eighteen #2
Duke crouched next to the bookshelf, keeping a lookout, cackling quietly when a whimper escaped me.
I lay over the table, gripping the edges in agony, silent tears dripping down my face, until Baron finished and tucked himself away.
He pocketed my underwear and then nodded to me, giving Duke the go-ahead.
Duke dipped his fingers into me and groaned, unzipping with his other hand.
“Fuck, you’re so wet with his cum,” he said, and then he was slapping his dick against my thighs, my butt.
He teased the head over my entrance, then eased in slowly, another moan escaping him.
His fingers bit into my hips as he held me pinned, rocking into my depths, the hot pool of liquid Baron had left so far inside.
“Don’t get it on my skirt,” I say, trying to tug it from between me and the table. The one thing worse than this was having people know.
Duke cackled and started moving, his thrusts erratic, slow and then fast, slamming into me hard, scooting the table across the floor.
I pictured the grumpy librarian at her desk, probably annoyed with the noise but not enough to walk back here.
She was always sour-faced and prim, with a pearl necklace topping a three-piece ensemble in varying shades of pastel that consisted of a matching skirt, shirt, and sweater with one button done at the top.
She wore pantyhose to hide her varicose veins and orthopedic shoes, and she always groaned when she stood and huffed and puffed after walking one aisle.
She did not take kindly to being roused from the half-slumber that occupied most of her day.
Duke finished just as the bell rang, and I quickly stood and pulled my skirt down, wiping my face dry with the back of my hand.
I didn’t want anyone to look at me in the hall more than they already did, to whisper that I had nothing to cry about.
I could feel the slime of their cum sliding down my thighs as I walked to class.
I sat there in silence, like I did every day.
I liked science, so I liked Mr. Harris. He was always nice to me, always praised my answers and looked impressed when I had unique viewpoints instead of making me feel like a freak, like some of my teachers. When he called me up to do my presentation, I heard people whispering. Snickering.
I turned around, and I saw several people with phones out, aiming them at me. I turned back toward the front, ducked my head, and hurried up. Everyone was laughing by then.
I discretely ran my hand down the back of my skirt, and my heart sank. Wetness met my fingers.
Everyone was howling with laughter, shrieking, their mouths dark maws of cruelty. Their faces looked like something in a funhouse mirror, distorted with malicious glee.
I couldn’t speak.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Harris said.
But I couldn’t. I just stood there in front of the class, the laughingstock of the school, the girl from the video. The slut. The whore. The disgraced Darling girl with cum on her skirt, sticky between her thighs, crusty on her legs.
Mr. Harris tried a few more times, but I just shook my head. Finally, I ran back to my seat.
Everyone laughed harder.
Mr. Harris told them to get quiet or he’d keep them all after class.
They got quiet. The next person presented. Then the next. I wondered if I’d get a bad grade for my failed presentation. I wondered what the people with phones had posted online, how bad it looked.
When the bell rang, Mr. Harris didn’t keep the class. He kept me.
I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to walk the halls, to have the whole school staring at the stain on the back of my skirt where their cum leaked through.
The teacher asked what happened. His eyes were kind, sympathetic.
I didn’t want to go out in the hall, so I had to say something that would convince him to let me stay a while.
He said I could trust him. I knew better than to trust a man, but I didn’t see many options.
So I told him I had something on my skirt.
I turned around so he could see. I asked how bad it was.
He asked me what it was from.
And suddenly, the months of hiding what was happening to me caught up. I started crying. He patted my hand. I was used to being touched by then, but I didn’t like it. When I pulled away, he didn’t act offended. He handed me tissues.
He said, “Lots of people get nervous speaking in front of the class.”
I said, “That’s not it.”
He asked what it was again, and I finally told him.
I whispered the words, sure they’d come back to haunt me, that the Dolces would kill me for being a rat.
Part of me didn’t care. I was tired of enduring in silence.
I was tired of enduring at all. I felt ashamed when I was done, with Mr. Harris watching me.
But I also felt relieved. Like it was finally over. The secret was out.
He was a teacher. A mandatory reporter. He had to tell the authorities if I was being hurt.
And then he said, “When did this last happen?”
I said, “At lunch.”
“That’s what’s on your skirt?”
I nodded.
He said, “Show me.”
My heart sank. I knew then that it would never be over.
That no matter how nice a man acted, he wasn’t nice.
That no matter who he was, what position he held, he would never be on my side.
Some men hid it well, some repressed it, some had the self-control to resist the urges society told them were wrong, but in their nature, they were all predators.
They could no more help that than a wolf could help killing a rabbit.
But a rabbit wasn’t forced to keep company with a pack of wolves every day.
I thought of them out there, prowling the halls, looking for me between classes.
Baron. Duke. Royal.
I thought about their brother, who was gone now. Their dad. My grandfather.
So many men, all wanting the same thing. All so simple. They looked at me, and they saw a girl who allowed things to happen to her. If she never told, then she couldn’t tell on them. By telling Mr. Harris, I hadn’t protected myself from the Dolces. I’d let him know I was easy prey.
“Go on,” Mr. Harris said, licking his lips nervously and glancing at the door. “No one will see you but me. And you’re safe with me.”
I would have laughed, but I was still crying.
I would have laughed, but nothing about it was funny except his own self-delusion and my complete and utter stupidity to think that he would help me.
To think that any man would help me. But there was only one man here, and there were many out there, in the hall, in the classrooms, in the office.
They prowled like hunters, ready to devour, and destroy, and deny.
Ready to pretend they believed each other’s lies, ready to defend each other because they are all liars.
So, when he told me again, I lifted my skirt and showed him.
That day, he only looked.
Later, he would touch.
Later, he would take.
This time, I will take.
This time, he’s the prey.