Chapter 10: The Walk of Shame
The morning light was a liar. It was too bright, too clean, cutting across the quad in sharp angles that felt accusatory. Evie squinted against it, her head throbbing in time with the sore, well-used pulse between her legs. She and Tiff were a matching pair of wrecks, moving through the orderly campus like a stain spreading on a crisp white shirt.
Evie’s shorts were denim, but they were also damp. A persistent, cool slickness glued the fabric to the back of her thighs. Every few steps, she was hyper-aware of a faint, thick trickle escaping her, a leftover gift from Darius that her body was too stretched to contain. Tiff’s skirt was rumpled, a tiny spandex thing that did nothing to hide the similar state of her. They leaned on each other, their steps unsteady, their giggles erupting in random, breathless bursts.
“Oh my god, when you queefed on his dick,” Tiff wheezed, doubling over and grabbing Evie’s arm for balance.
“You farted when he was eating your ass!” Evie shot back, her voice raspy from overuse. The memory was filthy, absurd. It made her giddy.
“Sissy stuff!” they chorused in unison, then collapsed into another fit of laughter, drawing stares from a passing group in university hoodies.
Tiff stopped walking, pulling Evie to a halt. She turned, her gaze zeroing in on Evie’s mouth. Her own lipstick was a blurred crimson disaster. “You’ve got, like, cum crust in your eyebrow, bestie.”
“You have glitter lube in your hair,” Evie slurred, reaching out to pick at a clump of dried, sparkly gunk near Tiff’s temple.
Their eyes met. The giggles died into something warmer, denser. Tiff’s expression softened, her gaze dropping to Evie’s swollen lips. “We’re a mess,” she whispered, but it sounded like a compliment.
“The best mess,” Evie breathed back.
Tiff closed the distance. Their kiss wasn’t passionate; it was sloppy, exploratory, a shared inventory of the night’s damage. Tiff’s tongue, thick and eager, licked at the corner of Evie’s mouth, tasting old lip gloss and salt. Evie reciprocated, her own tongue delving past Tiff’s beefy DSLs, finding the familiar, musky aftertaste of Darius there, too. They shared it, their mouths moving in a wet, noisy communion. A string of saliva connected them when they finally pulled apart, glistening in the sun.
Tiff’s hand came down on Evie’s rear with a sharp, stinging slap. The denim did little to muffle the sound. Smack. The impact made the whole generous, round curve of Evie’s ass jiggle visibly, a prolonged, wobbling oscillation that seemed to go on for seconds.
“Still bouncy,” Tiff observed with professional appreciation. “Good sissy ass.”
Evie just giggled, the sting a welcome punctuation mark. She was about to reply when she stepped backward directly into someone.
The collision was soft, bookish. A muted oof and the sound of papers hitting the paved walkway.
Evie turned.
Time didn’t slow down. It snapped into a horrible, crystalline focus.
It was Ben. And Liam. And Chloe. From her—from Ed’s—Computational Logic study group. Ben’s glasses were askew. Liam was clutching a fallen textbook to his chest like a shield. Chloe’s mouth was a perfect, horrified ‘O’.
Their eyes were scanners, taking in the data: Evie’s smeared, yesterday’s makeup, the dark circles under her eyes, the hickey blooming like a bruise on her neck. The way her too-tight tank top stretched across her chest, the damp, suspicious patch on the back of her denim shorts. Then Tiff, a neon-pink avatar of depravity, leaning into Evie’s side, one hand still possessively cupping the slapped ass cheek.
Recognition flickered in Ben’s eyes, followed by utter confusion. “Ed…?”
The old name was a needle to the heart. For a second, Ed Finch clawed his way up through the cum-filled haze—the shyness, the terror of being seen, the crushing weight of their judgment.
But then Tiff’s fingers squeezed. A bolt of pure, anarchic energy shot through Evie. She felt her posture change, a hand going to her hip, her weight shifting to make her ass pop.
“Evie,” she corrected, her voice dripping with a lazy, theatrical boredom. “Ed’s, like, so last semester. He was so boring.”
Chloe found her voice, sharp with academic disdain. “You look… you’re a mess. Are you on drugs?”
Tiff laughed, a bright, shiny bubble of sound. “Better than drugs, honey!” She delivered another sharp, ringing slap to Evie’s rear. The jiggle was monumental, a blatant, fleshy wave that held everyone’s gaze hostage. “Whoops! Forgot you used to be one of these nerds, bestie!”
Evie leaned into the performance, the final shell of Ed crumbling to dust. She looked the trio up and down, her gaze lingering on the textbooks, the sensible shoes, the untainted aura of virgin logic puzzles. A wide, empty smile spread across her face.
“God, yeah, so boring,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “All that code. So dry.” She took a half-step forward, letting them get the full, debauched picture. “But if any of you boys want a turn seeing what a real good time is…” She let the sentence hang, then smirked. “…you can have me. If you measure up.”
She winked. Tiff cackled, high and loud, looping her arm through Evie’s.
Ben flushed a deep, painful scarlet. Liam looked at the ground. Chloe just shook her head, a monument to disgust.
“Come on, bestie,” Tiff purred, steering Evie away. “We need pancakes. And more lube.”
They sauntered off, leaving the study group in a silent bubble of shattered normalcy. Evie didn’t look back. She could feel their stares on her back, on the denim clinging to the unmistakable, leaky evidence of her night. It should have felt like shame. It felt like victory. It felt like a beginning.
“Think any of them will?” Tiff asked, her voice full of mischief.
Evie squeezed her arm, her new best friend, her guide. “Doubt it,” she said, her voice light and airy, finally free of Ed’s weight. “Their loss. More for us.”