I know, I know, I know. You all have absolute right to shoot me. I'm sure most of you thought I'd given up on this story. Well, if you're still interested, and you haven't taken me off you alerts/favs, I thank you very much. I can promise cross fingers another update sometime by Christmas...or maybe New Years. It's not that I'm lazy. I'm a very busy person: college apps, AP 1, AP2, AP3, AP4, band, etc...
In the mean time: HAPPY THANKSGIVING. How 'bout them Patriots:)
I apologize for the spelling and grammar mistakes. I wanted to posted this as soon as I was done.
The Conquests of Kimberly Greene
Part III: Tye Me Up
Saturday night at Nicky's.
The same table, same crowd, and same sticky floor boards. Vaguely I wonder how many times I've sat at this table over the course of my Spencer days. When the sole of my Jimmy Cho boot requires more force than usual to lift it from a gooey substance on the floor I answer my own question: too many times.
It's not that I'm complaining. I like Nicky's as much as the next prep school kid with Daddy's credit card and mommy's facialist. It's a great place to forget about classes, laugh with your friends, and dance a little. But in all honesty, it gets old really fast.
I drove a few girls over from the dorms. Saturday is our usual hang night. Although I've known these girls for almost four years I don't consider any of them my friends. They're more like 'friends' or: acquaintances that I associate with for social causes only. In translation they're the people I hang out with to make it look like I have friends, which is fine, because I'm the same to them.
If I wanted friends, real friends, I'm sure I wouldn't have a problem finding any. But telling people all your little secrets and letting them see your less-than-pretty habits just makes things complicated. I don't need a shoulder to cry on or sympathetic airhead to pour my heart out too. I just need a few sets of lips that help circulate and relay gossip.
We all gather around the bar and wait patiently for our drinks. I'm the last to make it over to our regular table, a martini in hand. I love the glares I get from the girls who only managed to get Cokes. Nicky is usually pretty strict about not serving the prep school kids alcohol. Thankfully, I've never gotten in trouble here; therefore he doesn't realize that my ID if completely fake and I'm really 18 years old, not 22.
The fact that I can pass for 22 is another characteristic I have that most other girls my age do not. This gives them another reason to hate me out of jealousy. Then of course there are the unfortunate few who can pass for old than 22 – much older. If your eyes lids are already droopy and your hair is thinning while you're still in your teens my advice to you is: get laid; fast, quick, and often.
A few 'friends' from my lit class are crammed around the small circular table. It's become a regular thing for us this semester to come here after a major English test. The past week we'd been studying The Deerslayer for Mr. Htims. I didn't like the book, didn't read the book, and probably didn't pass the test on the book. This doesn't upset me as I know I can find other ways to earn a passing grade with Mr. Htims.
Jackie, one of the girls from my lit class tips her head back and screams out of tune with the song currently playing on the jukebox. Jackie, like me, has access to Nicky's spiked stash. But if the stupid bitch doesn't stop knocking back shots she's going to get us kicked out soon.
I chuckle inwardly as a guy behind Jackie pinches her ass and causes her to spill her latest shot down the front of her shirt. Fiona, who's also drunk, notices this as well and laughs obnoxiously. Jackie is immediately insulted and makes a comment about Fiona's choice to eat a burger and fries tonight.
Fiona is instantly silenced. Personally, I've never gotten along with Jackie. So I reach over and grab a handful of fries from Fiona's plate and stuff them in my mouth. I make sure to keep eye contact with Jackie the entire time. When I've swallowed I say, "You probably can't taste food anymore Jackie, with all the stomach acid stuck in your throat."
The rest of the girls gasp in shock like the proper, blue-blood bimbos they are. It's amazing that they've all morphed their faces into the exact same expression of shock. I snicker. I may come from money as well, but at least my brain is connected to something and doesn't sit stupidly in my head watching reruns of "Desperate Housewives".
Without a second thought I stand up, taking my drink with me. Nicky's is jam-pack crowded and I have to squeeze through a dozen bodies just to make it over to the game area. Some of those squeezes were more pleasant that others.
The best part about Nicky's is its central location on one of Spencer's main road. This road stretches through the neighboring three towns. Since this portion of Massachusetts is mostly rural and filled with 'historic society gems' there is very little to do for fun between here and Boston. That means that Nicky's attracts a wide variety of hot, bored, rich guys and I intend to meet some tonight.
With my martini glass still in hand I find a spot on the dance floor. This spot happens to be between a really cute guy and his date. He doesn't seem to mind, but the girl does. She shoots me a look and stalks off. I turn around to give Mr. Someone a full view of my chest which is barely contained in a dark brown tube top.
He smiles approvingly and grinds up against me. We enjoy ourselves for quite a while before his hand drifts down to my crotch. I am all for touching but this boy hasn't struck enough interest in me to let him that close this soon. So I grab his hand, twist a few fingers, and dance over to a freeloader in an Abercrombie Henley.
Mr. Abercrombie happily accepts my advances and soon his arms are wrapped around my waist as I lean into him with my hips moving intrusively against his. This one is much cuter than the previous specimen. I can feel his chest muscles as my back rubs against them. I look up and I'm sure I recognize his face from the fall sports poster. He's on the wrestling team.
I've never been too sure about those wrestling types. There's something weird about a person who enjoys rolling on a mat, clad in spandex, while locked in an embrace with another person also housing the same type of private parts. To avoid any awkward positions I saunter off to another couple.
This time the boy opens an arm for me to join him and his current partner. Ms. Flirt, as her shirt proclaims, makes no protest and grabs the guy by his side belt loop and rides up and down his leg. I follow her lead on the other side and soon we're both dancing up and down his body.
When I'm bored with this game I walk over to the jukebox, sipping the last of my martini. There's a couple of shy girls standing there, clearly dateless and friendless. I hate girls like that. They come to parties and stand there looking all lonely to make other people feel sorry for them. Then people who are having a good time feel guilty, which is just pointless.
If you're going to show up without man candy at least have the balls to steal some, or talk to some. Don't just stand there taking up space.
The current song is winding down. I fish a quarter out of my back pocket and slide it into the coin slot. The girls look up at me, clearly intimidated. I grin wickedly and flip through the selections until I find the perfect song. I select it, and then point to the screen while looking at the girls.
I dash to the side just as the two wallflowers glance at the screen and the dulcet tones of Josh Groban begin "You Raise Me Up".
"Who the hell chose this song?" Someone yells angrily from the floor. The voice belongs to a member of the neighboring town's swim team and he glances sharply at the girls who appear, to all the world, as if they're selecting songs from the jukebox. "Yo, I don't who you are but get the hell out of here if you're gonna fuck with the music."
Mortified the girls scurry away and I share a secret laugh with myself.
I never said I was a nice person.
Nicky's offers two pool tables, two ping-pong machines, a foosball table, and an air hockey game for entertainment. Since the time I've lived in this town, the air hockey table has never worked and the ball gets stuck on the spring in both ping-pong games. This means there is a constant battle for spots at pool and foosball.
One pool table, the one closer to the bar, is much better than the other. Unlike its twin this one has four legs, not three. The felt on the surface is not printed with various designs created by cigarette burns and other questionable stains and the balls haven't been glued back together with Elmer's.
It is at this fine station of billiard exertion that I spy Reid and Tyler, entranced in a game with two older men. From the looks of it, it's a couple of forty-year old guys against two high school juniors.
It's Reid's shot and his beanie clad head pops up in triumph as two solids slide into the pocket. Tyler nods in approval from behind him, looking scrumptious in a blue and white plaid shirt with chocolate cords.
Reid's next shot fails and the fatter of the older men lines up his stick. His pool stick that is – I don't think his other one works without some form of drug enhancement. Surprisingly he hops the white ball over a solid and sinks one of the stripes. Reid's grin immediately changes to a frown.
Fat guy misses on his second go, leaving Tyler to sink the 7 and 8 ball for the win. Reid makes a big show of presenting Tyler with an exaggerated bow and hand flourishes. "And the boy who will earn us both a pretty purse tonight… Tyler Simms," Reid claps approvingly.
Tyler accepts Reid's applause and bows before their nonexistent crowd. Well maybe I shouldn't say nonexistent. Slumped against tables and counters near the pool game are at least a dozen doe-eyed girls eagerly watching the boys' every move. I lean against the bar, far enough away not be seen with these drooling wannabes, but close enough to see the pool table.
Tyler spends more than enough time checking the angles on his shot and finally sets his stick down to shoot. It's a hard shot, straight across the diagonal of the pool table. If either of the balls strays too much from the desired path they could hit one of the stripes and knock them in.
I feel my fingers tighten around the martini glass as Tyler pulls back to take the shot. The white ball connects perfectly with the eight ball, sending it and the 7 straight into the far corner pocket. It's a beautiful shot, and it would have guaranteed Reid and Tyler a hundred bucks…if the white ball hadn't gone in with them.
Fat man 1 and 2 laugh loudly at the boys, their immense beer bellies shaking over the waist of their jeans. Tyler stays in his bent position, as if frozen in shock. Reid, however, has no problem expressing himself.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he exclaims. "We've been playing for three hours and you screw our biggest deal of the night by scratching?" He throws his pool stick across the table, clearly intending to hit Tyler. The target easily side steps the assault and sends Reid a death glare.
"Shut up," he says, "It's not like you've never missed a shot, not including the ones you scored with divine intervention."
I laugh from my seat at his comment. These boys may be many things but religious is not one of them.
"There's no reason you couldn't have made that," Reid argued. "You pay my share, pussy." The last word is said somewhat louder than the others and Reid marches off towards another group of people.
I see a muscle twitch in Tyler's jaw, but he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a leather wallet to pay the competition.
I get it now. Tyler is the sub in his relationship with Reid. They might be the school's most infamous tag team but when the going gets tough, Reid blames it on Tyler. It must be hard being the youngest of the four most popular boys in town.
After paying off the men, Tyler looks around for something to do. I can see he's a little lost without his twin calling the shots. Poor Tyler. Maybe he needs a little cheering up.
He slowly drifts in the direction of the rest of the Sons, who are seated at table in the far corner of the room. It's like they all have some pack-animal instinct, I swear. Neither one of them can stand to be seen alone for too long.
Quickly, I sneak up behind him and blow on his ear. Some people find this coy action stupid or childish. That's because they don't know how to do it right. He turns to find the source and I keep my head in the exact same plane, so his lips match up with mine when his neck is fully craned.
"Hey there," I said quietly. I vaguely remember that the last thing I put in my mouth was an alcoholic beverage which probably didn't have the best of smells. But there was no need to worry; my breath was minty as ever. "Tough game?"
I can tell that some of girls who were part of their audience during the pool match are still hanging around, hoping to be the lucky lady who provides the losers with a consolation prize. Tyler doesn't seem too aware of this and he doesn't even take a glance around the room to see if there are better possibilities before settling both hands low on my hips.
"Well," he smirks, "I'm a little frustrated. That was quite a tough shot and I did technically sink both balls," he explains. He eyes glances ever so slightly down to his pants and I can't help but laugh at how forward this kid is acting. I expected Baby Boy – I've heard Reid call him that a few times in mockery – to be a little more prudent.
Then again, it's not like his 'big brothers' believe in taking it slow. I would know.
"Oh I see," I bring my lips down to his neck and lightly suck on the skin exposed over his collar. He backs up, leaning against the pool table, despite the new group of people that had quickly claimed the free space once Reid walked away. In this position I am leaning over him, happily in control.
Sub. Hehe.
His hands tighten around my hips, egging me on. "I can sink balls too, baby." Admittedly, this is not one of my best lines. But apparently, Tyler doesn't count suaveness as a required characteristic for girls he gets dirty with. All it took was one crappy innuendo and he is half carrying, half dragging me past the pool tables, through the dance floor, around the bar and into…the storage closet.
"Uh," I look around disgustedly as he sits me on top of a Craftsmen tool drawer, covered with dust and pulls a chain to turn on the single light bulb hanging above our heads, "I have a rule about janitor's closets." My mother would be proud of the prissy, sarcastic tone my voice adopted.
"Shut up," he grunts, pulling his shirt open in a style not unlike that of Hulk Hogan. He clutches the belt loops on my jeans and pulls me forward, kissing the soft spot under my chin forcefully. He wastes no time getting his tongue across my jaw or my tube top shoved down and jeans unbuckled.
As his fingers push my panties aside and his free hand comes up to turn my head so he can suck on my neck I feel like screaming. When the hell did submissive Tyler turn into the Dominator? I'm sure there's some Freudian term for this; people who are often suppressed by their group of friends tend to be more assertive in intimate relations. But I couldn't care less what psychological disorder Tyler has. His overpowering ruthless force was completely turning me on.
Maybe I have sadistic tendencies. Well, now's the time to experiment.
I got a little more comfortable on the tool drawer and shook my jeans further down my legs. I felt his fingers inside me, pushing and prying. Bringing my hands up to his head, I ran them through his hair. His was thicker than anyone else so far. As his lips grew more assertive on my neck, I began to nibble his ear – the only part of his face I could get my lips near to.
Tyler is a very good kisser. Although there is a rushed feeling to the pattern his lips are tracing on the skin just above my chest, they feel intensely warm and powerful. His tongue is involved in a way that doesn't feel as if I'm being licked, but still makes its presence known. I move away from his ear and try to get our lips connected. Since my hands are still in his hair, I can direct his head to the proper angle.
But Tyler will have no part in it. He moves his head in the opposite direction I desire and resorts to placing small, short, pecking kisses along my collar bone as his hands finally rise to get some boob action. His refusal to give me what I want further supports my theory that Tyler definintely has control issues. It's kinda kinky.
Still desperate for a real mouth-to-mouth kiss, I bite my lip and roll my head back at the feeling of stimulation. My hands slip down from his head to his abdominal muscles. For the third time in nearly two weeks I send a silent prayer to God and whoever wrote the first check to fund Spenser's swim team.
My fingers trace happily over the individual curves and ridges of his chest and stomach. Then my hands drift up to his arms, feeling the meaty biceps. His hands have fallen from my breasts and are now undoing his own belt buckle.
I wonder why I didn't think of that sooner...
The instant he slides his zipper down, Tyler's fully erect member makes its appearance. I can't help but glance down quickly. A wicked grin plays on my lips as the long expanse of Tyler's manhood is displayed. Not very discreetly, I shimmy forward towards the edge of the tool drawer, eager for the real fun to begin.
I hear a sound of pleasure in the back of Tyler's throat, and he steps closer to me, pressing himself up against my thigh. But instead of entering, as I was expecting, he brings his lips down to face. He starts his sensuous kisses just below my eyelashes. Alternating between the left and right side, he places tiny kisses down my cheeks towards my lips. With each pressing peck, I get more and more expectant.
When his lips finally crash onto mine, I feel an explosion. This is partly because he chooses this moment to press himself – rather swiftly – inside me. But mostly because I am on the receiving end of possibly the best kiss I have ever had in my life. Instantly, his tongue is in my mouth, moving and massaging my own. His lips enclose and rub against mine and my face in on fire.
One of his hands is pressing my mouth against his from the back of neck. The other is digging his nails into the skin on my back. When he starts his pace the tool cart actually jolts, shocking me. My body is so torn between the growing force coming from between my legs and the heated kiss still going on with our lips.
Tyler is very good at multi-tasking.
As I feel the rush increase and my climax approach, his nails dig deeper into my skin, almost painfully. There will definitely be an odd mark there tomorrow. His lips also get more forceful, and less giving but more demanding, as he grips the back of my neck tighter.
The pressure of his hands, lips, and erections pushes into me from multiple sensor points at once and I feel the orgasm as it hits us both.
Then, suddenly, it's over. His lips vanish from my own, he pulls out quickly, and his hands are gone. When I open my eyes and drag my mind out of its pleasurable daze I see that his pants are already done up and he's re-buttoning his shirt.
For the briefest of seconds I'm stupefied. Then I quickly follow suit and rearrange my own clothing. During this process we do not talk, and there is little eye contact. I hop off the tool drawer and pull up my pants. The space is cramped and I end up brushing against him again. His body tenses quickly and I chuckle, running my fingers up his thigh like a spider.
He grabs my head around the jaw and pulls me forward for a quick, instantly heavy kiss on the lips. Just as suddenly he withdraws, but not before blowing on my lips.
"I may steel that trick that from you," he says, referring to when I blew on his ear, "Now, then. Shall we?"
And he pushes open the closet door; bringing us both back to the noisy, crowded, and beer smelling world of a teenage hang out. I walk out first, making sure my hips swing in the most alluring way. I know he is admiring from behind.
The storage closet is on the wall running along a side of the bar. Nicky looks up from the soda fountain as he's filling two glasses. I can see his mind slowly process us from behind two bushy, un-plucked eyebrows and a sheet of sweat.
As Nicky begins to walk towards us with a murderous expression Tyler shoots him a look that clearly says "What the fuck are you going to do about it?" I expect Nicky to pull out his baseball bat and show Tyler exactly what he plans to do about it. But the old man stops his march and shakes his head, angrily.
Tyler walks off in a different direction. Well, at least there's no worry of attachment with that one. As I turn to leave I continue to roll my hips, knowing that I have attracted a crowd. Several Spenser students have noticed that Tyler and I came out of the same storage closet and the gossip is spreading throughout the enclosed space quickly. There are sneers and snickers coming from both male and female students.
For some girls, this would be the walk of shame. For me, it's just another opportunity to strut in the spotlight.
I take my time and walk slowly out of the bar, winking at Nicky as I pass.
Score:
3 for 3
Thank you so much for reading. Your reviews are wonderful. Sometimes I feel bad because this story's morals are horrible and the only reason it's popular is because it involves penises and orgasms...I still LOVE reviews!
-LeFay