Chapter 13: Dressing for Attention
The cheap vinyl desk chair creaked as Ellie leaned closer to the smudged mirror propped on her textbooks. Her lips were still puffy, the gloss she smeared on catching the dim light from her desk lamp, making them look slick and bee-stung. She traced the faint, crescent-shaped indentation on her collarbone left by someone’s teeth last night – Chad’s, maybe? Or his friend? The details blurred pleasantly, a warm, liquid feeling spreading low in her belly as she remembered the weight of them. Good girl, one of them had growled. She shivered.
She pulled on the skirt. Black, stretchy, impossibly short. The worn elastic waistband barely grazed the tops of her thighs. It rode up immediately, exposing the lacy edge of the black thong underneath. She turned sideways, arching her back so her ass jutted out against the flimsy material. Perfect. Visible outline, just the way they seemed to like it. The lace bralette was next, thin straps biting slightly into the tender skin of her shoulders. It shoved her tits up and together, the deep V-neck of the slouchy top she threw on over it failing spectacularly to conceal the swell. Every inch of skin she’d carefully darkened with that cheap tanning lotion seemed to hum. Look at me, her body screamed. See me.
A stack of philosophy notes threatened to topple from her desk. Kant’s categorical imperative stared up at her, the neat, precise handwriting suddenly alien and ridiculous. What use was that against the raw, electric charge of being wanted? Even if the wanting felt like being scraped raw sometimes. The ache between her legs, a familiar companion now, throbbed insistently, a counterpoint to the dull tenderness inside.
The ache pulsed, sharp and sweet beneath the dull throb. She ignored the philosophy notes, Kant forgotten. Instead, she rummaged in her bottom drawer, pushing aside tangled leggings until her fingers brushed the soft knit. Black, over-the-knee socks. She sat heavily on the edge of her bed, the mattress springs groaning softly, a familiar sound echoing countless nights. She rolled the first sock up her calf, the knit clinging snugly, smoothing over her knee and stopping high on her thigh. The elastic top dug in slightly, a satisfying pressure. The second sock followed, the ritual grounding her. She stood, turning back to the mirror. The socks stretched taut over her thighs, stark against the expanse of skin between the hem of her microscopic skirt and their tops. The effect was deliberate, obscene. A walking invitation.
"Perfect," she breathed, the word barely audible. Her reflection stared back: swollen lips, dark-ringed eyes, the socks framing the deliberate display. She grabbed her battered canvas backpack, slung it over one shoulder. The walk to class was a performance. She pushed her shoulders back, thrust her hips forward, exaggerating the sway Chad seemed to love. Her ass cheeks moved distinctly against the thin skirt fabric with each step. The cool morning air brushed her exposed thighs, making the skin prickle. She felt eyes. Always eyes. A group of guys loitering near the science building whistled lowly; she didn't turn, just let her hips roll a fraction wider. The ache between her legs flared hotter.
She was crossing the quad, shortcutting through the patchy grass, when it happened. A sharp, stinging impact exploded across her left ass cheek. The force rocked her forward a step. "Whoa, Finch! Looking ripe today!" The voice was familiar, gratingly cheerful – Mark, one of Chad's lacrosse buddies. He was already walking away backwards, grinning, his friends chuckling beside him. The sting bloomed into a deep, spreading heat. Ellie froze for a split second, backpack strap digging into her shoulder. Then, a shaky breath escaped her. A flush crept up her neck, not entirely from embarrassment. The sharp pain melted, replaced by a thick, liquid warmth pooling low in her belly. She adjusted her skirt, didn't look back. Kept walking. Her stride didn't falter; if anything, it became more pronounced, the sway deeper. The imprint of his hand felt like a brand. A filthy, perfect brand.