If I asked her tomorrow, I have no idea of the response I’d get.
Ask her today and I might as well wipe the egg straight on my face.
I stare into the middle distance, too tired to bother focusing. A girl walks past, shoulders hunched over her phone like your typical nerd. My eyes glance over her, then return with a snap.
It’s George.
The fuck?
I glance down, head pounding so badly my vision wavers. When I look up again, she’s disappearing into the maths block and I get up to follow her inside, mind spinning, trying to think of a reason she’d be here.
She lives in Linwood for Christ’s sake. There’s no way she goes to this school. She must be here for me, and I don’t know why.
The school is laid out in blocks, designated by subject, although some classes get shoved into whatever space will hold them, not finding any natural fit. The central buildings—administration, mathematics, science, English—are in stone; large bricks carved into shape rather than moulded. They’re the original school, the date stone proudly displaying the year 1892.
The newer buildings—the gymnasium, arts and humanities, languages, student housing—are steel, concrete, and glass,broken up by wood panelling to stop it looking quite so prison-lite.
At the rear of the school are large playing fields, netball courts, a running track, and a grass tennis court that’s unusable for a good third of the year. At the entrance, near where I’m sitting, is the carpark, providing another layer between the buildings and the six-foot-high security gate than runs parallel to the road, and a large, landscaped quad with clusters of seating for students to have their lunch or just lurk, catching up with the gossip of the day.
I follow her at a distance through the double pneumatic doors, blinking in the dark corridor. Inside the hallways, the only lighting comes from weak overhead fluorescents and the slit windows in the recessed cloakrooms, two of which are spaced inside each block. The floor is covered with panels of light grey linoleum to reflect and amplify the internal light, but it’s not enough.
Inside these old buildings, it’s always overcast, no matter how sunny the day.
Even after my eyes adjust for a few seconds, I can’t see her. A few other students are milling about in the long halls, but they’re lower years, all wearing uniform.
I have enough time to wonder if I conjured her up via wishful thinking, then movement snags my eye, dark blonde hairs poking out from the nearest cloakroom. Our eyes meet and hers open wide, then her entire head ducks back out of sight.
Too late.
“Caught you,” I say, sprinting close enough that I can grab her wrist, tugging her forward. She falls into me, using her other hand to catch herself, landing squarely in the middle of my chest.
Her eyes stare up at me, bigger and greener in person than inmy hungover memory. Her hair retains the shine from the stylists, though it looks three shades darker now it’s pulled back in a plain supermarket elastic.
Ratty jeans and an overlong hoodie swallow up George’s petite body. Despite the baggy covering, my mind helpfully supplies the details of what’s hiding underneath.
She wears a light scarf and I know it’s hiding the marks I left on her throat. I wonder where else she bears the bruises from last night. If the marks from my teeth are still visible on her breasts, her belly, her thigh.
If my cum is still dripping out from inside her.
I shake my head, snapping back to business. “What’re you doing here?”
“Um…” She snatches her hand away and I back her against the corridor wall, hand pressing her shoulder to pin her in place. George’s eyes want to be anywhere but looking into mine, darting to examine the ceiling, the hanging coats, the short benches, the passing students, the panelled floor. “Waiting for class?”
“Right. ‘Cause you go to Kingswood.”
My voice is sarcastic, but she nods, and it gives me pause. For someone who came into the school to visit me, she’s not exactly eager. Every cell in her body strains away from mine.
Some of that’s because I’m hulking over her, using my size to intimidate her the way I’ve been trained. I fall back half a step, releasing her shoulder. There’s a strange tick in my throat when she massages it and I make a mental note to be more careful. She’s so tiny, I don’t want to hurt her by accident.
Her answer is a whisper so soft I can barely hear it. “Yeah, I go here. Is that a p-problem?”
“The girl whose father can’t pay his gambling debts goes to the most expensive private school in the city?”
“I’m a day student.”
And sure, that chops the bill down some but there’s no way it makes it affordable. Half of too fucking expensive is still more than anyone in her situation can pay.
I take another step back, scouring her expressions and body language, trying to work out her game. There must be something. No one would show up and look this miserable by choice.
