by Harper James
I nod. I mean to say something more, but words seem to be getting lost on the route to my mouth. Tyson had been so quick to tell me that he didn’t want Trishelle, that bidding on her was just a way to get to me.
“So…” Trishelle says, flushing a little. “We came back here.”
She stops, and I hang on her last word as long as possible before finally asking, “What happened?”
Trishelle breaks character and groans, loudly. “Nothing. He was a perfect gentlemen and I guess he thought I was too tipsy to hook up with.” She makes a sad face.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Trishelle, you shouldn’t want a guy to hook up with you when you were drunk.”
“I wasn’t drunk, just tipsy.”
“Whatever,” I sigh, feeling miserable.
Trishelle looks disappointed, like she knows I’m right but wishes I weren’t. “I’m just saying, Tyson Slate is amazing. So I hope I at least didn’t do anything stupid or embarrass myself. He stayed all night to make sure I was okay, so he must not think I’m a total loser, right?”
“I guess,” I answer. It sounds like Tyson and Trishelle didn’t do anything— like Tyson really did come for me and me alone. Still, I’m more than a little bothered at how into him Trishelle seems.
I wish I could talk to my best friend, tell her what’s going on with me, but now things feel more screwed up then ever and I’ve never felt so distant from her before.
It’s like I don’t even know her since we got to college.
“Well, if he was interested enough to bid on me maybe I still have a chance with him. He didn’t seem annoyed with me or anything this morning. Just…”
“Unreadable,” I say.
Trishelle’s eyes leap to mine, and for a moment I worry she’s picked up on the hunger in my voice— but instead she just nods hurriedly. “Yes! He is totally unreadable. It’s half of what’s so hot about him.”
“What’s the other half?” I ask, curious as to what she’ll say— and wondering for myself. Is it his eyes? His strength? His voice?
“The drama,” Trishelle says with a salacious buzz in her voice. “I mean, yeah, the hotness too, but I heard a rumor that there’s a reality TV company that wants to shoot a show based on the three Slate brothers— sort of like the Kardashians only with sports and boys instead of fashion and girls. The older two are in the NFL now and have gorgeous girlfriends and millions of dollars and houses and boats, and then all the stuff with their father being a murderer…it’s reality show gold, especially with his dad’s trial coming up in a few weeks.”
“You think Tyson is the reality show type?” I ask.
Trishelle shrugs. “I don’t know, but if he is, I don’t want to miss my chance. Let’s be real— they’re never going to put a girl like me on Bachelorette.”
I’m not sure why they wouldn’t— Trishelle, especially now that she’s wearing heels all the time and spends an insane amount of time on her makeup every morning, seems like exactly the sort of girl who would be on the Bachelorette. Nor am I totally sure why Trishelle wants to be on that show to begin with. She’s always been more of a reality TV lover than me, but never in a way that made me think she actually wanted to be on one of those shows.
“Anyway, all I’m saying is that losing my virginity to Tyson Slate wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Although I hear he’s huge,” she says, snickering— and there’s a tiny bit of my old friend in there, giggling at talk of something naughty. “Someone told me ten inches.”
I swallow. It looked like ten inches to me. “That is huge all right,” I say.
“What about you? Is there anyone you’re interested in? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages.”
That’s because you basically haven’t, I think, but I don’t say it. “There’s someone.”
Her eyes light up. “Who? Tell me!”
“Just a guy I met at a thing,” I say with a shrug. “We sort of hit it off, I guess. It’s weird, though, since we don’t have much in common.”
“Sometimes that’s the best way, though,” Trishelle says sagely. I miss the way we used to talk like this. She always had advice, especially on guys. Even though the two of us barely dated in high school, she liked playing Love Doctor, and we’d spend ages talking through serious relationship problems with guys we definitely weren’t dating (and were frequently members of boy bands rather than classmates).
“I like him, though. I like the way he makes me feel,” I say. I’m wading in carefully, and to be honest, I want to tell Trishelle about the new experiences I had last night— about how crazy and wild and new it all was. But…it was Tyson, and I’m not sure how Trishelle would take that.
I don’t want to hurt her, even if she has been acting a little self-absorbed lately.
Thankfully, Trishelle’s phone chimes, and she falls into it, texting back frantically for a few moments before looking up at me and saying, “You should go for him, Anna. You’ve been a good girl your whole life. So was I— and trust me, it has been really, really fun letting that go.”
“Yeah,” I say, and nod, feeling even more sad now. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I will.”
“Good,” she says with a wink, and then calls someone back on the way to her bedroom. She shuts the door, and I hear her voice change into the high pitched one she uses with the other cheerleaders. She’s recounting the story of Tyson coming over, but in the version she tells them, she doesn’t admit that he never touched her— instead, she strongly implies they slept together.
I feel nauseous at the way she’s behaving. I wish we could go back to the way things used to be before she made the cheerleading team and changed.
But somehow I don’t think we can go back.
I think things are only going to get weirder from here on out…
Chapter 9
Tyson texts me the following day.
T.S.: I’ll find you at the party tonight— Trishelle is coming, she’ll give you directions. Don’t wear panties. Shave your pussy.
My heart surges and my core heats up; I chew my lip, trying to hide my arousal from my classmates. Looking over my shoulder I finally type back, fingers trembling.
Anna: Completely shaved? Like bare?
T.S.: Yes.
I’ve done the basic bikini wax, but shaving myself totally bare is new territory. I’m definitely not brave enough to get a straight up Brazilian, so I stick to a new razor and slowly shave myself clean late that afternoon. It feels dirty and wonderfully wrong; this sort of shaving is the thing you do when you’re expecting someone’s hands or mouth or…cock.
Is he going to fuck me tonight? My heart begins to race at the prospect. I touch myself, both marveling at how slick and smooth I feel and wary when I feel how tight I am even around my own finger. Was Tyson’s cock as big as I’m remembering it, or am I just working myself up over his size?
It’s almost nine o’clock when Trishelle emerges from the bathroom and stops short when she sees me standing in the kitchen, clearly dressed to go out.
“Where are you headed?” she asks.
“I thought I’d go to the party with you,” I say with a shrug.
Trishelle hesitates, and her mouth opens and closes a few times. “Yeah, sure. How…did you know there was a party, though? It’s a pretty like…low profile kind of thing.”
I force a smile purely to mask the incredible hurt— she doesn’t want me to go. She doesn’t think I should go. She hadn’t told me about it, and hadn’t planned to. “You told me that night you came in drunk, when Tyson Slate was here. I went in to check on you and you said I shouldn’t let you drink as much at this one.”
It sounds like it could be true, and I suppose that’s enough; Trishelle shrugs, and then insists I change clothes. “It’s really exclusive,” she says. “Wear something of mine. And you have to wear heels, Anna. I know you hate them, okay? But you have to wear them.”
I agree, reluctantly, and manage to get into a new dress without her noticing that I’m going withou
t panties, as Tyson ordered. A half hour later we’re off, Trishelle walking in long, powerful strides and me wobbling behind her taking far more careful, wary steps. The party is being held at one of the off campus row houses that are mostly occupied by ultra-wealthy alumni, who use them for parties or as game-day homes. Every house on the strip has a Charlotte banner hanging out the front, and the lawns are manicured so flawlessly that for a moment, I think the beds of pansies and marigolds are fake.
Trishelle was right— this party is more upscale than the glorified kegger at the varsity sports house. The interior isn’t packed, though it is full, and everyone is wearing dress shirts or cocktail dresses. There are no red Solo cups— just glasses of champagne and wine— and there’s a bartender in the kitchen. Trishelle almost immediately fades into a crowd of cheerleaders, and though she doesn’t say it aloud I can tell that she doesn’t want me clinging to her (which, once upon a time, would have been called “supporting” her). I float away, my eyes leaping and heart pounding each time I see a football player enter the house. There’s no sign of Tyson, though, so I stick to one of the corners and sip on a glass of champagne for the better part of an hour.
Until he arrives.
I’m not watching the door when he enters, but I know the moment that he does— the sound of the room changes. The volume doesn’t, nor do the actual conversations— it’s truly the sound, the tone that shifts. Everyone begins speaking in slightly more hushed, finishing-up-this-one-thing-before-we-go-quiet voices. It’s like royalty has entered, and everyone is equal parts awed and fearful. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t even know if he sees me. He goes straight to shaking hands and rapping his teammates on the back, saying what’s up to the cheerleaders who rush to him. Trishelle isn’t among them; I think social laws mean only the senior cheerleaders can go up to him like this.
Meanwhile, I picture him naked.
I don’t mean to— it’s just that I know exactly what he looks like under his blue collared shirt, under those pants. I know how his mouth feels on my own, and on my nipples, and on my pussy. I know what it feels like to have him spank me, and how his cock presses against the front of his boxers, and how it feels in my hand. I feel myself grow wet, a sensation totally different when I’m shaved smooth and not wearing panties.
I cling to the wall, unsure what to do or where to go; drinking champagne turns to practically gulping it in an attempt to calm my nerves. Tyson looks down at his phone for a few moments, and then mine buzzes.
T.S.: Upstairs
I smile, perhaps a little too broadly, and feel the heat spread from my core across my entire body, surely turning my chest pink. I set my drink down on the nearest table, find the nearest staircase, and head up. No one seems to notice— I’m practically invisible here, when there are girls like Trishelle to look at.
Except to Tyson, anyhow.
It’s quiet upstairs— this isn’t the sort of party where people trickle into each and every corner of the house. In fact, it feels like I may get in trouble for being here at all. The four doors are open, revealing two bedrooms, a bathroom, and an office with floor to ceiling bookshelves. There’s an enormous executive desk in the middle with a leather chair that looks out into the hallway. I’m unsure where I’m meant to go, so I simply linger at the top of the landing, stomach swirling, nerves peaking. Breathe, I order myself. Just keep breathing.
It’s another couple of minutes before I hear heavy feet on the stairs; I step forward to peer over the railing and shudder a breath when I confirm that it’s Tyson. His eyes glint with excitement as he takes the final few steps, quickly moving out of anyone’s view. I step back as he approaches me.
“Hi,” I whisper, unable to take my eyes off him.
“Those aren’t your clothes, are they?” he says with an amused growl. He steps back and lets his eyes wander up and down my body, like he’s deciding where he’ll start. My heart pounds.
“They’re my roommate’s. Trishelle’s,” I say. There’s no hiding the pant in my voice, and I see a flicker of disappointment cross Tyson’s mouth.
“I like your clothes better,” he says. “You look like one of them now.” He reaches forward, and I go perfectly still, like a deer in lights. He cups my cheek in one hand, and then uses his thumb to wipe the lipstick off my mouth. “There. You’re perfect, Anna. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”
“Trishelle said it was the kind of party I had to dress up for,” I explain.
He nods, like he understands, yet still disagrees. “Interesting,” he says, and then reaches forward again— but this time toward my waist. I whimper as his hand climbs up my skirt, and he checks for himself that I’ve shaved my pussy as directed. He groans when he feels how smooth I am, and massages the softness between my legs with his whole hand, like he’s appreciating it before he begins to truly explore it.
“Interesting,” he starts again, “Since it feels like you aren’t entirely dressed as it is.”
“You told me not to wear—“
“Shhh,” he says, letting one finger edge along my slit. I moan louder than intended and lose my balance; I pitch forward and fall against him, struck by how slick and smooth his fingers are against my skin now that I’m bare. Tyson grasps me closer with one hand, but is unrelenting with the one between my legs. When he presses lightly against my clit, I cry out.
“Have you shaved your pussy before, Anna?”
“No,” I gasp as he continues to work my clit. “Never.”
“But you shaved it when I asked you to,” he muses.
I nod— I can’t find words right now, not with the electricity that’s racing through me.
“Why?” he asks, pressing a bit harder, then adjusting his hand so that his thumb remains on my clit, but his middle finger is pressing closer and closer to my ass. He lightly slides that finger between my cheeks, and I pant in anticipation of feeling his finger against that entrance, of how dirty I feel for loving it when he fingered my ass last time we were together.
“Why, Anna? Tell me why you’ll do as I ask,” he says, and now his finger is against my ass, and he’s massaging it, and I can’t believe how badly I want to feel him slide one finger into me there, and another in my pussy, and know that I’m filled with him—
“Because you’re in control,” I gasp, not entirely meaning the words to come out as such a plea for more. “Because I want you to have me.”
“You want to be mine,” he says, slipping the tip of his thumb into my pussy and finally, finally, finally pressing harder against my ass. I’m so wet that he has no trouble entering me there, and even though I know he can’t have pressed his finger more than a half inch into me, I growl in need and hunger and lust. I want more, and I want him to take it, and the quiet responsible parts of me are totally silenced by that desire.
“I want to be yours,” I practically purr. Tyson pulls his hand away; I’m about to whine, but then he smacks me hard on the bottom, picks me up into his arms like I weigh no more than a feather, and carries me into the office. He turns and taps the door shut with his elbow, then walks forward to set me on the massive desk. I’m soaked, and my dress is hiked up to my waist, exposing me. Tyson turns away and locks the door, then turns back to me with his lips pressed together firmly.
“It’s so hard not to fuck you,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than me. “It’s so hard not to bend you over that desk and push into that sweet little pussy of yours, Anna.”
“You can,” I whisper, terrified and thrilled. “You can fuck me, Tyson.”
His nostrils flare as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “You’re not ready yet,” he says, shaking his head.
“I am,” I argue, licking my lips as he finishes the buttons. His shirt falls away, revealing rippled abs. The room is dark save a small glass lamp on the bookshelf, which is almost more of a nightlight than an actual light source.
“You’re still so scared,” he says, shaking his head as he moves to his pants. He unbuttons them, and
they drop to the floor along with his boxers. His cock is hard, and the size is exactly as intimidating as I remember. “See?” he says, motioning to himself. “You can’t totally give in to me if you’re scared of my cock, Anna.”
“I’m only nervous because it’ll be my first time,” I say, voice rattling, my eyes on his cock. He’s not only long, but thick too— is that something I should be scared of as well? My pussy is already tight around his fingers. A new fear crosses over me— what if he can’t even get inside me? What if he’s too big for my pussy? He’s right— I am scared, but I’m not sure he realizes how much I like this strange new fear.
He steps from his clothes, sliding his shoes off in the process, and walks toward me, his cock pointed at me, throbbing and heavy with desire. I don’t know how I know what he wants, but I do, and I lean back on the desk, trembling as I spread my legs apart. He looks happy about my surrender, and circles me, tugging my dress higher up, smoothing my hair, the way an artist might step in and adjust the color on a painting.
“I think…” he says slowly, tilting his head to one side as he studies me. “Yes.” He steps forward and takes the top of my dress, then tugs it down. The stretchy material gives easily, until all the material of my dress is bunched around my waist, and my breasts— I couldn’t wear a bra with this strappy outfit— and pussy are fully exposed. He exhales at the sight of my breasts, then reaches forward to take my left nipple between his fingers. I groan as he rubs it softly, hardening it.
Tyson takes his cock in his other hand— as big as his hands are, he doesn’t cover it entirely. He guides it toward my chest, then rubs the head against my nipple lightly, almost playfully. I watch, chest heaving, studying the curves and counters of him.
