Until he arrives.
I’m not watching the door when he enters, but I know the moment that he does— the sound of the room changes. The volume doesn’t, nor do the actual conversations— it’s truly the sound, the tone that shifts. Everyone begins speaking in slightly more hushed, finishing-up-this-one-thing-before-we-go-quiet voices. It’s like royalty has entered, and everyone is equal parts awed and fearful. He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t even know if he sees me. He goes straight to shaking hands and rapping his teammates on the back, saying what’s up to the cheerleaders who rush to him. Trishelle isn’t among them; I think social laws mean only the senior cheerleaders can go up to him like this.
Meanwhile, I picture him naked.
I don’t mean to— it’s just that I know exactly what he looks like under his blue collared shirt, under those pants. I know how his mouth feels on my own, and on my nipples, and on my pussy. I know what it feels like to have him spank me, and how his cock presses against the front of his boxers, and how it feels in my hand. I feel myself grow wet, a sensation totally different when I’m shaved smooth and not wearing panties.
I cling to the wall, unsure what to do or where to go; drinking champagne turns to practically gulping it in an attempt to calm my nerves. Tyson looks down at his phone for a few moments, and then mine buzzes.
T.S.: Upstairs
I smile, perhaps a little too broadly, and feel the heat spread from my core across my entire body, surely turning my chest pink. I set my drink down on the nearest table, find the nearest staircase, and head up. No one seems to notice— I’m practically invisible here, when there are girls like Trishelle to look at.
Except to Tyson, anyhow.
It’s quiet upstairs— this isn’t the sort of party where people trickle into each and every corner of the house. In fact, it feels like I may get in trouble for being here at all. The four doors are open, revealing two bedrooms, a bathroom, and an office with floor to ceiling bookshelves. There’s an enormous executive desk in the middle with a leather chair that looks out into the hallway. I’m unsure where I’m meant to go, so I simply linger at the top of the landing, stomach swirling, nerves peaking. Breathe, I order myself. Just keep breathing.
It’s another couple of minutes before I hear heavy feet on the stairs; I step forward to peer over the railing and shudder a breath when I confirm that it’s Tyson. His eyes glint with excitement as he takes the final few steps, quickly moving out of anyone’s view. I step back as he approaches me.
“Hi,” I whisper, unable to take my eyes off him.
“Those aren’t your clothes, are they?” he says with an amused growl. He steps back and lets his eyes wander up and down my body, like he’s deciding where he’ll start. My heart pounds.
“They’re my roommate’s. Trishelle’s,” I say. There’s no hiding the pant in my voice, and I see a flicker of disappointment cross Tyson’s mouth.
“I like your clothes better,” he says. “You look like one of them now.” He reaches forward, and I go perfectly still, like a deer in lights. He cups my cheek in one hand, and then uses his thumb to wipe the lipstick off my mouth. “There. You’re perfect, Anna. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.”
“Trishelle said it was the kind of party I had to dress up for,” I explain.
He nods, like he understands, yet still disagrees. “Interesting,” he says, and then reaches forward again— but this time toward my waist. I whimper as his hand climbs up my skirt, and he checks for himself that I’ve shaved my pussy as directed. He groans when he feels how smooth I am, and massages the softness between my legs with his whole hand, like he’s appreciating it before he begins to truly explore it.
“Interesting,” he starts again, “Since it feels like you aren’t entirely dressed as it is.”
“You told me not to wear—“
“Shhh,” he says, letting one finger edge along my slit. I moan louder than intended and lose my balance; I pitch forward and fall against him, struck by how slick and smooth his fingers are against my skin now that I’m bare. Tyson grasps me closer with one hand, but is unrelenting with the one between my legs. When he presses lightly against my clit, I cry out.
“Have you shaved your pussy before, Anna?”
“No,” I gasp as he continues to work my clit. “Never.”
“But you shaved it when I asked you to,” he muses.
I nod— I can’t find words right now, not with the electricity that’s racing through me.
“Why?” he asks, pressing a bit harder, then adjusting his hand so that his thumb remains on my clit, but his middle finger is pressing closer and closer to my ass. He lightly slides that finger between my cheeks, and I pant in anticipation of feeling his finger against that entrance, of how dirty I feel for loving it when he fingered my ass last time we were together.