by MV Ellis
“Say my name when you smack me like that.” Her eyes are a vibrant blue, not too different from my own, and they carry a mischievous gleam. They really stand out against her pale skin, but the rest of her features are a little fuzzy through the temporary haze of my high. Not that I care.
“Uh…”
Her grin quickly morphs into an annoyed frown; I can make that out, even through the fog.
“You don’t know my name, do you?”
“Am I supposed to?” I laugh. Clearly she doesn’t know how I roll. “I prefer to just call you Naughty Girl. Besides, you’re not driving this train, Naughty Girl, I am, and if you’re going to carry on riding it, I’ll call you what the fuck I want, or nothing at all, if the mood strikes me. Don’t like it? Well, you know where the door is, Buzzkillerton.”
She pouts and her eyes flicker with disappointment.
I push the small of her back further over the basin, bending her more so that I can spread her ass cheeks apart and finger fuck her backdoor while I push my dick in and out of the front.
I suck on my middle finger to lubricate it, and then I begin tracing the rim of her asshole. I feel her stiffen. Good. I want to keep her guessing, and give her something to talk to her friends about. I start to gently push my finger into her ass.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you the screw of your life, so buckle up Naughty Girl, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.”
Three, two, one.
She stiffens again, gripping my finger with her muscles so hard I fear she’ll break it off at the knuckle, but just as I think I may have to pull out again she relaxes. Not a first-timer then, after all. I idly wonder how old she is. Nineteen? Twenty? Older, even?
I wonder if she knows I’m still in high school. Unlikely—I don’t look or act my age, and never have. I don’t feel it, either. Though, at eighteen, at least she doesn’t have to worry about me being a minor. Not that she seems to care.
“So fucking good,” she moans, and cuffs her fingers around the ledge of the porcelain basin as I push my dick into her waiting pussy. She’s right—the feeling of her clenching around my pointer and my dick is crazy hot.
“I know I am.” I grin again, and continue grinding my hips against her ass, thrusting harder and faster, until I feel like I’m going to lose control. Then I hold back a little, not letting myself go fully. I don’t want to come yet.
There’s a sound of glass shattering somewhere in the house, followed by a moment of silence and then finally a wave of cheering, but I don’t let the commotion break my concentration.
“Isn’t this your house?” she pants in a shaky voice as I continue to slam my pulsing dick inside her.
“No. Yeah. Kind of. It’s complicated. Don’t worry about it.” Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover my situation with the Philosopher. Fuck. I resent the fact that he’s invading my thoughts again. Even though I’m having a good time with Naughty Girl, I can’t seem to keep my head fully in the game.
If it isn’t bad enough that I have to deal with the guy on a regular basis, with the bad taste that leaves in my mouth each and every time, now he’s in my head, screwing with my mind when I least need it, and putting me off my boning game.
My hatred for him—already red hot and threatening to bubble over—glows white hot, eating away at me like cancerous cells invading my body, mind, and soul.
I’m breathing heavily, working on keeping my concentration on the sex. I reach for the edge of the basin with my other hand, and accidentally bump the silver tray we’d been using to chop out. It tumbles off the edge and crashes to the marble floor at our feet with a jarring clatter.
I ignore it.
Despite the previous lapse in concentration, Naughty Girl is too wet and her pussy is too fucking tight for anything to completely shatter my high, even though the negative thoughts have definitely knocked the edges off it.
She’s wearing a second-skin style red dress that I’ve pushed up above her hips and her black lace panties are roped around the heels of her stilettos on the floor. I grab a bundle of her silky blonde hair in my free fist and push her torso down again to tilt her ass further into the air. She responds by wiggling it tauntingly, and rewarding me with another urgent moan.
“You like that, Naughty Girl?” I murmur.
“Uh-huh…” She nods.
I pull my finger out of her ass without warning, and she gasps, prompting me to grab her hips, and pull her head up more, so that she can see what we’re doing in the mirror.
“Eyes up,” I instruct. “Look at me while I’m inside you.”
I study her reflection. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and her bottle-blonde hair is slightly disheveled.
She does as she’s told, and in return, I bury my throbbing cock deeper into her.
“You are an incredible fuck.” It could just be the high talking, but I let her have the rare and out of character compliment, regardless.
My shaft rubs up against her swollen pussy lips. I groan and my inner thighs begin to shake. I’m close, and, judging by the desperate look on the girl’s face, she is too.
I slow down, then still completely.
“What are you doing? Don’t stop, I’m nearly there.”
“Remember what I said? I’m pulling the strings here little Pinocchio. I want you to beg me first, or you get nothing.” A smirk makes its way across my face as confusion marches across hers.
“What?” Her shocked expression as I study her reflection in the mirror is priceless.
“You heard me. I. Want. You. To. Beg.”
She hesitates a moment, laughing nervously, but after an extended pause, she seems to get the memo. I’m serious. “Please…” she moans softly.
“I can’t hear you.” I thrust harder, growling into her ear.
She cries out, “Please.” Her voice is louder and more forceful this time.
It’s less a plea, and more an instruction, but I don’t get bogged down in the semantics. Whatever it is, it makes my balls tighten, and my blood flow faster.
There’s no greater sound to a man than that. I feed off it, using it to fire me up, and now I’m invincible. No one can fucking touch me.
I’m the king of the motherfucking world and I’m about to conquer the universe.
Her voice and my thoughts are suddenly almost drowned out by the music downstairs. Someone must have turned it up even louder than before.
“I’m coming,” she warns, in a loud whine.
“I didn’t give you permission yet.” I curl my hands harder around her waist.
“I can’t hold it.” She shakes her head, looking desperate.
In reality, I’m fine with it. I want to finish last, because I’m the alpha, the omega, and every fucking thing in between.
“Look at me while you come,” I say, and lift her chin to bring her focus back to the mirror.
Her hair is pressed to her temples and neck in sweaty, sexy tendrils. I glance down at her reflection, studying her tits as they bounce up and down with each deep push. Her peachy nipples are as erect as my cock.
I pull my gaze away from the mirror, letting it sweep further south over her body and trail between her legs. I watch her pink, swollen lips begin to quiver around me. I’m tempted to keep staring down below, but I need to see her face when her orgasm hits.
She’s really flushed now, and her eyes are glistening with euphoria. She opens her mouth and moans as her body convulses and stiffens. I hold onto her as she finally lets herself go, staring at me as she falls over the ledge of her climax, into the abyss.
I’m not far behind her. Just a few more thrusts…
There it is. The surge of ecstasy floods my entire being, and I groan and squeeze the girl’s hips, plowing into her one last time before I surrender to my own release. I’m hot, I’m sweaty, and for that tiny, fleeting moment, I’m living in a glorious all-inclusive, thought-free, guilt-free paradise inside my head.
And then it’s gone.
&nb
sp; Chapter 12
Blake
* * *
Geneva all but twisted my arm to get me to join her at this party. I would have been happy to curl up in bed with a book and have a quiet night, especially when I heard who was hosting the bash she was so desperate to attend. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be welcome, but it turns out that my roomie can be very persuasive, and she wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
In the end, I caved in merely to shut her up and get her off my back—in the nicest possible way. It just seemed easier to say yes and go along with her plan than have her nag me into an early grave about it. Definitely a case of choosing the lesser of two evils.
One of the many things I’m learning about private boarding schools—or St. J’s, at least—that I never knew before is the fact that, despite giving the impression of being a strict and controlled environment, the reality is far from it.
In particular, the weekends are a free-for-all. The kids come and go as they damn-well please, and the staff act like the three wise monkeys—they hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil, even though the place is in fact, riddled with ‘evil’ from its foundations to the intricate cornices decorating the mock-gothic roof.
Half an hour into the party, and already my hamster bladder has let me down. Big time. I desperately need to pee. I try the multiple bathrooms downstairs, but they all have long lines, so I head upstairs where there are fewer people, in the hope that I can get to use the bathroom before I piss myself.
As well as urgently needing to go, I’m hoping that the bathroom break will provide a little relief from the chaos of the party. Before coming to St. J’s, I thought I’d seen people get out of control at parties back home, but they have nothing on what’s going on here. Wild doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I remember Geneva’s words about bored rich kids when I first met her, and now I get it. While I don’t fully understand the dynamic, I definitely have a better idea of how things work with each passing day in the proximity of the kind of wealth I previously couldn’t even have begun to imagine.
Stripping it back to basics, I’ve come to the conclusion that the richer someone is, the less they care about anything—other people, property, themselves—and this zero-fucks-given attitude means that pretty much no behavior is off-limits. It’s sex, drugs, ‘n’ whatever the fuck they feel like doing at that moment in time, as a way of life.
It’s a level of hedonism I couldn’t even have dreamed of before enrolling at the school, but then again, why would I have? It’s facilitated by more money per capita than the GDP of a small developing nation, and before now, I’d never known anyone with that kind of money behind them. Scratch that. I’d never known anyone with any kind of money. Now suddenly, everyone I know is very wealthy. Or at least everyone I’m in the company of twenty-four seven—I don’t really know most of them in any kind of meaningful way.
On top of the noise and outrageous behavior, the house itself is a destroyed mess. There are broken beer bottles, spilled cups of liquor and smoldering cigarette butts littering the floor. The whole living area downstairs reeks of booze as well as sweat and stale smoke, and I can’t even imagine what’s going on inside those occupied bathrooms.
Of course, nobody seems to care about any of that—least of all Zeph. But why should he? He apparently has parties like this all the time, and the place is still standing, so I’m guessing that he probably has people to come in the next day and deal with the aftermath.
In the real world, not only would a party like this get shut down almost before it started—if it managed to get this far—but there’s also no way there would be a repeat performance if the house was treated this way.
In fact, the host would probably be grounded until they were seventy, at best. At worst, they’d have trouble sitting down for at least a week. It really is another fucking world out here.
As I swing the bathroom door open, the first thing I see is a shirtless and bare-assed Zephyr Cross. Not only is the king of The Fallen in the bathroom with his pants down, but he’s with a girl. Her dress is hitched up around her waist, exposing her butt, and she’s bent over the basin, totally surrendering to him.
It’s kind of hot, but also definitely a moment that I, of all people, shouldn’t be interrupting, given that Zeph has taken it upon himself to be my self-appointed arch nemesis, from almost the first moment I walked into the school.
Damned if I know why—it doesn’t make any kind of sense, even after Geneva explained that Zeph’s group of friends basically rules the school like some kind of teenage mafia. What is even less logical is the fact that it burns me so much. But it does.
The irony of finding myself walking in on a private ‘moment’ with the guy who loves to hate me isn’t lost on me. What a fucking shit show.
I’m not entirely at fault here, either. I knocked on the door as I approached, but because of the loud music, I wasn’t able to hear if there was a response or not, so went ahead and twisted the handle, figuring I may have gotten lucky and found the one bathroom in the entire mansion I didn’t have to wait in line for.
On the other hand, simple logic and common social etiquette dictate that Zeph and his fuck buddy should have locked the door if they didn’t want anyone barging in on them. But then again, it seems that etiquette is for mere mortals like me, not demi-demons like Zeph and his boys. They’re above etiquette, above rules, and, judging by the amount of under-age drinking and consumption of illicit substances happening at this party, also above the law.
They apparently do what they want, when and how they want, and nobody can or does tell them any different. Or on the rare occasion when someone crosses them, that person lives to regret it.
What I can’t figure out—apart from what the hell I’ve done to incur their wrath just by existing, and having a shitty sense of direction—is how that can be possible, not just with the students, but the teachers as well.
Now, here I stand, in one of the most awkward situations I can ever remember being in, like a deer in the fucking headlights. Again. No wonder Tyce has taken to calling me Bambi whenever he sees me. As much as I’m not a fan of the nickname, it isn’t totally unfair, given my out of character conduct since arriving at St. Joseph’s.
I haven’t been myself since day one. It’s a mixture of the whole red ant in the black ants’ nest, and persistent nauseating worry about my mom. It’s not a great combination, that’s for sure, and I’ve been distracted and jumpy the entire time.
My stomach drops as I take in the scene. I stare into Zeph’s gorgeous bluest of blue eyes before I let my gaze fall—and my jaw with it. Zeph’s bare chest is toned and muscular, just as I remember it from our encounter in his room. Heat rises in my cheeks at the thought.
He may be a total douche, but there’s no kidding myself that I’m not attracted to him, despite knowing better. There’s just something about him that sets off wildfires in my body every time I’m near him. Tonight is no different.
His large, strong-looking hands are hooked around the girl’s waist, and the veins in his pumped biceps seem to throb as he grips her tight. I take in her reflection in the mirror, including her raccoon eyes and red-rimmed nose, no doubt something to do with the silver tray, rolled bill, and black credit card scattered haphazardly on the lavish marble floor.
I don’t recognize her from school, but that’s not a surprise, given that I only know a handful of people, and even then, ”know” is an overstatement of the situation. “Know of” is more accurate.
I try my best not to stare, but the more I try, the more I’m drawn to drink in every detail, in true car-crash fashion. Both Zeph and the girl are breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling rapidly. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Zeph’s torso, and before I can shut it down, an image floods my mind of me licking it off. I truly need a slap.
The girl’s panties are around her ankles, while her hair is matted to her neck and temples in sweaty tendrils, and a little tangled on the top.
She looks like she’s seen better days, but nevertheless, the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever encountered is inside her, and even in their disheveled state they are stunning together.
“What the hell are you looking at? Get the fuck out of here, you perv.” While I stifle a scream in the back of my throat, Miss Thang doesn’t hold back. She yells at me, turning red in the face. Redder. She is already pretty flushed and I’m guessing it has something to do with Zeph’s cock sandwiched between her legs.
The girl looks humiliated, her azure eyes seeming to plead with Zeph in the mirror through smudged mascara, giving her the air of a raccoon.
Apart from the tic of a vein in his jaw, Zeph doesn’t move a muscle, and neither do I.
“Get her out of here,” his ‘date’ snarls through clenched teeth, reaching round behind herself to swat at Zeph’s arms.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t appear to even notice her outburst. Not even her slaps break the spell. His attention is one-hundred percent focused on me. I return the favor, not even pretending to try to avert my gaze anymore. There’s a war waging between us, and although I don’t even know why it’s happening, I’m not prepared to back down.
Unlike the other girl, whose ‘face’ seems to have slid off with the exertion of screwing Zeph, the only makeup I have on is a little concealer, some mascara, and a slick of nude lip gloss, and that’s only because, before we left for the party, Geneva urged me to “glam up” for the night.
I didn’t have the heart to tell my new friend that I wouldn’t know glam from a slap in the face, and I definitely didn’t want her to offer to make me up, or over, so I hastily did the basics to get her off my back, and hoped for the best.
I can’t quite figure Geneva out sometimes. Most of the time she has a totally zero-fucks attitude and approach to everything, and everyone at school. She doesn’t care what other people think of, or say about her, especially not the petty cliquey girls in the twins’ pathetic little crew. She dresses differently, does her makeup differently and generally doesn’t conform to the norm, as dictated by them.