Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I smile wanly, catching my breath. “Thanks.”
He looks down at me, like he’s sizing me up for something. “Want to see something cool?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
He takes my hand, leads me toward the stairs. The party rages behind us, but up here, it’s quieter. The lights are dimmer, the air cooler. For a moment, Kent’s warning rings in my head. “Don’t go upstairs. Nothing good happens upstairs.” But I brush the warning away because I’m feeling good, actually. Maybe it’s the gummy, maybe the alcohol, or maybe the dancing, but I feel relaxed, so I decide to go. Clay and I climb together, our steps rhythmic.
Maybe this isn’t so bad.
Maybe I could get used to it.
Maybe Kent will never know.
The first thing Clay says is, “You ever play Pac-Man?” but he’s already pulling me up the stairs like it’s his job. His hand stays locked around my wrist, thumb pressed so tight I can feel the pulse in his palm. I follow, because that’s what I do, and also because it’s hot as a sauna in the living room and the gummy I ate with Emmeline is sending tiny glitter bombs through my bloodstream.
The stairs are narrow and steep, each step bowed from a century of frat feet. There’s a single bulb overhead, swinging on a frayed cord. It’s so dim that my eyes have to adjust, everything going blue around the edges. We pass a landing which leads into a hallway with a bunch of shut doors, and then go up again, to another landing with another hallway of shut doors.
“Those are the bedrooms,” Clay says. “But we’re headed to the attic. You’re going to love it. We have so many insane arcade games and some of these games are worth fortunes. Even better, they still work,” he quips with a grin.
Okay, this isn’t so bad. I guess the frat has a rec room upstairs. It’s likely foosball, sports memorabilia on the walls, regular guy stuff. It’s going to be fine.
We go up another flight, this one tighter, less traveled. The music from the party recedes to a background pulse, more heartbeat than melody, and the air gets dry and weirdly electric, like the charge before a thunderstorm. My boots slip on the last tread, but Clay catches me, his grip steady.
At the top, a hallway. There are no doors, just three blank walls and, at the end, a single battered door with a strip of yellow light under it. I half expect to hear the blip and whine of an arcade game, but instead it’s something deeper, a kind of chanting. Maybe even cheering. That’s weird. Is football on this late?
Clay glances back at me, grin wide as a billboard. “Just wait,” he says, and then he’s knocking. Three sharp, two slow — not random, but a signal.
A pause, then the door cracks open. A frat brother in a wifebeater peeks out, hair slicked back, jawline cut from granite. He looks me over—no attempt at subtlety—then lets us in.
“Yo,” he says to Clay. "We already started.”
The air inside is a furnace, thick with the stench of weed, sweat, and something acrid, like scorched plastic. For a split second I’m blinded by the overhead light, then the scene resolves:
No arcade games.
Instead: a ring of guys, all college aged, perched on broken chairs and milk crates. Most are dressed, a few shirtless. A handful have their phones out, filming. At the center of the circle are two women, totally nude except for cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and smears of body glitter. They’re both stunning, but in that fake, reality-show way: long hair, heavy lashes, lips that look like they’ve been stung by hornets. Their skin shines with sweat, maybe oil. I’m close enough to see a bead of something drip down the inside of a thigh.
One of the girls—brunette, with giant Double D tits—is on her hands and knees, sucking a guy’s cock while another dude behind her pushes her hips forward, grinding into her ass in time with the music that pulses through the floor. The other girl, a beautiful blonde with heavy, natural tits with no tan lines, is astride a frat boy on the couch, lowering has asshole inch by inch onto his cock with a slow, theatrical moan, her head thrown back so her hair brushes the sofa behind her.
“Oooh yes,” she coos. “Mmmm!”
There’s a camera on a tripod aimed dead center at the two girls, the red light blinking. Three guys hover behind it, directing or at least pretending to, hands busy with phones and vape pens.
The chanting ramps up, low at first: “S-E-X. S-E-X.”
It gets louder. “S-E-X! S-E-X!”
The girls move in time with the drumbeat of the chant. The brunette gags a little on the dick in her mouth, eyes streaming, but keeps going. The guy behind her is slamming now, his hands splayed on her hips, driving her forward with every thrust. The other girl bounces on the lap of her frat boy, tits jiggling, as her stretched asshole swallows his cock again and again.