Christine looked at herself in the mirror. Her pretty face was the color of creme, her tears streaming around the gentle curve of her chin and dripping onto the porcelain sink. Why was she made to suffer so much humiliation, she thought to herself. Before she had a chance to answer herself mentally, however, the bathroom door burst open and James strode in.
"You cheating cunt," James shouted, "I'm not finished talking to you! Did you think you'd get away with it forever?" His broad shoulders heaved with anxiety, and his charcoal-black hair hung in his face, a few strands plastered to his brow by the spreading perspiration.
"James, please! I don't know what you're talking about!"
"The fuck you don't! I -saw- you out my window, you with your piss-colored cotton shirt laying next to you, your black skirt up around your slutting hips, and your pretty fucking pink panties around your fucking ankle!" His face was turning crimson, and his eyes bore into hers like daggers. "You were letting that nigger guy pound your pussy, right out in the open where I could see!"
At this, she could feel her dam of hatred burst. "I don't know what the -fuck- you're talking about, Jimmy! I've been in classes all day, and the only time I've had to fuck -anyone- was you at lunchtime!" She stopped to take a frantic breath, matching James's stare as she continued, her grey-green eyes burning holes into his. "If you think I would -ever- be a little whore like that to anyone but you, then you can go fuck yourself!"
Before James could respond, she pushed past him and ran out of the bathroom, out of their dorm room, and down the hall. She was only acutely aware of the tears that were streaming down her face as she pushed past the few people who were chumming around the building's exit. She ran for what seemed like hours, crossing the commons and not stopping until she reached the edge of the far fields. Finally, exhausted both mentally and physically, she sat down at one of the few picnic benches nearby, lowered her head onto the formica surface, and sobbed into her arms.
Only a few moments later, she could hear someone approaching from behind. Not about to take any chances, she tensed herself for the impending attack. She kept her head in her arms, listening to the soft footsteps as they neared her... Slower, slower still, and finally stopped. She swallowed back a lump in her throat, and nearly lost her mind when she felt a hand grasp her shoulder. Screaming, she leapt up as though a tiger on the offensive, lashing out with a hard slap. "Don't you touch me!"
The figure recoiled as the smack resounded over the empty field. "Ow, Jesus! It's me!" he cried out, but to no avail, as she was drawing her hand back for another slap. He managed to grab her wrist before she could launch her attack, and forced her head up to look at him. As their eyes made contact, he shouted again. "It's me! It's Pete! Get ahold of yourself, doll!"
Realizing that it's not her boyfriend, her rage turns to vulnerability as she wraps her arms around him, sobbing freely into his chest. He almost laughes as she does this, not quite knowing how to react. Choking back his natural reaction, he lets his arms fall freely around her, holding her against him. "Shh... It's alright. Whatever happens, I'm here now."
* * *
Once in Pete's dorm, Christine had a chance to fix herself. She looked at herself in the mirror again, fixing her long, blonde hair in a loose ponytail. Her hand wandered down to the hem of her "piss-colored cotton shirt", as James had referred to it. Thinking of it almost made her break down again, but she managed to find the strength to swallow back the tears. Quickly, she fixed herself to appear at least mildly presentable, straightening her shirt and brushing the few wrinkles out of her long flowing skirt.
Pete looked up from his table as she exited the bathroom, smiling subconsciously. He had always had a fondness for Christine. The fact that she had a killer body was only a bonus on top of the fact that she had a great personality. She had a slim frame, with just the right curve of the hips. He never knew if the way her hips swayed when she walked was intentional or natural. He only knew that it was arousing in a way he had never known before. Her breasts, however, were what he loved most about her. Perfect little globes, both of them round and perky with an appealing slope to them. They weren't large by any stretch of the imagination, but they complimented her small frame quite nicely. He caught himself mentally undressing her as she walked towards him, that little hip-shake in action, but immediately stopped himself. She was there for comfort, not to be eye-candy. As she sat down across from him, he flipped on the radio to an easy listening station, the volume turned down low enough to hear over. "I suppose a broken nail didn't stain your pretty face so bad. You wanna tell me what happened?"
