Clay glances back at me, grin wide as a billboard. “Just wait,” he says, and then he’s knocking. Three sharp, two slow — not random, but a signal.
A pause, then the door cracks open. A frat brother in a wifebeater peeks out, hair slicked back, jawline cut from granite. He looks me over—no attempt at subtlety—then lets us in.
“Yo,” he says to Clay. "We already started.”
The air inside is a furnace, thick with the stench of weed, sweat, and something acrid, like scorched plastic. For a split second I’m blinded by the overhead light, then the scene resolves:
No arcade games.
Instead: a ring of guys, all college aged, perched on broken chairs and milk crates. Most are dressed, a few shirtless. A handful have their phones out, filming. At the center of the circle are two women, totally nude except for cowboy boots, cowboyhats, and smears of body glitter. They’re both stunning, but in that fake, reality-show way: long hair, heavy lashes, lips that look like they’ve been stung by hornets. Their skin shines with sweat, maybe oil. I’m close enough to see a bead of something drip down the inside of a thigh.
One of the girls—brunette, with giant Double D tits—is on her hands and knees, sucking a guy’s cock while another dude behind her pushes her hips forward, grinding into her ass in time with the music that pulses through the floor. The other girl, a beautiful blonde with heavy, natural tits with no tan lines, is astride a frat boy on the couch, lowering has asshole inch by inch onto his cock with a slow, theatrical moan, her head thrown back so her hair brushes the sofa behind her.
“Oooh yes,” she coos. “Mmmm!”
There’s a camera on a tripod aimed dead center at the two girls, the red light blinking. Three guys hover behind it, directing or at least pretending to, hands busy with phones and vape pens.
The chanting ramps up, low at first: “S-E-X. S-E-X.”
It gets louder. “S-E-X! S-E-X!”
The girls move in time with the drumbeat of the chant. The brunette gags a little on the dick in her mouth, eyes streaming, but keeps going. The guy behind her is slamming now, his hands splayed on her hips, driving her forward with every thrust. The other girl bounces on the lap of her frat boy, tits jiggling, as her stretched asshole swallows his cock again and again.
“You feel so good!” she whines, eyes closed with ecstasy. “Mmmm!”
I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do with my hands. My cup dangles from my fingers, lukewarm beer dribbling down my wrist. My jaw actually drops, and for a second I wonder if I look as dumb as I feel because is this really happening? Who are these girls? Where did they come from, even? Do they realize they’re being filmed?
A voice next to my ear says, “They’re pros. Seriously. The blonde’s name is Scarlett, she does OnlyFans and allegedly makes millions. I have no idea why she agreed to come tonight. The brunette, I don’t know, but these girls are definitely being paid.”
I turn, and it’s Clay, standing right beside me, eyes glued to the show.
I’m just about to say “get me out of here,” when suddenly, the show turns even more sordid. The brunette’s guy pulls out of her mouth, slaps the shaft against her cheek, then grabs her by the hair and shoves back between her lips, raw and brutal. Behind her, the other guy engages in deceit—with a sly smile, he peels off his condom, and then lines up and plunges into her bare pussy with a wet sucking sound. She shudders, then lets out a noise that’s half-moan, half-yelp.
“Mmmm,” she moans through the cock in her mouth. “Ummm!”
The frat room goes wild. Phones are up everywhere, flashes firing. The “S-E-X” chant is deafening now, a wall of sound. The girls look into the cameras, making O-faces, their hands braced for balance, the rhythm relentless.
Clay leans down, his lips almost at my neck. “You wanna join? Or just watch?”
The words slap me across the face. Is this asshole for real? Do I want to join these OnlyFans girls in making what’s obviously public porn?
I snap out of it, bile creeping up the back of my throat. The image is burned onto my retinas: the raw, obscene spectacle, the crowd of boys, the unblinking camera. I realize my nails are digging into my palm so hard there’s a crescent of blood under one thumb.
“No,” I say, voice flat and mechanical. “I want to go. Now.”
Clay shrugs, lets go of my arm. He’s all smiles, like nothing happened, like this is what every girl expects to see at a frat party. “It’s no big deal,” he says, and his eyes drift right back to the blonde. “The girls are on birth control, I’m sure, so no one’s going to get pregnant. All my brothers get tested too, all the time. There’s nothing weird going on.”
Again, is this asshole for real? This is “nothing weird”? I push past Clay, the heat in the attic suddenly unbearable. My boot heels clack on the floorboards as I bolt for the door. The chant is still going—“S-E-X!”—but I tune it out, focused on escaping this place. I fling open the door, the blessed, musty cold of the stairwell hitting me full in the face.
Clay follows, hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he says, like he just spilled beer on my shirt, “I should have warned you. First time’s always a little shocking.”
I don’t answer. I take the stairs two at a time, dizzy, the hallway twisting. I think about Kent, about how he’d flay these idiots alive, and for a second I wish he was here, just to save me from this mess.
When I hit the first floor, the noise of the party is almost comforting. The bodies and music and lights feel normal, even sane, compared to the freak show upstairs. I gulp a lungful of air, hands shaking, and toss my beer into the trash. My mouth tastes like metal. My brain is nothing but white noise.
Clay catches up, stands a little too close. “Hey,” he says, his voice lower, more serious. “You okay?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I square my shoulders, blink the sweat from my eyes, and give him a tight smile.
