A DEBAUCHED FRAT PARTY #3
I’m frozen. I don’t know what to do with my hands.
My cup dangles from my fingers, lukewarm beer dribbling down my wrist. My jaw actually drops, and for a second I wonder if I look as dumb as I feel because is this really happening?
Who are these girls? Where did they come from, even? Do they realize they’re being filmed?
A voice next to my ear says, “They’re pros. Seriously. The blonde’s name is Scarlett, she does OnlyFans and allegedly makes millions. I have no idea why she agreed to come tonight. The brunette, I don’t know, but these girls are definitely being paid.”
I turn, and it’s Clay, standing right beside me, eyes glued to the show.
I’m just about to say “get me out of here,” when suddenly, the show turns even more sordid.
The brunette’s guy pulls out of her mouth, slaps the shaft against her cheek, then grabs her by the hair and shoves back between her lips, raw and brutal.
Behind her, the other guy engages in deceit—with a sly smile, he peels off his condom, and then lines up and plunges into her bare pussy with a wet sucking sound.
She shudders, then lets out a noise that’s half-moan, half-yelp.
“Mmmm,” she moans through the cock in her mouth. “Ummm!”
The frat room goes wild. Phones are up everywhere, flashes firing. The “S-E-X” chant is deafening now, a wall of sound. The girls look into the cameras, making O-faces, their hands braced for balance, the rhythm relentless.
Clay leans down, his lips almost at my neck. “You wanna join? Or just watch?”
The words slap me across the face. Is this asshole for real? Do I want to join these OnlyFans girls in making what’s obviously public porn?
I snap out of it, bile creeping up the back of my throat. The image is burned onto my retinas: the raw, obscene spectacle, the crowd of boys, the unblinking camera. I realize my nails are digging into my palm so hard there’s a crescent of blood under one thumb.
“No,” I say, voice flat and mechanical. “I want to go. Now.”
Clay shrugs, lets go of my arm. He’s all smiles, like nothing happened, like this is what every girl expects to see at a frat party.
“It’s no big deal,” he says, and his eyes drift right back to the blonde.
“The girls are on birth control, I’m sure, so no one’s going to get pregnant.
All my brothers get tested too, all the time. There’s nothing weird going on.”
Again, is this asshole for real? This is “nothing weird”?
I push past Clay, the heat in the attic suddenly unbearable.
My boot heels clack on the floorboards as I bolt for the door.
The chant is still going—“S-E-X!”—but I tune it out, focused on escaping this place.
I fling open the door, the blessed, musty cold of the stairwell hitting me full in the face.
Clay follows, hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he says, like he just spilled beer on my shirt, “I should have warned you. First time’s always a little shocking.”
I don’t answer. I take the stairs two at a time, dizzy, the hallway twisting. I think about Kent, about how he’d flay these idiots alive, and for a second I wish he was here, just to save me from this mess.
When I hit the first floor, the noise of the party is almost comforting.
The bodies and music and lights feel normal, even sane, compared to the freak show upstairs.
I gulp a lungful of air, hands shaking, and toss my beer into the trash.
My mouth tastes like metal. My brain is nothing but white noise.
Clay catches up, stands a little too close. “Hey,” he says, his voice lower, more serious. “You okay?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I square my shoulders, blink the sweat from my eyes, and give him a tight smile.
“I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m not, and I let him lead me away from the carnage, back toward the sticky, beer-wet comfort of the kitchen.
For a minute, I think about leaving. I could just walk out, call a rideshare, go home and scrub the memory from my brain. But then I think of Kent, and how he’d tease me for bailing, and how stupid it would be to let some assholes ruin my night.
I plant my boots, breathe deep, and tell myself it’s just another story. Just another thing to survive.
But as Clay pours me a drink, I can’t help but look back, up the stairs, and wonder how many girls have said yes.
And what happens to the ones who don’t.
Downstairs is a different kind of chaos: the party’s hit its stride, a sticky, pulsing mess of bodies everywhere, voices gone raw from screaming over the music.
For a second, I’m just another girl in a too-tight skirt, clutching my purse, my head numb from the heat and the afterimage of what I just saw.
Clay hands me my drink and lounges next to me, his hand skimming the small of my back, light and easy.
“Let’s go back to the dance floor,” he says.
I nod my agreement as he takes my hand. But just as we pass the stairs, his hand slips from my palm to my wrist. The grip is sudden, fingers locking around the joint with a pressure that’s a little too insistent to be anything but deliberate.
He doesn’t say anything, just leans in close — the way you do to be heard over the throb of bass — and steers me off to the right, away from the living room, into a narrower hallway, crowded but darker, with fewer people passing through.
The mood shifts instantly. I try to laugh it off, but my voice sticks in my throat. “Hey,” I say, “are you kidnapping me?”
Clay’s grin is fixed in place, a little sharky. “If I was, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He tugs, gently at first, but with a force that brooks no argument.
My heels catch on the warped floorboards.
The hallway gets darker with every step — no windows, the only light the sickly fluorescents above the kitchen archway at the other end.
Doors line the hallway, mostly closed, some with signs on them (“PRIVATE,” “brOTHERS ONLY,” “STAY OUT UNLESS YOU WEIGH LESS THAN 120 LBS”).
At the end, one door stands half-open, a rectangle of pure black.
I pull my hand, but he tightens his grip. My bones grind. “Clay,” I say, trying to keep my voice light, “I should really go find Emmeline.”
He laughs, low and easy. “Emmeline’s fine. She’s probably making out with someone in the coat closet.” He takes another step toward the door, and my feet follow because there’s nowhere else to go. “I just want to show you something in my room. Promise it’s not weird.”
I want to scream, but the sound would vanish under the music, or maybe just bounce back at me.
The hallway feels even narrower than it is, the press of the walls herding me straight for that door.
My free hand finds the wall, nails scraping along the paint.
There’s a sharp edge where the drywall meets a nail head, and I can’t tell if the sting in my palm is from fear or from the little burrs of paint under my nails.
“No, this isn’t necessary,” I babble. “You can just tell me about it.”
But Clay is still dragging me along, and we’re at the doorway now. The room beyond is all black — no lights, just the after-burn of a strobe from the party leaking in at the threshold, like a pulse. The air is colder, and a chill runs down my spine.