Chapter 2: Schoolgirl Confessions
The back gate latch clicked with a sound he now knew by heart. Three days since the couch, since her hand, since her taste. Three days of lying in his twin bed staring at the ceiling, his body humming with a strange, restless energy. He’d replayed it all, a grainy, perfect film loop behind his eyelids. The mixtape he’d made her—The Breeders, Pavement—was a flimsy excuse, already sweaty in his hand.She was waiting on the back step. Not in shorts or a tank top.A green plaid miniskirt, impossibly short. White knee socks pulled up snug. Her long red hair was split into two pigtails tied with simple black elastics. She looked like a corrupted version of a schoolgirl from a TV show, a direct assault on every latent thought he’d ever tried to suppress.
“Hey,” he said, his voice cracking.Kate didn’t speak. She took the mixtape from his hand without looking at it, set it on the step, and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was firm, purposeful.She pulled him through the silent kitchen, past the humming refrigerator, to the stairs. Her parents’ bridge night.The house was a vault.Her room was at the end of the hall. It was neater than he’d imagined, books stacked on a desk, posters of bands he liked too, a scent of vanilla and clean cotton. The half-packed suitcase from downstairs was mirrored by a fuller one here, gaping open on the floor.She closed the door. The click of the lock was definitive.“You think about it?” she asked, turning to face him. Her eyes were bright, challenging.
“Yeah.”
“What part?”
“All of it.” His mouth was dry.“Good.” A small, predatory smile.“Tonight’s stage two. I’m in charge.” She walked toward him, not with the nervous energy of the living room, but with a liquid confidence that made his heart hammer against his ribs. She put her hands on his chest and pushed. He stumbled back, his calves hitting the edge of her bed, and sat down hard on the blue comforter.She stood over him, the skirt riding high on her thighs. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic waistband of her white cotton panties and slid them down, stepping out of them.She tossed them onto his lap.They were warm.
Then she climbed onto the bed, knees on either side of his hips, and shifted forward, until she was straddling his face. The plaid skirt brushed his cheeks.He could smell her, a musky, clean scent that was entirely Kate. His glasses were askew.He couldn’t breathe.
“You know what to do,” her voice came from above, muffled by her own thighs.“Lick me.Make me come. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
He’d read about this. In a worn paperback hidden under his mattress.Theory.This was practice. He tilted his head up, his hands coming to rest on the backs of her thighs, holding her steady.He pressed his mouth against her.
She was already wet, swollen.He licked tentatively, a slow stroke from bottom to top. She ground down against his mouth immediately, a rough, insistent motion.“More,” she gasped. “Use your tongue. Harder.”
He obeyed, circling the taut bud of her clit, probing at her entrance, learning the geography of her. Her hips began to roll in a frantic rhythm, grinding against his lips, his nose.Her taste flooded his senses. Her knees tightened against his head. The room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on her and her ragged breathing.“Fuck, yes.Right there. Just like that, you nerdy fucking genius.” Her words were gasoline on a fire.He felt a powerful, possessive surge. He was doing this.He was making Kate, glorious, terrifying Kate, gasp and curse above him. He slid a finger inside her, curling it, and her whole body jerked.“Another one. Now.” Her command was a snarl.
He added a second finger, stretching her, fucking her with his hand while his tongue worked ceaselessly on her clit.Her movements became less controlled, frantic, punishing. She was using his face, fucking his face, and a dark, shocking wave of pleasure rolled through him at the degradation of it.
“I’m gonna—oh god, Jack, don’t fucking stop—” Her voice broke into a guttural, choked cry. Her thighs clamped like a vise around his ears as she came, a series of violent spasms that shook her whole body. He kept his mouth sealed to her, drinking her in, until she went limp, trembling, and pushed herself off him.She collapsed onto her back beside him, chest heaving. A strand of saliva connected his chin to her thigh.He was painfully hard, straining against his jeans. After a moment, she sat up.Her pigtails were disheveled, her lips swollen. She looked wrecked and magnificent.“Stand up,” she said, her voice raw.He did. She got off the bed and took his hand, leading him to the full-length mirror attached to her closet door. She positioned him in front of it, his back to the glass, so she could see herself over his shoulder.Her reflection was flushed, eyes dark.
“Watch,” she told him, and then she sank to her knees on the worn carpet.His breath hitched. She undid his button and zipper, pulling his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his erection. She didn’t hesitate. She leaned forward and took the head of his cock into her mouth, her eyes locked on her own reflection in the mirror.The heat was unbelievable. Her tongue swirled around the tip, then she began to lower her head, taking him deeper. He watched, mesmerized, as her lips stretched around his girth, as her face contorted slightly with the effort. She pushed further, until he felt the back of her throat. She gagged, a wet, deep sound, and pulled back, a string of saliva bridging her lips and his cock.
“Fuck,” he whispered.She went down again, deeper this time, holding herself there. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, but her gaze in the mirror was fierce, triumphant. She began to move, bobbing her head, one hand wrapping around the base of him, the other cupping his balls. The sounds were filthy—wet sucking, soft gags, her ragged breath through her nose.
“You like watching?” she panted, pulling off for a moment, her lips slick and bruised.“Watching me choke on your dick?”
He couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his hands tangling in her pigtails. She took that as permission, gripping them like handles as she plunged her mouth back onto him, fucking her own face with a brutal, beautiful intensity. He watched her reflection, the tears tracking through her freckles, the obscene penetration, the absolute surrender and control warring on her face. The coil in his groin wound tight, a pressure about to snap.“I’m gonna come,” he grunted, a warning.
She pulled off, stroking him fast with her hand. “Do it,” she hissed, staring at their reflection.“Come on my face. Mark me.”
With a shout he didn’t recognize as his own, he came. Thick jets splashed across her cheek, her chin, caught in her eyelashes. She kept stroking, milking every drop, until he was spent and shaking.She sat back on her heels, his release painting her skin. She looked at herself, then at him in the mirror.A slow, satisfied smile.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the only sound their labored breathing. Then she wiped her face with the back of her hand, stood up on shaky legs, and walked to her desk. She picked up a box of Kleenex, pulled a few, and handed them to him.
As he cleaned himself up, she looked out her window into the dark backyard. “My brother left a bunch of his stuff in the garage,” she said, her voice returning to something closer to normal, though still husky. “Including an old sleeping bag.It’s pretty private out there.”
She turned to face him. The smeared mess on her face was gone, wiped away, but the rawness remained. “Next time.I want you inside me. For real.”
He just nodded, the promise hanging in the air between them, heavier than any lock on any door.