Chapter 3: The party
The bass thrummed through the floorboards, a physical vibration that climbed up Ethan’s legs and settled in his hollow chest. The frat house was a sweltering, breathing organism. Bodies slick with sweat pressed against him in the dark, strobe-lit chaos. The air was a thick soup of spilled beer, cloying perfume, and the raw, animal scent of hot, young skin. He drained another plastic cup of something bitter and warm, the liquid doing little to numb the sharp edges of the memory of Maya’s dismissive click of the door.
He was leaning against a sticky wall, trying to disappear into the peeling paint, when he saw her. Maya. She was across the room, a circle of her friends clustered around her, their faces animated in the pulsating lights. He couldn’t hear them over the music, but he could read their expressions. Leaning in. Sharing a secret. A joke.
Driven by a masochistic impulse, he pushed off the wall and drifted closer, using the crowd as cover.
Maya’s voice cut through the din, sharp and clear. “—so much better, I’m not even kidding. He knows exactly what he’s doing down there. Like, he enjoys it. Not like some guys who act like it’s a fucking chore.”
A girl next to her laughed, a high, tinkling sound that grated on Ethan’s nerves. “Who, Ethan?”
“God, no,” Maya said, the dismissal so casual it was like a physical blow. “This new guy, Leo. He’s a fucking artist. Makes you see stars. Ethan was… adequate. At best. He always had this look on his face, like he was solving a math problem. Totally killed the vibe.”
The group erupted in laughter. Ethan felt the cheap beer rise in his throat, acidic and burning. Adequate. A math problem. The words echoed in the cavernous, beer-soaked emptiness inside him. He stumbled back, away from the sound of her voice, the world tilting on its axis.
A hand touched his arm. He flinched.
“You look like you could use a distraction.” The voice was female, smooth and confident. He turned to see a girl with sharp green eyes and a cascade of dark, unruly curls. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was a transactional smile.
“Chloe,” she said, not waiting for his name. Her fingers trailed down his arm to his wrist, her grip firm. “Come on.”
He was too drunk, too devastated to resist. She led him through the throng, up a flight of stairs where the music was muffled, and into a small, dark bedroom. Clothes were strewn over a chair. The air smelled of weed and stale cologne. She closed the door, and the party became a distant heartbeat.
Without a word, she backed him towards the edge of the bed until his knees hit the mattress. He sat down heavily, his head spinning. She stood before him, looking down with that same cool, appraising expression.
“You seem tense,” she stated, her hands going to the button of her jeans. She shoved them down her hips, along with her panties, in one efficient motion. She kicked them aside, planting her feet firmly on the floor. A dense, dark bush of curls nestled between her thighs. The scent of her, musky and immediate, filled the small space.
It was a familiar script. His body knew its lines.
His shoulders slumped in a silent surrender. This was what was expected. This was his role. He slid off the bed, his knees hitting the rough carpet with a soft thud. The posture was automatic, a well-practiced routine of submission. He looked up at her, the ceiling light haloing her head, her face in shadow.
“That’s it,” she purred, her voice losing its social smoothness, becoming guttural. She spread her legs wider, her fingers tangling in his shaggy hair. “Get to work. Show me what you’re good for.”
He leaned forward, his mind a thousand miles away, back in his dorm room with the weight of Maya on his chest. He pressed his face into her. The hair was coarse against his skin, just like always. He parted her with his tongue, the flavor strong and complex—salty, slightly sour, utterly primal. He began to move his tongue in the familiar patterns, the motions he’d perfected through dutiful, unreciprocated practice.
“Yeah, just like that,” Chloe moaned, her hips pushing forward, fucking his face. “Use your fucking tongue, don’t just sit there. Lick my clit. Harder.”
He obeyed, the commands a dull echo in his beer-fogged brain. He was a machine, an autonomous thing designed for this single function. He focused on the technicalities—the pressure, the rhythm, the specific, circular motion that he knew from experience could expedite the process. Her moans grew louder, more frantic. Her grip on his hair tightened, pulling sharply, and he winced but didn’t stop.
“Don’t you dare stop, I’m so close, you fucking beautiful boy,” she gasped, her body beginning to tremble. Her words were a meaningless soundtrack. He was just waiting for the finish line, for the release that was hers alone.
With a sharp, guttural cry, her thighs clamped around his head, shuddering. She held him there, pressed against her, for a long moment before her body went slack. She pushed his head away, breathing heavily.
“Fuck,” she panted, a smile in her voice. She stepped back, pulling her jeans up, not even looking at him as he remained on his knees. “That was exactly what I needed. Thanks.”
She was out the door before he could even get to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of her a lingering brand. He stood up, his legs shaky, and stumbled out of the room.
As he descended the stairs back into the pulsing heart of the party, he saw them. A group of women by the keg, cups in hand. They looked at him as he passed. One of them, a blonde with a pierced lip, nudged her friend. They didn’t look away. Their eyes tracked him, and a slow, knowing smirk spread across the blonde’s face. It was a look of understanding, of shared, silent judgment. They knew his function. They all knew.
He walked through the crowd, the music now sounding like a derisive laugh, the smirks of the women burning into his back like brands. He found his half-empty cup on a windowsill and crushed it in his hand, the warm, leftover beer dripping between his fingers like shame.