Chapter 10: First Day of Thong Life
The morning sun hit the driveway like a spotlight, and I stood in the middle of it wearing nothing but a pair of flip flops, a gold chain, and the sparkliest royal purple thong I owned. The fabric was a scandalous little triangle of shimmer, catching the light with every micro-movement, and a thin strap disappeared between my cheeks like it was pointing the way home.
My dad leaned against the doorframe with his coffee mug, arms crossed, a proud smile playing under that thick mustache. "You look like a king," he said.
I wanted to die.
Chad's car rolled up the driveway, bass thumping through the open windows. Darius had the passenger seat, Kenji was in the back, and all three of them went quiet when they saw me. The car stopped. The music didn't.
"Oh my God," Darius breathed, leaning out the window. "He's actually doing it."
"Hop in, slut," Chad called. "We're gonna be late."
I walked to the car, feeling every step in the morning air. The flip flops slapped my heels. The gold chain bounced against my collarbone. The thong, the tiny purple excuse for clothing, announced itself with every sway of my hips. My huge, hairy ass was out. Fully out. On display for the whole goddamn neighborhood.
Kenji reached back and opened the door. "You look incredible, Blake. Seriously. The color suits you."
"Shut up," I muttered, sliding in beside him.
Darius twisted around in his seat. "Your dad really called the principal?"
"Yeah. Mr. Delgado." I swallowed. "He's gay. Older bear type. Handsome, you know. Gray beard, big chest, arms like tree trunks. Dad explained the whole situation, that I was living my truth as an exhibitionist thong bottom, and the guy just… rolled with it. Said he was honored to accommodate me."
"No shit," Chad said, pulling out of the driveway.
"He made it sound official. Like I have some kind of documented right to show up to class in a thong. He called it an expression of gay identity."
Kenji rested a warm hand on my bare thigh. "Then you're protected. That's good."
I nodded, but my stomach was a knot of wires. The car smelled like cheap cologne and fast food wrappers. The morning light kept catching my ass through the window, and every time we passed a pedestrian, my heart did a little flip.
The school parking lot came into view. Students milled around the entrance, backpacks slung over shoulders, all of them dressed. Pants. Shirts. Shoes. The whole world dressed, except for me.
"Fuck," I breathed.
Chad parked the car and killed the engine. He turned to look at me, his green eyes sharp and full of that competitive fire I knew so well. "Own it, slut. Today you become a legend."
I followed them out of the car.
The first two steps were fine. Then the whispers started. A girl in a cheerleading jacket pointed at me. A freshman boy dropped his backpack. Somebody laughed, a sharp, mean sound that cut through the parking lot noise.
I wanted to crawl back into Chad's car and hide until summer.
"Blake Thompson?" someone called. "Holy shit, is that Blake?"
My face burned. I kept my eyes fixed on the front doors, telling myself this was what I wanted, this was my truth, this was who I was. The strap of my thong shifted against my hole with every stride, a constant, maddening reminder of my own nakedness.
Then the guy stepped into my path.
He was big, football-jacket big, with a red face and a sneer I'd seen a hundred times. "The hell are you wearing, Thompson? You look like a faggot."
The words hit me like a punch. My confidence curled up and died somewhere in my throat.
Chad moved first. He stepped in front of me, chest out, shoulders squared. "Duh. He is a faggot. What's your point?"
The guy blinked. "What?"
"He's a faggot, dude. He's gay. He loves dick." Chad grinned, all teeth. "It means he gets laid more than you'll ever manage. While you're jacking off to porn on your phone, he's getting his brains fucked out by half the campus."
Darius sidled up next to him. "Honestly, man. You're standing here calling him names, meanwhile he's got the confidence to walk around in a sparkly thong, and you're wearing the same hoodie you've worn for three days. Who's really winning?"
Kenji circled around to my other side, a quiet presence. "She's got a point," he said softly. "Well, he. Blake's braver than most people will ever be."
Chad stepped closer to the guy, dropping his voice. "You're jealous, aren't you? Jealous that he's out here, exposed and proud, getting more ass than you could ever dream of. Face it. You're not a man like him. You'll never get your ass fucked as good as Blake's does."
The guy's face went through a series of colors. Red to purple to a dull, hopeless flush. Somebody behind us let out a wolf whistle.
"Damn, Thompson! Look at that dump truck!"
Another voice. "Hell yeah, baby! Rock that thong!"
A girl laughed, genuinely appreciative. "Get it, Blake! You look amazing!"
And just like that, the tide turned. The laughter that had been pointed at me changed shape. More whistles. More catcalls. A group of boys in letterman jackets turned to watch me walk past, and one of them outright said, "I'd hit that."
The red-faced guy slunk away, his hoodie pulled up around his ears.
I felt something crack open in my chest. The embarrassment was still there, simmering under my skin, but it was being drowned out by a rising, giddy current of pure, shameless joy.
Darius clapped me on the back. "Told you, baby girl. You're a legend."
I didn't know when it happened, but somewhere between the parking lot and the front doors, I started to swagger.
The front doors swallowed me whole. The hallway stretched out, bright and noisy, lockers slamming, voices bouncing off the linoleum. I kept my chin up and my hips loose, and somehow the swagger carried me all the way to my first class.
The room was half full. I slid into my usual seat, second row, by the window. The desk chair was cold against my bare thighs. The guy next to me, a husky-built beast with a bushy beard and bloodshot eyes, sat up straighter when I landed. Steve. He had a flannel wrapped around his waist and a keychain with a little pot leaf on it.
"Blake," he said slowly, his eyes traveling down my chest, my stomach, the bright purple triangle of fabric. "Did you lose a bet or something?"
I set my bag on the floor and turned to face him. The words came out prouder than I expected. "Nah. I'm wearing it because I want to."
Steve blinked. "For real?"
"For real. I'm a thong guy. Proud bottom. Just living my truth." I leaned back, letting my chest fill out. "The strap feels good. And my ass looks amazing in it."
Something shifted in Steve's face. His eyes got darker, more interested. He glanced at the front of the room, then back at me. "Show me."
I didn't hesitate. I stood up, turned, and bent over the desk. The thong stretched taut across my ass, the thin strap pulling deep into my crease as I presented myself. My cheeks spread slightly with the angle, the fabric digging in like an arrow pointing straight at my hole. I looked over my shoulder. "What do you think, neighbor? Does my ass look good?"
Steve made a sound, low in his throat. His hands came up, hesitant at first, then landed on my cheeks with a firm, possessive grip. "Holy shit, Blake. Your ass looks incredible."
He kneaded the flesh, his thumbs pressing into the meat of me. Then he leaned in. His beard scratched against my skin when he pressed his lips to one cheek, then the other, kissing them slow and deliberate. I gasped. He didn't stop. His fingers hooked the strap, tugged it aside, and buried his face between my cheeks, lips and nose right up against my hole.
The smell of him, warm and musky, mixed with the intimate scent of my own skin. He inhaled deep, a shuddering breath, and let out a groan against me. His face pressed harder, smothering himself in my fat cheeks, his whole mouth working against my sensitive rim.
The door opened. Steve pulled back like he'd been electrocuted, but his hands stayed on my hips.
"Boys." The teacher, Mr. Harrison, an older man with a coffee mug and tired eyes, fixed us with a glare. "Knock it off. That can wait until after class."
The whole room had gone quiet. I straightened up, my face burning, but I caught Steve's eye. He was red too, but grinning. Grinning like he'd just discovered something.
Mr. Harrison started the lesson. I barely heard a word. Steve's hand found my ass under the desk, rubbing slow circles over the fabric, his fingers finding the edges of the thong and tracing them. He kept doing it, quiet and patient, for the whole period. Every time I shifted in my seat, his hand followed. Every time I glanced over, he gave me that same hungry look.
When the bell rang, he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear. "Bathroom. Now."
We made it out the door together. His hand stayed on the small of my back the whole way down the hall. The bathroom was empty, tile and fluorescent light. He locked the door behind us.