You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the North High Quiz Bowl. Your manly scent is the number-one cause of cock addiction amongst nukige heroines.
As usual, you get dragged from angelic dreams of Fatalpulse doujins yet-to-be by your bitch of an older sister. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.
"It's almost 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."
There's no worse way to start the morning than seeing her slutty dog choker and unkempt bedhead. You can practically taste last night's beer fumes puttering like exhaust from her every pore. Trying not to gag, you sit up and rub your forehead where she hit you. "Why don't you worry about your own business? At least I've got things to be late to. Shouldn't you be job searching right now?"
Cerise folds her arms. "It's a bad economy! There aren't any jobs out there!"
You sigh, throw your covers off, and stand. After a few seconds of groping around the clothes-strewn floor, you grab a pair of crumpled and stale-smelling jeans from the pile. You pull them on over your boxers. "I cannot wait until mom and dad kick you out," you say.
"They'll kick you out before they kick me out. They actually love me." In the silence that follows as you finish getting dressed, Cerise glances around your sty of a bedroom. "It stinks like cum in here."
"Are you sure it's not just you? I know you've been itching to graduate from your cam show to literal prostitution."
"It's that," Cerise says, pointing at the trash bin next to your computer desk overflowing with tissues. "Did you spend your entire summer jerking off?"
"At least I wasn't doing it in front of strangers for money."
"As if anyone would want to see you tugging on your pencil dick. Your only hope in life is if the supreme court legalizes cartoon marriage."
"They are NOT cartoo--" you stop yourself, shake your head, and massage your eyes. You don't have time to get roped into this debate again. Being late on your first day of class might make bitch-pigs swoon in the anime realm -- but it's not going to win you any points with Mr. Langley, your homeroom teacher and Quiz Bowl coach. You need to skedaddle.
You grab your backpack and push past Cerise. "Don't molest anyone today, you little creep!" she calls after you as you run downstairs.
In the kitchen, you grab a piece of toast but don't have any time to butter it. Shoving it haphazardly into your open maw, you head for the foyer. But standing in your way at the front door is your mom.
"Where do you think you're going?" she asks, staring down the bridge of her nose.
"School. Obviously."
"I can see that, you brat. But you need to take some lunch." She holds out a brown paper bag stuffed so full of food it's about to burst. You grab it from her unceremoniously.
She huffs. "Aren't you even going to thank me?"
You swallow a bite of toast and grumble. "Yeah. Thanks."
"Don't get the wrong idea, now. I don't care if you have anything to eat, but I can't let the school administration find out I'm not feeding you and decide I'm some kind of negligent parent."
"Oh, no. Of course not. You'll make mother of the year at this rate."
Just like with Cerise, you push past your mom, thinking about how the rotten apple never falls far from the tree.
"And don't buy anything out of those godawful vending machines they have on campus," she says as you go. "Not that I care if you eat healthy, I just don't want you spending any of my hard-earned money!"
Out in the drive, your childhood friend Whitney is waiting. Well-- it might be more apt to call her a "childhood hanger-on." Why she insists on following you around like a lost puppy remains beyond your comprehension. There's no way she could be attracted to you, because you're 99% certain she's a rug muncher.
"Ally!" She calls. She's decked out in her usual late-summer attire of spats and a tank. She doesn't even wear a bra, the harlot. Her darkly tanned skin glistens with morning sweat. "I was about to give up on you ever coming out of your spank-cave."
"I wish you would have," you grouse as you walk by. She spins on her heels to follow your brisk pace. "So what remedial courses are you taking this year?" you ask her over your shoulder, by way of making small talk.
"Algebra, chemistry, English... oh, and they let me into auto shop."
"That's nice. Learning a trade is important for people who can't go to college."
"I was worried they wouldn't, because of that thing last year..."
She means the time an assistant principal caught her toking up behind the bleachers of the gym. Imitating the school's shop-teacher-slash-baseball-coach, she continues in a faux baritone: "being a student in auto shop is a position of trust! Not just anyone can do it!"
"That's awful. If you keep getting away with your rampant drug use, you'll never learn."
"Oh stop being such a dweeb you dweeb. It was the first time I ever did the stuff."
"Pretty soon you'll be fellating homeless men for heroin."
"You are so gross! I don't do drugs. You can't play soccer with smoker's lung."
"You can't play soccer with a 1.3 grade point average, either."
"Actually-- that's sorta what I wanted to ask you about..."
You stop and look at her.
"Algebra this semester is gonna be super duper hard. Like, who even needs that crap? It's gay as shit. But if I can't solve for X or whatever, they're gonna kick me off the team. Can you tutor me this year?"
[ ] Ok.
[X] Ok... if you pay me.
[ ] No way.
"Why would I waste precious mental energy on you? You're a lost cause. Focus on learning how to turn wrenches. You should be able to grasp that."
"You're such a jerk!"
Before you can make a comeback, she kicks you in the shins. You stumble backward with a howl and gawk at her. When she charges forward with hate in her eyes, you kick back out of pure instinct. The two of you end up in a spastic back-and-forth jig of below the belt kicks. Of course, Whitney is far more coordinated. Eventually she lands a hard blow to your upper thigh, flooring you. You singe your palms on the sun-baked concrete sidewalk.
She looms over you to deliver even more kicks. You clamber to your knees and hold out a hand to stop her. "You're an animal," you cry, standing again on uncertain legs. "I could press charges if I wanted to. You belong in a reformatory."
"You belong on the moon!" she screams. When Whitney gets really angry, her insults become complete nonsense. You decide to let it pass.
"If it means that much to you, then you'll have to pay me for my services. My time isn't just yours to fritter away."
"Fritter? What the hell does that even mean?" She gives you another sharp kick to the shin that nearly bowls you over again. You give her a hard shove in retaliation.
"If you want my tutelage, I charge $15 an hour. And that's far below the fair market price. A courtesy because we're technically friends."
"You're such a shit. I don't even know why I hang out with you."
"Me either."
"I'll pay you. But I better get an A, or I'm taking all my money back." She grabs you by the collar. "And I mean it."
You wrench yourself free and straighten your shirt. "I'm sure you do. The lower classes always get het up about their pocket change, don't they?"
You continue the trek to school, your walk now a pained limp. Sullenly, Whitney follows a few paces behind. You try not to pay attention to her.
As you round a corner just a few blocks from school, you bump head first into a girl who looks like she came straight from the early 1900s. She wears a prim black dress with a skirt that's positively matronly, and enormous round eyeglasses. She looks so pale she might be anemic, and carries a parasol.
"Watch where you're walking," you snap at her.
She regards you for a few seconds, casting a glance at Whitney as well. "Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"
"What? How do you know me?"
The girl smiles. "That's not what I thought at all. How disappointing. Oh well." She steps off the curb, turning her back to you, and begins down the crosswalk.
You look back at Whtiney. She shrugs.
[ ] Follow the girl.
[X] Forget it.
"Guess I have a stalker," you say to Whitney.
"Fah," she says, stretching her back. "If you catch her rummaging through your trash or anything else shady, just let me know. I'll take care of her." She winks. "But-- it'll cost you a week of tutoring fees."
Like most of your arguments, Whitney's anger over this latest one hasn't lasted long. She makes inane small talk at you the rest of the way to school. You try to be as civil as possible, but you couldn't care less about her problems.
The campus is already packed with students when you get there. Teenagers laughing, smiling, making out like depraved monkeys in public. You suppress a shudder. You suppress an even harder shudder when your friend Naruto Stackleford sidles up to you.
Whatever his first name is, you've long forgotten it, because there's only one that he'll respond to. As usual, he wears his construction-zone-orange pussy deflector.
"Sup nigger?" he lisps. "How was summer?"
That you ever tolerated this lumbering golem's presence is a travesty. You met in sixth grade, when your tastes were much the same; but he never graduated from Adult Swim and wouldn't be able to tell a Nichijou from a Meguca. You, on the other hand, have only become more refined -- like a good Bordeaux.
"Summer was fine..." you say, trying to beat a straight vector to your homeroom, and as quickly as possible. You give a short wave to Whitney and hurry off, but Stackleford follows like a bad odor.
"You gonna join anime club this year, man?"
"I already told you, those morons are beneath me. Besides, I'm preoccupied with Quiz Bowl. When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
"We've got a new president this year! It'll be great!"
"I'm sure. Look, you're blocking my way. I'm sure you get that one a lot, but try to understand. Please let me through."
"Well, think about it at least."
"Uh huh."
You hurry into homeroom.
Inside homeroom, your heart stops. Sitting near the window, right behind your seat of choice, is none other than that girl from before. But that's not possible -- this an advanced senior course, and she looked like a middle schooler. There's no way she's a senior. She looks at you with that wry smile of hers.
"Come on, come on," Mr. Langely says over the din of students, calling the class to order. "I know you're all still in summer mode, but let's try to get back into the swing of things."
He writes his name on the board and introduces himself, and his credentials. He also gives a quick plug for the Quiz Bowl, announcing that tryouts will be in room 201 directly after school. "Alabaster is our star player," he says, indicating you. "He's been carrying us for three years. And-- we have other potential members in the room as well."
He looks in the parasol girl's direction. Your heart stops for a second time. This can't be happening.
"Now, why don't we do some introductions. We'll go around the room. Stand up, tell us who you are and what your interests are. Let's get to know each other."
[ ] Give your introduction; intimidate the girl.
[X] Blow it off.
As the whores and mansluts that make up your fellow classmates deliver their boring monologues about "really liking music" and "being into skateboarding," you steal some glances at this mysterious newcomer. She looks so plain in her giant spectacles, so how does she project such an icy and imposing demeanor?
If she wants on the team, it can't be helped. But you won't let her get to you. And class introductions are lame anyway. You decide to play it cool. When your turn comes, you decline to speak.
"Don't be shy," Mr. Langley says. "Tell us at least a little something about yourself."
You sigh. Without standing, you mumble: "well like you said, I'm on Quiz Bowl. I guess that makes me the smartest guy here or something. No big deal."
The rest of the class stifles some laughter. The introductions continue, moving to the next person beside you in your row. It isn't for a few moments that the introductions snake back around to the parasol girl, who's the last to speak.
The girl stands, holding her hands demurely in front of her. "My name is Vivian Darkbloom. I am 13." She waits for the confused whispers that this revelation incites to subside. "Certain people whom I will not name labor under the belief that they are the smartest ones here. They are sadly mistaken. I am the smartest. I will graduate from North High at the end of this year and matriculate at UC Berkley, where I will double major in theoretical physics and European literature. My interests include quantum chromodynamics, cryptography, and the works of Marcel Proust."
The room has fallen deathly silent now. She continues. "I would say that I look forward to the coming school year, but that would be a lie. Every second I spend amongst the assorted dross of the public school system is like a screaming eternity in the stygian void of imbecility's embrace. You hardly deserve my presence. Thank you."
She sits.
[ ] Respond to this.
[X] No. Stand your ground. Don't let her get to you.
This Vivian girl has more or less called you out in front of the entire class. Worse yet, everyone knows it. They cast expectant stares your way. But what can you do? Leap to your feet and shout down a 13 year old girl? That would just make you look worse.
Like it or not, she won this round. So you decide not to let it bother you. But you'll have your revenge.
"Well then," Mr. Langley says. He laughs nervously. "That sure was... something. It's nice to have you, Vivian. And everyone else. Now, the syllabus..."
The first half of the day passes tortuously. Every class you have, Vivian has as well. And she always makes a point of sitting near you. Not just near you -- behind you. What's her game? By fourth period calculus, you know well enough to sit in the very back. But she merely pulls a chair out of the neatly-arranged grid and sets it behind the back row.
You hate her already. Her eyes boring into the back of your skull start to make you sweat, even in the A/C. When the bell for lunch rings, you bolt from the room and down the quickly-filling hall. Even as you jog you sense Vivian slowly following behind you -- is this just paranoia? -- and in a fit of panic you take a strange route that leads you out a pair of double-doors to a parking lot near the track. On the distance, you see that Whitney is using her lunch period to run laps. As expected.
[X] Go say hi.
[ ] Go eat your lunch.
Usually you wouldn't bother, but somehow you feel like you need a second pair of friendly eyes looking out for you. And let's face it, you're not in the best of shape: you honestly doubt your prospects even against a 13 year old. But with Whitney on your side? No sweat.
You trudge down the hill leading to the oval track. As Whitney passes by, she notices you and waves, but doesn't break her pace.
"Hey!" you call. "Wanna go eat?"
"No way," Whitney replies, her voice sounding distant from across the flattop. "I still have to pass tryouts, you know!"
You -- very, very briefly -- consider joining her on the track. And then you laugh. Yeah, no. Running can go screw itself.
Instead, you sit down in the grass and watch her. Even though she's complete dykebait, you can't help but admire her well toned legs and bouncing breasts -- tiny though they are. The way her sweat makes her practically shine like a strobe light in this sun is a little off-putting though. And you know she can't be smelling like roses or fresh laundry now. Maybe it's for the best that you're carrying on your conversation at a distance.
"How's classes?" she asks in her typically ungrammatical way.
"Awful," you say in between wolfish bites of your mom's homemade shortcake. You don't know what it is about her desserts that makes them so addictive -- all she'll ever tell you is that the secret ingredient is her love. Although, of course, she insists that she didn't make them for you; there was just extra left over.
You put that out of mind. "I think I really do have a stalker," you say.
Whitney throws her head back and laughs, baring perfect white teeth. She doesn't slow down even a little bit -- how she keeps it up is baffling. "That goth chick?" she asks.
"I don't know what she is. Some kind of loli genius."
"Don't call her a loli," Whitney chides.
You blush. One nice thing about Whitney is that she keeps a lid on your power level for you when you forget. And stress like this can really make you forget.
"She's young, though. 13. I think she wants to join Quiz Bowl."
Whitney skids to a stop right in front of you. She closes the distance and you can almost feel the warmth of her body heat emanating from her as she -- only now -- starts to heave.
"Are you scared of the competition?" She asks.
[ ] Yeah.
[X] No!
In a repeat of this morning's fight, you kick at Whtiney's feet from where you sit. But instead of retaliating, she simply avoids it with a spritely step.
"Why would I be scared of a little girl?" you say. "I know you have a hard time with basic reasoning skills, but don't be ridiculous, now."
Whitney shrugs. "I think you're sca-aa-rred~" she chants in a sing-song voice, waving her index finger in a circle at you. "Is that why you came all this way? You never visit me at lunch. Do you need some muscle to keep you safe, Ally?"
"I don't need anything from you," comes your limp reply. You feel your cheeks flushing.
Whitney's mouth rounds into a smug laugh. "Oh no, he's mad!"
"Look, she's following me around everywhere I go. I'm not worried she can beat me in Quiz Bowl, but it's only natural to be weirded out."
"Oh, of course. That's to expected, right? Stalkers can be dangerous. One second you're walking down the street and then all of a sudden you're getting stabbed by an umbrella that turns into a sword. If you need my protection, just say so."
You grimace.
"Of course-- I do charge $15 an hour for bodyguard services..."
[X] I get it. Fine.
[ ] Not on your life.
You pull a few blades of grass from the earth and scatter them to the wind, avoiding eye contact. Whitney watches you like a hawk. This is the second time today you've been outclassed by a woman... what's happening to you?
"I'd just-- I'd feel safer on a buddy system right now," you admit. "That's all."
"Of course, pardner!" She snaps to and gives a mock salute. "You can count on me. I'm gonna go full-on bruiser mode if I see that bitch again. I'll break some bones!"
"Don't do that--" you caution. "I don't you want to make a scene. I mean, she goes to this school, so of course we'll be seeing her all the time. Just stick close by and make sure she doesn't do anything crazy."
Whitney puts a finger to her chin contemplatively. "You said she's joining the Quiz Bowl... they still meet Mondays and Fridays?"
"Yeah."
"I have practice on both days. Does that mean you expect me drop out of soccer and join the Quiz Bowl team? Or-- ooh! Maybe you can join the soccer team! Or at least come to my practices for a while..."
Whitney on the Quiz Bowl team would be like watching the Titanic sink every Monday and Friday. But you on the soccer team would be worse.
[ ] I'll deal with Vivian at Quiz Bowl practice, nothing has to change.
[ ] I'm already tutoring you, I can help you on Quiz Bowl.
[X] I guess I could stand to get /fit/.
Quiz Bowl has been your pride and joy for three years. You're not going to give it up just because some loli bitch joined the team. Mr. Langley has a quiz-boner for you and your place on the team is secure. You don't need to go to practice. Missing them will hurt, but you can still perform at competitions.
"Is soccer very hard?" you ask tentatively.
Whitney practically swoons she's so excited. "It's hard! It's the hardest thing ever! It'll make you sore and tired and cranky! You'll totally love it!"
You're not exactly sold. Whitney runs over and grabs your hands and jumps up and down. Her palms are slick with sweat. You try not to dry heave.
"I don't think I'll join the team," you caution. "Just watch the practices a bit and maybe try to get a little fitter. That's all."
Whether Whitney hears this in her rapture is hard to say. In any case, she doesn't respond through her peals of laughter. The bell rings for class and you excuse yourself.
Fifth period biology is a return to the new normal. Without thinking, you take a seat in the second to last row. Like clockwork, Vivian sits at the black-top bench just behind you.
Five minutes pass, then ten. The class is growing antsy and people start throwing out the old misnomer that class is dismissed if the teacher is more than fifteen minutes late. But at the last second in saunters Ms. Carte.
All of the boys and a few of the girls find themselves staring at her buxom form. You included. Vivian, too.
Most people don't know about the rumors -- but via Whitney you've heard... things, about this woman. You can believe it. Who stays single at 30 without a reason?
"Good afternoon, boys and girls," she says, her voice like silk. "If you're not here for AP Biology, then you're in the wrong place. Please go."
She waits, but no one leaves. If there was a person in the wrong room and they decided not to go after seeing her, you wouldn't blame them.
"All right," she says. "Obviously, we focus on biology. I hope after coming through this class you all know much, much more about the subject." She smiles a pointy smile. "I expect you all to score well on the AP exam. Please see me for out of class help if you're struggling...
"Now before we get started, I need to assign a couple roles. First, I need someone tall who can help me in the storage room on experiment days... a boy, preferably."
[ ] Me! Me!
[X] Let some other lug do it.
The things you've heard about Ms. Carte make you think twice. She'll be the top story on CNN someday, you figure. Best to stay away from that trainwreck waiting to happen.
Besides, the competition for being her "helper" is fierce. Most of the boys volunteer, including a lot who you've never seen be proactive about anything. Ms. Carte licks her lips like a fat kid promoted to the head of the cake police. Surveying her smorgasboard, she chews on the end of her pen and finally chooses one of the school's football players.
"You'll do," she says. "I can't wait to work with you."
Class proceeds normally; Ms. Carte assigns other roles. You end up being her "computer technician," which basically means you'll help her if her powerpoint presentations get messed up during class for some reason. Easy peasy.
The rest of the day proceeds without incident. Predicatbly, Vivian follows you to English as well. The only time you get away from her is in final period PE class, which is of course gender-segregated.
The sky is a grey-black blob by the time PE comes into session and a storm is obviously brewing. The coach holds class in the auditorium, and you wonder what's going to happen with soccer practice. At the end of class, you dutifully head to the soccer field, but no one's there. You start to feel antsy and exposed -- also wet. It's raining.
"Oh... hey..." you hear behind you. It's Whitney. She's soaked to the bone, her hair stuck to her face, and shivering. "Let's go inside, huh? Soccer practice got canceled..."
You trudge into the emptying school halls and do your best not to stare at the way Whitney's tank clings to her otherwise naked breasts. Why doesn't this slut wear a bra?
In the hallway you see Mr. Langley. You try to duck behind a corner to dodge him, but he sees you before you can. "Alabaster!" He calls. "Where have you been? We're doing tryouts..."
"Sorry," you shrug. "I'm-- tutoring Whitney. I don't think I'll be coming to Quiz Bowl tryouts this semester... at least for the immediate future."
Mr. Langley's face is heartbreaking. "You're leaving the team?"
"No, no... just the practices."
"Don't tell me Vivian intimidates you."
"No! God..."
Whitney chortles to herself.
"Well, she's trying out now. Why don't you come in and match wits against her? She was saying how she wanted to a bit earlier."
[ ] Time to shine. But once I beat her, I'm gone.
[X] No thanks. I think I have, like, an anime club meeting to go to? ...
You wince at the lameness of your excuse, but there's nothing else you can think of. Mr. Langley frowns. "I expected so much more of you, Alabaster." He puts a hand on your shoulder like a priest blessing a condemned prisoner. "At this rate, Vivian will be the new star player..."
He turns and leaves. You want to lie down and die.
"Aww," Whitney pouts. "You should have shown that little twerp who was boss. You know everything! She'd never stand a chance."
"Of course. But I don't want to deal with such annoying people."
The truth is, you're really not sure if you could beat her.
"Should we go home?" Whitney asks.
"In this weather? What, are you stupid?"
Whitney scowls. "You're such a fucking jerk. ... Well, I do already have homework in algebra. So we could find a room and you could help me with-- oh geez!" She pulls her backpack around to her front. It's dripping with rainwater.
"We have lockers for a reason," you say.
"Everything's ruined..." she says, on the verge of tears. "My homework, too..."
"Doesn't your teacher post his assignments on a course website? We can just print it out again from the library...
[X] ...Of course, maybe we should get changed first.
[ ] ...Even if we're sopping wet, there's no one in the library this time of day to care.
You shrug and ask, "You have a spare set of clothes in the locker room, right?"
"Of course... I can't walk around in my pitstained gym clothes all day. But what about you?"
You... actually hadn't thought of this. You don't have anything but what you're wearing now.
"That's fine," Whtiney says before you even need to reply. "We have some spare soccer uniforms in the girl's locker room you could borrow."
"I know you're only a few IQ points away from being on the shortbus, but in case you forgot, I'm a guy."
"It's no big deal. Those soccer uniforms are basically unisex. Just some spats and a tee. You'd fit just fine in one of the bigger ones..."
[ ] Forget it. Girl's clothes are girl's clothes. You can change, but I'll stay wet.
[X] Fine.
You're wet and you're cold, now isn't the time to enforce the patriarchal gender binary.
You follow Whitney to the locker rooms. Even though there's no one around, there's still a certain taboo to entering that holds you back.
"Don't be a pussy," Whitney scolds. "What would your anime heroes do, huh? The only difference between locker rooms is one has blue tile and the other has pink."
It's hard to argue. Whitney steps past the threshold and you follow.
What she said seems true enough. It's a normal locker room: rows of lockers, with showers at one end, and an office for the girls' soccer coach.
"The spares should be in that bin," Whitney says. She's already stepping out of her dripping spats as she heads toward her locker. You divert your gaze until you're sure she's disappeared around a corner.
You dig through the hamper full of uniforms, red and black in the school's colors. They don't look exactly feminine, but even the largest ones you can find are a bit small. Especially the spats. Could you fit into these?
You glance around. There's another issue. Where can you change that's relatively private? You try not to let your thoughts linger on the fact that Whitney is probably naked at this very moment just a few feet away.
As if on cue, you see Whtiney's panties go parasailing over the arched roof of the lockers and land next to your feet with a wet flop.
"Ugh," Whitney groans, perhaps to herself. You think you hear the sound of her fanning herself with paper. "What a relief... those spats cut off circulation, you know."
"Do you have to throw your underwear around like some kind of stripper?" you grouse, pulling off your shirt. You poke the sodden white cotton with one toe of your shoe as if you really can't believe she'd do that. If her aim was a little worse they could have landed on your head.
You kick your shoes and pants off. Should the boxers go too? Nah. You decide to make the heroic effort of pulling on the spats even with the extra fabric making it harder.
First one leg... then the other... you tug... no progress. You hop up and down and pull at the waistband, but the constriction is unbelievable.
"Are you decent yet?" Whitney calls out.
"No..." you say. "Jesus, give me a second."
You tug and hop some more, and end up falling back against the wall, banging your head on the brick with a wham. You feel woozy.
Despite your warning, Whitney appears in front of you from her row of lockers. She looks worried at first, but then sees your predicament and snorts. "Are they really that tight?" she says.
"What are you doing, you mongoloid? Go away!"
She takes a step forward.
"You're a complete dweeb. One hundred percent dorkapus. You can't even put on a pair of pants... here..."
She puts a hand on your back and eases you away from the wall. You'd kick at her-- but-- well.
"You have to relax your muscles, you know?" She circles behind you, her chin against your shoulder. Her wet hair is directly against your ear, and it tickles. Drops of water run down your chest.
"Take your hands away," she coos. "Come on, I'll help. Here--" she puts one hand on either hip and gently tugs up. "You have to be slow. It doesn't work if you do it all at once."
"Whitney-- this isn't--"
The fabric of the spats makes its transit slowly up your thighs. Her cold wet palms feel slippery against the warmth of your legs. Her breath against your cheeks is slow and steady.
"Wha-aa-t's this~" she hums when she hits some resistance. "I wonder..."
You choke on whatever it is you think you're about to say and go tumbling forward, but Whitney doesn't let you out of her grip. You fall on your face, knees down and ass up. Whitney is lying atop you in a spooning position.
"All your muscles have to be relaxed, Ally~"
You'd groan or cry out in protest, but your face is buried directly in the sopping panties she threw at your feet. Every time you try to speak, your nostrils fill with a tangy scent that makes you feel even woozier. With Whitney pressing down on you -- is she doing this on purpose? -- the cotton hugs your mouth and nose.
Her hands are rubbing you, slowly, through your boxers. You can't help but wag your hips in response, and Whitney laughs. You feel her arm muscles around your waist, her legs wrapped around yours, her belly against your back. Her whole musculature tenses with every giggle of hers. "Relax, relax..." she says. "We'll never get them on if you're not relaxed... isn't this nice?..."
Her palms tense and release with every laugh, too. They're still cold, but warming rapidly around you. You grit your teeth as if to fight these feelings, but all that does is catch some of that wet cotton between your teeth wringing out an acrid spurt of liquid on your tongue.
"Come on, come--" her voice is a little crazed now, a little ragged. "Relax, let it all out-- it'll feel okay once it's over, right? You like it-- oh-- look at that, are you smelling those things? You're such a fucking pervert, huh?"
Suddenly you find the strength to throw your head back. But too late. She's on you like a rider on a horse, and won't let up. She leans down, neck over yours, and bites your shoulder hard. And then -- sweet release. You collapse on your belly, and Whitney is still lying on top of you as your vision blurs and you try to catch your breath.
Lying on the pink tile floor of a girl's locker room with a pair of spats half pulled-up around you, leaking fluids into your boxers, you can't help but feel violated. This battles with the feelings of relief in your mind and makes you more than a bit confused. You've never had another person's hands on you before. Not like that.
You're even more confused when, finally dismounting, Whitney kneels beside you and whispers, "I came, too."
She reaches under your chin and pulls her panties away. You don't even fight it when she pulls your spats off and your boxers too.
"These are all ruined, I guess," she says. "I'll just throw them in my locker for now. Hey, are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
You stumble to your feet and brace yourself against the wall. When you're sure you won't faint, you pull on your old, wet jeans. From somewhere behind, you think you hear the sound of Whitney deeply inhaling before she slams the locker door shut.
"Guess we're kind of bust for today as far as studying goes, huh?" she calls out. "How about tomorrow?"
END OF EPISODE 1.
GIRLS FUCKED
0/6