the rest off her fingers, then stood and kissed him deep—sharing the taste.
But he was still hard.
Of course he was.
Next came Diane.
She'd followed them. Watched from the doorway. Now she pushed Jillian aside (gently), hiked her skirt, bent over a stack of beer crates, and looked back at Glenn with pure hunger.
"No foreplay. Just fuck me."
Glenn obliged.
He stepped up, rubbed the slick head along her dripping slit, then slammed in balls-deep. Diane screamed—high, professional voice cracking into raw need. He railed her standing doggy—hips snapping, balls slapping her clit. Her tits bounced free from her blouse. He reached around, pinched her nipples hard while pounding her G-spot.
She came in under a minute—squirting so hard it splashed against his thighs and puddled on the concrete. Glenn didn't slow. He fucked her through the orgasm, through the aftershocks, until she was shaking and babbling nonsense. Then he pulled out, spun her around, and came across her tits—ropes so thick they looked like glaze dripping down her cleavage.
Lois was waiting when he stepped back into the bar proper.
She grabbed his wrist, dragged him toward the women's bathroom.
Inside, she locked the door, shoved him against the sink, and dropped to her knees.
"I've wanted this for years," she whispered, voice husky. "Peter's sweet, but… God, Glenn."
She sucked him like she was starving—tongue swirling the head, hands stroking the shaft, one finger teasing his ass. Glenn groaned, hips bucking. She deep-throated him until her nose pressed against his pubes, throat bulging.
He face-fucked her gently at first—then harder. Lois moaned around his cock, one hand between her legs rubbing furiously. She came on her fingers while he fucked her throat. Glenn pulled out and painted her face—thick white streaks across her cheeks, lips, forehead. She licked her lips, smiled up at him like a woman reborn.
But the night wasn't over.
Back at the bar, Bonnie had slipped away from Joe.
She met Glenn in the alley behind the Clam—dress already hiked, panties in her purse.
"Quick," she breathed. "Before Joe notices."
Glenn pinned her against the brick wall, lifted one leg over his hip, and buried himself in one thrust. Bonnie bit his shoulder to muffle her scream. He fucked her standing—deep, rolling thrusts that ground his pelvis against her clit. She came fast—nails digging into his back, pussy spasming. Glenn kept going, making her ride the waves until she was whimpering.
He pulled out at the last second, spun her around, bent her over a dumpster, and finished in her ass—slow, deliberate strokes until he flooded her backdoor with hot cum that leaked out in thick rivulets down her thighs.
By closing time, half the bar had been claimed in one way or another.
Jillian—face still sticky.
Diane—blouse ruined, tits glistening.
Lois—makeup smeared, smiling like she'd won the lottery.
Bonnie—limping slightly, glowing.
Glenn sat back at the bar, ordered another Scotch, lit a cigarette.
Peter leaned over, oblivious.
"Hey, Glenn—where'd everybody go?"
Glenn exhaled smoke, smirked.
"Giggity."
Joe rolled up, suspicious.
"Swanson… you see my wife?"
Glenn just shrugged.
"She said she needed some fresh air."
Cleveland chuckled from the corner booth.
"Man… you really turned this place into your personal playground tonight."
Glenn raised his glass.
"To endless stamina… and willing neighbors."
The bar lights dimmed.
Somewhere in Quahog, every woman who'd crossed paths with Glenn that night felt a sudden, aching throb between her legs—and knew exactly who to call at 3 a.m.
Glenn Quagmire didn't need portals anymore.
He was the portal.
And the line for the next ride was already forming.