Darla
Imet Tyler at Pink Beaver’s student night, which was a joke because no one there had ever been inside a classroom. I was wearing my Sunday best—white blouse, blue skirt, sensible flats—because nothing turns a bunch of drooling frat rats on more than a girl who looks like she’s just come from choir practice, especially when the girl has the kind of curves that force you to reevaluate your relationship with the Lord.
We ditched his friends at the bar after three rounds of shitty vodka cran, and he followed me down the sticky, pulse-lit corridor like he was expecting to get mugged by the wallpaper. I picked the only “private room” that didn’t smell like someone died in it last week. It was barely bigger than a closet, with a flickering red light and a two-seater couch that had probably seen more mileage than my stepmom’s Honda. The walls vibrated with muffled trap music and the sound of someone else’s party gone wrong.
I pressed him to the couch, one hand on his chest, and crawled into his lap like a fucking spider. My skirt hiked up past my thighs, and I let my hair down with a practiced snap, shaking it over my shoulders in a way I knew would short-circuit his brain. His mouth hung open, and his eyes did a slow, full-body scan, like he couldn’t decide if he was about to get laid or get stabbed. Maybe both.
He tried to kiss me, and I let him for about three seconds. His tongue was tentative, all hope and no finesse. I took control, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a little blood. He whimpered—actually whimpered—and I felt a mean, electric thrill rocket through me.
“Don’t be such a pussy, Tyler,” I said, and grabbed his hand, guiding it up my thigh.
He shuddered. “Sorry, just—damn, you’re—” He didn’t finish the sentence, because I shoved his fingers under my panties and ground myself against his palm.
The look on his face was the best thing I’d seen all week. Like a kid waking up to find Santa standing at the end of his bed, holding a shotgun and a bag of weed.
I rocked on his hand, using him, while the room spun with the thud of bass and the stink of spilled booze. I wanted to lose control, but not so much that he’d think he was running the show. I wanted to take every inch of what I’d been denied since the day my mother died and left me alone with a father who thought shame was a love language.
His other hand went to my breast, squeezing tentatively through the blouse. I arched into him, moaning louder than I meant to, and then popped the top two buttons for him, because I could tell he wasn’t the type to rip open a shirt unless there was a gun to his head.
He finally got the message, and next thing I knew, his mouth was all over my chest, clumsy and desperate, like he was tryingto memorize the taste before the world ended. He tongued a circle around my nipple, and I could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric. It made my toes curl, and my pulse punch through my skull.
“You ever do this before?” I asked, just to fuck with him.
He nodded, but his hands trembled so hard it was a miracle he didn’t drop me.
“Liar,” I said, and shoved him deeper inside me, hard enough to make him gasp.
He tried to get clever, thumb working the way he must’ve seen in some Pornhub tutorial, but I rolled my hips to remind him whose show this was. The pressure built, a slow burn from my spine down to where my thighs locked around his, and I realized I was actually going to come.
That almost never happened. Usually, these encounters were about power, the pleasure secondary to the transaction. But Tyler, in all his nerdy panic, had unlocked something deep and ugly and alive in me.
I ground against him, faster, until I was panting, moaning into his neck, leaving a red streak of lipstick across his collar. My whole body tensed, then bucked, and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.
After, I collapsed on top of him, sweat soaking the back of my blouse. He held me, limp and shell-shocked, like he’d just been shot at and was waiting for the all-clear.
For a minute, neither of us spoke. The room was nothing but heartbeats and the fading echo of whatever song had been blasting before. Then Tyler said, so softly I almost missed it, “You’re not like other girls.”
I laughed into his ear, low and mean. “No shit.”
He stroked my hair, like we were in some terrible movie, and said, “You’re… I don’t know. Scary.”
I rolled off him, tucking my skirt back in place, and reached for the half-finished beer someone had abandoned on the table. “You have no idea,” I said, and chugged the whole thing.
He watched me, slack-jawed, as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Was it good for you?” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm.
He nodded, blinking. “Yeah. I mean—hell, yeah. You just—I never met a girl who…”
I cut him off by standing, adjusting my panties, and buttoning up my blouse like nothing had happened. “You want to buy me another drink?” I asked.
He scrambled up, tucking his dick back in with shaking hands. “Yeah, sure. Anything you want.”
I always took a certain pride in how fast I could switch gears. The trick wasn’t to hide the evidence—it was to make the evidence part of the costume. By the time Tyler fumbled his way out of the couch cushions, I already had my skirt straight, my blouse tucked, and every stray strand of hair pinned back into Sunday-appropriate order.
He stared at me, slack-mouthed, as I pulled a compact from my purse and reapplied lipstick in the reflection of the beer-slicked table.
“Jesus,” he said, still breathless.
