Page 75 of Worse Than Wicked
It was my senior year, after Dixies posted the video on her blog, after they’d started to torment me, that he got involved.
I was in the library one day at lunch, avoiding them and checking over the presentation I had to give in my next class a final time, when Duke’s grinning face appeared around the end of one of the shelves.
“Found you,” he said, leering at me.
I stood to bolt, but when I turned, Baron was behind me. “You can run, but you can’t hide,” he taunted.
Still, I tried. I ducked between the shelves, but Duke darted around the end and dragged me back. I thought about screaming. Even the deaf, grandmotherly librarian who had been there since the dawn of time could hear one of my screams. But when I thought of her heaving herself out of her chair and toddling through the stacks to where we were hidden at the back tables, when I thought of the look on her face if she saw us, I swallowed it down. I would endure in silence, just as I always had. I wouldn’t scream. I wouldn’t tell.
Duke shoved me into Baron’s arms, and he bent me over the table, dragged up my khaki skirt, and ripped off my underwear. He shoved into me like it was his right, with no preparation, no words. Baron wasn’t rough. He knew he was big enough to cause pain without it, especially when he wentin dry. He fucked silently, methodically, at an unhurried pace. Each thrust was a new punishment.
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 morethan 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.”
