I fumbled in my bag for my timetable; unable to remember what class I had next. It was my last year in high school; I had turned 18 the day before returning. It was strange coming back to the school I'd been at since I was five, as the oldest. By that, I don't mean the oldest in the school, although I was pretty close. I'd found out a few years previous that Piers' birthday was on the same day as mine, but two hours earlier -- not the best coincidence, especially from a guy I hated! I'm not saying that Piers was unattractive -- quite the opposite in fact. He had medium length dark brown hair, the kind that makes you want to run your fingers through it just to feel how soft it is. I'd always loved hair like that on guys, but on Piers? It was an unwelcome distraction, especially when I was trying to argue with him. He knew how I felt about it as well, I just know he did, the way he would flick it out of his green eyes and raise an eyebrow when my gaze moved to it. His face was quite pale, but pale as in interesting, not as in colourless or bland. He had high cheekbones, giving his face angles, which looked good with his hair -- and he had the most kissable lips I had ever seen. I mean, they were beckoning all the girls I knew to just walk up to him and kiss him.
Okay, I know how it seems. I am aware that it's obvious that I found him hugely attractive, and really wanted him to just pull me over one day and fuck the hell out of me -- but I still found his constant, sarcastic, 'I know that you want me' attitude hugely annoying.
So there I was, first day back for my last year, hovering at the foot of the stairs, trying to find my timetable.
Eventually I uncovered it, and yanked it out of my bag, already hugely crumpled with a flower and lyrics to a song I heard that morning and wanted to remember scribbled on it. By the look of it, anyone would think that I had had it for weeks, not a matter of hours -- but that's the way that anything I owned ended up. Slightly annoyed by the amount of time it had taken to find it, I flicked my red fringe out of eyes and checked my next lesson. Art. I breathed up through my mouth, blowing my curls back into my face, and stuffed it back in my bag.
I think it was at this point I became aware of someone behind me. I turned around, but was held by strong hands at my side.
This gesture told me immediately who it was.
'Get off me, Piers.'
'Oh?' I heard his deep voice, amused at the fact that I wasn't struggling, but clearly vaguely disappointed. That was why I wasn't wriggling to get free, not some erotic desire that involved Piers and being under his control -- although I had caught myself touching myself to that several times, only to realize what I was doing and stop at once.
'Are you sure you aren't getting those urges, my love?' he whispered softly into my ear. At this, I did struggle to get his hands off me, but finding myself unable to, turned my head and gave him the most evil stare I could muster under the circumstances. He gave me a lazy smile in return, pointedly looking slowly up and down my body and letting his smirk grow.
'Will you just get off me, you prick?' I snapped. With dismay, I felt a familiar wetness grow between my legs, something that happened annoyingly often when he was doing this.
'Come on, baby, you know you like it when I do this...' At this, I renewed my struggles to get out of his grasp, knowing that I couldn't take much more of this. Knowing it was futile, I retreated to an area where I knew it would distract me.
'Don't you dare talk to me like that, it's a typical male chauvinistic gesture when they haven't got the security in their masculinity to leave girls' alone. Or they haven't got the size to satisfy girls', so they try to... to -- '
'Oh? You think I haven't got the size to satisfy girls?' I bit my tongue, severely regretting that comment. I knew what was coming next. 'Do you want me to prove it to you?' His green eyes were piercing me, burning a hole inside my head, my body held in his arms, my back to him, unable to move or stop him from saying there things. 'Do you want me to thrust it into your tight pussy, letting you feel my size stretching you beyond belief? Is that what you want, love? Do you want me to let you taste it, holding your head in my hands as you are unable to fit it in your mouth, gagging on my cum, it running down your virgin throat? Do you -- '
'Stop! Please, please stop!' I struggled in his arms; trying to escape from this torture he was putting me through. Only one way that I could possibly think of came to mind to end this.
'We're late, we have to go to class, I need to go to Art! Please, please, Piers, let me go.' I leant my head back and stared at him desperately.
'Okay, my love.' He began to release me, but then held me tight again, a hand snaking across my flat stomach to rest mere centimeters above my pussy. His other hand stroked the underside of my breast, making me so wet I couldn't think straight.
'But first, you must tell me something. Tell me truthfully, tell me honestly.'
He tilted my chin back with his hand, replacing it on my breast when I was looking at him.
'Is this all for me?' he asked softly, sliding his hand underneath my skirt and touching my wetness.
I was horrified; he knew that I was wet, wet for him. This was something I never wanted anyone to know, it was a shameful secret I never wanted anyone to know, least of all him.
I closed my eyes in mortification, wishing he would release me.
'Tell me, baby. Did I make this?' He whispered softly into my ear, biting softly on the lobe.
'Yes.' I let my head rest on his shoulder, not wanting to see him, just wanting to pretend it never happened. I felt his hands release me, and he kissed my cheek gently before walking away.
'See you in Art.' He said, smirking at me.
I stood there, close to tears. I had thought I'd never respond like that again, the first time he did that to me I was younger, easier to take control of. One year ago to the day now. He never passed up an opportunity to do it again; he enjoyed torturing me, knowing how aroused and desperate to get away from him he made me.
God, I hated him so much.
***
I tilted my head back, letting the warm water run over my face and over my body. Rubbing shampoo into my hair, I remember the episode earlier that day.
Why did he have the power to do that to me? He'd always been able to, always, and ever since he first realized, he loved doing it, loved humiliating me, loved making me feel dirty and trodden on. But, why then did I never want him to release me, why did I always want him to hold on to me tightly, kiss my neck slowly and stroke my body gently? The shower of water faded away, as I imagined his hands softly exploring my body, cupping my breasts, his soft, talented mouth caressing and teasing my nipples as I touched his toned and beautiful body. I felt my nipples tighten into erect peaks, as I let my soapy hand trail down between my legs, gently touching my clit and gasping at the jolt of pleasure I felt. It was Piers touching me, Piers stroking my responsive nipples. At that moment I wasn't in the shower, I was with him, engaging in deliciously erotic deeds with him, touching him, feeling his body with my mouth. His tongue stroking down my body, planting butterfly kisses around my belly button, my legs spreading for him, and his head between them, licking around my pussy, with his finger gently moving inside me, giving me the ultimate pleasure I could ever receive. I felt my pussy nearing an orgasm, I breathed fast, my hand rubbing frantically, desperately wanting him with me, touching me, inside me. As I started to cum, I gasped, his name on my lips as I clung on to the door bar to keep me upright, lost in the exquisite delight of my climax. I slowly began remember myself, realized where I was -- and what I had been thinking of. Shocked,
I froze for a few seconds, and then swore softly under my breath.
I quickly washed the soap off my body and the shampoo from my hair, and exited the shower, turning off the water. I sat on the toilet seat, my head in my hands, thinking. Why was I so turned on by Piers? He was terrible, using my body for his amusement, making me wet and turned on just to walk off.
I stood up, sighing, only to be caught by my reflection in the mirror. I stared at it for a moment, sizing myself up.
I suppose I could be classed as pretty, but not hot or sexy, nothing that would make a guy go 'wow'. I had waist length curly red hair, my sole memorable feature. I would never cut my hair, it's a part of me. Normally I wore it twisted up in a bun, just to keep it out of my eyes, although I was allowed to wear it down now I was in the top year.
I used to wear glasses, so I'd never really seen my eyes properly before. I stepped closer to the mirror, scrutinizing my face. They were greeny blue, I'd known that before, but the colour was deep, deeper than I'd ever thought. I had huge eyes, and I knew how to put on eyeliner to make them seem even bigger, but I never used mascara. I'd inherited my fathers' eyelashes, long, thick, and dark, almost to the point of looking black, so it often seemed like I was. My face was delicate, my features looking almost breakable in their own way, a thin, good sized nose and high cheekbones.
I knew that I could look very good if I wanted, but I'd never really made an effort before. Normally, at school, at my after school job in Oxfam, I looked normal, girl next door at the very best.
I was gripped by an idea at this point. Maybe, if I somehow looked good tomorrow, perhaps Piers might lose interest. Maybe he just did those things because he wanted to mock me, if I looked good he might not want to mock me.
It was a plan -- but I wasn't doing it for him. Not Piers, no way, never. I was doing it for me, to rid myself of him forever.
Even if I secretly wanted him to like the way I looked.
***
The next morning, instead of pulling my hair back, I left it loose, just tying to front part back, leaving my face on view but with a curly mane of red hair around it.
I had before not intended to wear make up, but when I got dressed for school, in the regulation black skirt, black tights, and white fitted blouse, I found my feet walking towards the black eyeliner I had discarded a few days before, after a disastrous attempt to look relatively nice for my birthday. I knew how to accent my eyes, I just had got slightly drunk and it went wrong.
However, now I knew I could do it, and I did, barely able to recognize the person I saw staring back at me from the mirror.
Here was the test -- would he leave me alone?
And did I truly want him to?
