by Veronica Sky
His fingers made their way around the top of my thigh and began to rub my panties, right above my clit. It did feel good.
“Just a little taste of the after-party… Coach wants me to get a little turned on before the game anyway…gets the aggression up.”
I could just imagine Coach Perkins urging the team to get a hard-on for the game by watching a little porn or something. He was legitimately the craziest person I knew, but he won games.
Trent’s fingers slipped under my silk panties and began to circle their way deeper into my wet pussy. He pumped slowly in and out. Fuck this feels good. Then two fingers. I could feel myself stretch to take them in. But they fit. And now I was soaked. Eyes closed, up against the lockers, one thigh riding up the side of Trent’s body to give him access to my stretching slit. I wanted his cock. Right here, fucking in the hallway. But it was a miracle we hadn’t been caught yet. He understood that too. He pushed his index and middle finger deep inside me, and I could feel his hard dick pressing into my thigh, and then he was out of me, walking quickly down the hall to math class, conspicuously adjusting his penis before bursting into the classroom five minutes late.
Mr. Franz hardly noticed as I took a seat in the back of the classroom. Nicole sat across the room, twirling her hair around her finger, desperately trying to catch Rob’s attention. She was pretty: long legs, olive skin, and unbelievably lush hair, practically cascading down just past her shoulders. Self-consciously, I gave my hair a bit of a fluffing since I had been rushed through my morning routine.
“Again, if you haven’t already submitted your problem sets, you may do so at the end of class,” Mr. Franz began in his usual monotone drone. “I encourage you to take advantage of any useful connections or insights you glean from today’s lesson to help resolve difficulties with last night’s assignment.”
Yeah right. I began to take my phone out to catch-up on my texting.
“Although,” Mr. Franz continued, “ today’s lesson is more of an interesting treat—after all, it is a Friday—on mathematical harmony, the universal balance behind the visually pleasing structures of the physical world.”
Oh boy, interesting treat. Snooze alert.
“You see. When you divide a line segment such that the ratio of the whole to the larger piece is equal to the ratio of the larger piece to the smaller piece, you have a certain ratio, a golden ratio, of Phi, about 1.618. Artists throughout history used the ratio to measure their work according to visually pleasing harmonies, visually pleasing of course because this golden ratio guides the development of nature itself. We are continually presented with it in the placement of leaves on a stem, the arrangement of seeds in a sunflower—even the ratio of each section of your fingers to the previous one.”
Mr. Franz brought up some pictures on the projector, and suddenly it was too difficult to text without the backlight getting me in trouble. Well, it was all actually kind of interesting, like some kind of constant proportion in everything, from dolphins to human limbs to the inside of my ear. Might as well pay attention for a bit.
“Now, you all know the Fibonacci Sequence.”
Groans permeated the room.
“Well, it’s that sequence which describes patterns of growth and proportion in nature. What’s interesting is that the ratio of each number to the previous one, when we consider each successive ratio, approaches Phi, that golden ratio, as if nature were reaching out towards some ideal.”
Some people were starting to slip into a Friday morning nap. But somehow, for the first time, this math stuff was starting to impress me. Maybe because we hadn’t gotten to the nitty gritty of the numbers yet. It surprised me that behind all those beautiful paintings and buildings I learned about in Art History—a class I actually enjoyed—there was this ubiquitous pattern, so basic but so inseparable from what immediately struck me as beautiful. Apparently these ratios made practical since, like for plants and photosynthesis, as leaves grew at 137.5° degrees from one another to minimize obstruction to leaves further down the stem. And if you took the rest of a 360° rotation around the stem, about 225.5° degrees, it was the same proportion to 137.5° degrees as the golden ratio. And of course 360° degrees to 225.5° degrees was, again, the golden ratio.
“Phyllotaxis, when maximizing sun exposure is the primary determining factor,” Mr. Franz intoned, “follows a distribution based on these proportions, where subsequent leaf growth will be periodic at the interval along a 360° degree rotation that forms Phi, the golden ratio. Often, the number of leaves and the total number of complete spirals up the stem are Fibonacci numbers, which makes sense. The Fibonacci sequence is made up of numbers where the ratio between a number and the previous number is very close to the golden ratio. In fact, as you go further along the sequence, that ratio gets closer and closer. The Fibonacci sequence, as we will prove shortly, converges to Phi. Visually you can see that by adding together squares with the length of each Fibonacci number. Every new square is about Phi times larger than the total area of the previous squares added together. As you add more and more squares, the ratio gets closer and closer to the ideal golden ratio, which is in fact half of the sum of one and the square root of five.”
Things were starting to get less interesting.
“Now, if you inscribe quarter circle arcs in those Fibonacci squares, you get a close approximation of a golden spiral, which we saw repeated throughout nature in pinecones or nautilus shells, for example. Of course, the golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral with a growth factor of Phi, so it doesn’t quite fit in the Fibonacci squares spiral. But close enough that we wonder at how close the two are related. To prove the convergence to Phi, however, we need a little bit of mathematical induction—which you are responsible for by the way—and some work on sequence limits that won’t be tested until two months from now. Ah yes…” Mr. Franz glanced at his white board which was covered in F(n) more times than I cared for, “let’s begin with Binet’s Formula.”
Thankfully, the rest of class went by fast enough. I dropped my homework off, making sure to avoid Laura who was exiting her nerd level math class as I passed by. I met up with Trent and Nicole for lunch, and even got Trent to bring Rob and a few other players to our table—Nicole was happy.
“You know what,” she whispered to me on our way out of the dining hall, “David’s looking really good these days too. And he was totally starting at me the whole time.”
This was technically true. David had been smitten with Nicole since the beginning of high school. Problem was, he hadn’t made the cut for Varsity football sophomore year, which made it impossible for Nicole to be seen with him in the way I’m sure he wanted to be seen with her. Things had steadily improved after David’s parents hired a specialist coach, sports conditioning trainer, and even a nutritionist. I had to say he did look good these days: unbelievably cut and athletic, with wavy sandy blonde hair. But he was way too shy for me, too introverted, always quietly thinking about the next game or workout. He usually just followed Trent or Rob around, agreeing with everything they said or decided to do. Not my type of guy.
“Just remember,” I cautioned Nicole, “David is best friend’s with Rob, not to mention they’re always practicing together.”
I knew she wouldn’t chose David, for the same reason I wouldn’t, but it might end up being bad for the team. David would be devastated, and he was—at least so far—having a good season.
“Okay”—I looked at my watch—“let’s meet up at 5:00 in front of the field. Should be plenty of pre-game stuff going on that we can chose from.” I planned to text my dad and blow off the whole “5:00 sharp” thing. Hopefully he was more chilled out by then.
The rest of the day went by quickly, and I was out by the field as people started showing up tailgating for the game at 7:00. Granted, we weren’t technicall
y allowed to drink. But every five minutes some guys would come up to Nicole and me (Samantha was standing around with us too, but she was honestly kind of chubby, so I think it’s safe to say Nicole and I were the main draw) and ask if we wanted some beer or vodka. We’d follow them to an area tucked out of sight in the many folds of the school’s gothic buildings, down some beers or better yet flavored vodka (the guys looking to increase their chances in the after-party sprang for Grey Goose), and swat off the ass grabs. Intoxication made them all a little bolder, especially given everyone knew I was with Trent, who wouldn’t hesitate to throw a punch or two just to get pumped up.
Of course, our outfits weren’t helping. Since the school-day was over and the dress code was relaxed, we vamped up our school uniforms with cleavage bearing unbuttoning of our blouses and rolled up skirt lengths that barely just covered our rears. Knowing these guys would do anything for our attention was an incredibly addictive rush of sexual energy.
As the game started, more of my friends started showing up. Sarah began babbling about how great her boyfriend Marcus was in bed.
“He’s so big”—she motioned with her hands—“I can hardly fit him in my mouth. I mean, it’s true what they say.” Sarah glanced disapprovingly at Kristen who was laughing from inebriation and the giant penis gestures. “It’s not funny,” she continued, “it’s true. Like, he can reach places. Places Brooks could never—”
“You better watch out you don’t stretch out from all that big black cock,” Kristen interjected.
“—could never reach,” Sarah continued. “And… he loves pussy. I mean, I feel like black guys just want it more. I get so much attention down there. It makes me feel like Brooks was gay or something.”
“Brooks IS gay, so obvious.” Kristen again.
“No…I mean, he obviously liked having sex with me,” Sarah reasoned, “he just didn’t really ever talk about it, or seem that into it, or really ever initiate it…”
“Sooo he’s gay. He plays squash for crying out loud.”
While Kristen and Sarah argued, I was waiting for Trent to get off the field as the clock ran down and the buzzer echoed crisply through the dark. With all the time-outs and a couple injuries, the game had run on for longer than I would have liked, and I was anxious to get the after-party going. The game, thankfully, had been a washout, with Trent nailing a bunch of long yard completions. Slightly flushed from the drinks, all I could think about was how much I’d like him to nail me with his long yard—
“Yeah! Fucking A…” Trent interrupted my line of thought, storming up to our little gathering with Rob, David, and several other players. He lifted me up with one hand, making a triumphant fist in the other, and then, putting me down, made sure to graze my bare ass cheeks with his hand under my skirt before giving me a firm slap in front of everyone.
“Looks like we’re ready for the after-party,” Sarah noted.
“No doubt,” Trent concurred. “Guys—shower and load up the kegs, my place in half-an-hour. Get the lacrosse bros and tell all the hot girls.” He leaned in towards me so close I could tell how sweaty he was. “And let’s get this party started,” he affirmed, probably thinking it sounded really cool.
I have to say, Trent’s house was awesome. He lived on an equally expensive street—probably something like ninety percent of students here lived on Silvershore or Ridgehill. We drove up the long driveway to the giant Tudor style home, Trent’s hand slipping up my inside thigh as he multi-tasked in the 6 series BMW.
The outer timber framework and brick sections sprawled over 20,000 square feet, not including the guest house and pool house. Inside the main house, the art history lover in me couldn’t help but admire the full cruck frame. The thick beams of curved timber joined together with cross beams at the top of the roof, and gave the strong impression that I was in the skeleton of an old world ship. I loved Trent’s house a lot more than ours on Silvershore. It actually felt genuine and distinctive, rather than the revival-everything modern hodgepodge monstrosity my mother had orchestrated.
Things were in full swing with several tables of beer pong, marijuana smoke wafting throughout the house (plastic insulation had been taped over the fire alarms and Trent would just “air out the house and spray some fucking Febreze or whatever”), and a couple of guys grabbing a couple of girls to go upstairs and “talk where I can hear you better.” The music was loud though. Some retarted mix of top 40 rap/pop and the euro-house crap popular with the lacrosse bros.
Trent was finishing a game of beer pong on the patio, which overlooked an exactingly landscaped lawn and garden. I went outside, since I always liked the feeling of the night spring air, especially as the dark descended with all the colors of sky casting an eerie, muted glow to the sweep of nature behind the spectacular Tudor house. It was like being transported to a time when things had a vitality, tangible—
“Super cute shoes” someone sharply blurted in my ear.
Vanessa. I looked up and down her Abercrombie outfit, trying to find something to compliment her back on, but was entirely unsuccessful.
“Thanks. Yeah, great over here…” I replied mimicking Vanessa’s intonation while shifting to a different subject matter.
“Trent’s house is great,” she said, shifting over as well, “and he’s so hot. You’re really lucky.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean. Well, whatever. I did have to say, Trent looked great as he arched another pong ball assuredly into his opponent’s overflowing cup. Excellent form I guessed, from all the practice. As his shirt rode up along his lower torso, I did take a little peek at the abs and inguinal crest (that I knew from Art History), or what Sarah called “penis arrows.” Trent was a structural masterpiece. His shoulders and arms were pumped from the game, and he didn’t have an ounce of fat obscuring the deep cuts of his abdomen. Match that with the messy, dense texture of his hair, squinty blue eyes, and a boyish, entitled smirk, and I guess I was lucky, even if he kind of seemed boring sometimes.
Trent finished fist pumping his entourage with his usual forced nonchalance (“Just DP’d tonight, haha,” I heard him say in reference to his second victory of the night) and strode over to the patio entrance where I was finishing off a cosmopolitan that one of the somewhat nerdy guys (allowed because his mixology skills helped bring hot girls to the party) had literally tripped over himself to make for me.
“…and I actually muddled the pear you’re tasting there with some brown sugar, but the trick is you have to actually get the residual sugar off before you pour the alcohol because it ruins the drink if…” Steve, I think, was saying.
Trent arrived. “Hey, go make some more drinks. It’s why you’re here.” Steve was gone.
It was starting to get late, and Trent was stretching his arm around me, which probably meant he was thinking up a way to casually get me upstairs.
“Kind of loud here. You want to go upstairs, get a little rest from the music.”
Not the most creative guy. But I was definitely in the mood to get down and dirty. Those cosmos were unbelievably smooth and sweet, while still bringing the buzz. So I followed Trent up the inlaid wood staircase, to his messy bedroom, and sat on the edge of his bed. His room, I noted, was definitely not decorated by him. The motifs had changed with the seasons from the last time I had been there. Probably his mother, though I didn’t want to think about that right now, and was hoping he wasn’t either given how much of a momma’s boy he was.
“I’ve been waiting for this all day,” Trent whispered, trying to be sexy.
This was going to take too long. I reached my very nicely manicured hand over to his crotch and gave his erection a squeeze. That would cut right to the chase. Sure enough, Trent smirked and started to unbutton my blouse, his erection getting bigger as he caught site of my lavender laced breasts.
“Holy shit,” he blurted out, and dug his head between my cleavage, licking and nibbling around the soft flesh while running his hand up my plaid skirt and across my ass.
He took off my blouse, and unzipped the back of my skirt, pulling me up to step out in just my panties, bra, and Louboutins. I took off his shirt while he hastily unbuttoned his jeans. He looked like an underwear model with wide shoulders, smooth defined pecs and a washboard stomach with more cuts, ridges, and valleys than I could count. An underwear model with a huge erection. I don’t know whether the aggression of the game (football or beer pong), or just the rush of blood from physical exertion did it, but Trent was bigger than I had ever seen him. I dropped to the ground and pulled down his boxer-briefs. Grabbing the base of his cock, I shoved the head right in my mouth.
Trent gasped. “Fuck yes.” My mouth was wet and I was horny. I took his shaft deep into the back of my throat, until I almost choked, and pulled it out dripping with saliva and pre-cum—that drove him wild.
He started to pump his cock into my mouth, and I held his balls with one hand, while steadying myself with the other hand resting on his chiseled butt.
“Lick the top, babe.”
Trent’s eyes were closed as he savored the sensation of my wet, warm mouth, but they opened wide when I started to cover the glans of his dick with long, slippery strokes of my tongue. I gave his balls a few gentle tugs while he watched my mouth get messy as my pink lip-gloss mixed with spit and the glistening head of his penis.
“Fuck. I want to fuck you so badly,” Trent exhaled, his shaft throbbing in my mouth.
“Mmmm.” I let the vibrations from my mouth put him over the edge.
Trent pulled out, picked me up, and threw me on the bed. He stepped out of his boxer-briefs and jeans, which had pooled around his muscular calves, and dropped to the edge of the bed to pull off my panties.
I closed my eyes, and arched my back. My toes curled within my Louboutins as he licked the center of my pussy, up and down along the slit. I was so wet, my lips parted smoothly and his tongue shifted deeper and found my clit. My ass clenched, my hands went straight to my breasts, and I was in Heaven. As his tongue drove deeper into me and his thumb circled my mound, I couldn’t think about anything but having that pumped-up cock inside of me.
