DISCLAIMER: This is the third part of a longer story. For the best reading experience, it is recommended that you start at the beginning. The story contains plenty of sex, but this chapter does not. If you appreciate stories that build, you may like this. If you want a quick read, this may not be for you.
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Although I appreciated that Coach Matthews had stuck up for me, I couldn't get what happened with Todd off my mind, and Jenna's words kept running my through head at random times of day.
"What kind of slut are you?"
"This bitch didn't do anything."
"She fucking loved it."
I knew Jenna was out of line to say those things, especially in front of the whole team, but something about what she had said stuck with me. She was right about at least one thing: when Todd groped me, I didn't do or say anything. I just took it. I let him get away with it. Why?
I told myself that I was just too shocked to react, but I worried that maybe she was right about me. Had I... liked it? Was I really a slut? I desperately needed to talk to someone who could help me understand why I reacted the way that I did, but I didn't know who.
My Mom was out of the question. Between finalizing the divorce, fighting for sole custody of my younger brother, and trying to adjust to her new job, she was barely keeping it together. Especially after what had happened with my Dad, I couldn't tell her that I had let a boy feel me up at school and get away with it. Now more than ever, she needed me to be an independent young woman, and I wasn't about to burden her with something like this. Coach Matthews wasn't an option, either. She had been wonderful to me, but we just hadn't known each other long enough to have that kind of personal relationship. I tried calling some of my friends back in California, but talking to them just made me homesick, and I couldn't work up the nerve to talk about the incident with Todd over the phone.
So, with no one to talk to, I turned inward. I resolved to take Coach Matthews' advice: put my head down, work hard, and keep my eyes on the prize. I might not become popular at my new school, but it was only a year, and then I'd be gone. If people wanted to call me driven, antisocial, or even prude, that was their business. But I wasn't going to give anyone else at that school reason to call me a slut.
To begin with, I started dressing more conservatively at school, which became easier as October turned to November and the weather got cooler. I still wore my tennis skirt to school on match days to show my team spirit, so I couldn't prevent boys from leering at me, but I made certain not to bend over at the drinking fountain anymore. There were still catcalls from the stands during my matches, but I was so focused that I barely noticed.
I was spending all of time free time practicing instead of socializing and it was paying off. In spite of moving from a top-tier tennis school to a middling program, I was playing the best tennis of my life. I owed a lot of this to Coach Matthews and her son. Caleb and I were playing tough, hard-fought matches multiple times per week, and it was elevating my game to the next level. After competing against Caleb, the girls in my division seemed to be moving in slow motion. I was mowing them down with ease, and colleges were taking notice. Recruitment letters from D1 schools were arriving almost every day.
That November, I won the Class 5A Girls State Championships in singles. My doubles partner and I placed third. Granted, a state title in Nevada isn't quite the same as winning one in California, but I was ecstatic. My Mom and my little brother were there to see me win, and although I was sad and angry that I couldn't share the moment with my Dad, it was the first time since the scandal broke that it felt like something good had happened.
To celebrate my victory-the first singles tennis state championship in school history-Coach Matthews invited my family over to her house for backyard barbecue.
Social invitations always made my Mom nervous. She never felt confident about what to wear, what to bring, or what to talk about. She would always follow my Dad's lead in these situations, and without him, she was more frazzled than ever. The day of the barbecue, she and I got into an argument about what I was planning to wear. I was watching TV when she walked into the family room.
"Lola, get changed, we're leaving soon."
"I'm just gonna wear this, Ma," I said, changing the channel. I had on a tank top, cut-offs, and a pair of old flip-flops.
"No, you're not," she said, picking up the remote and turning the TV off. "You're not wearing jeans to dinner at your coach's house. I laid a dress out for you upstairs. Go put that on."
"Mom, it isn't dinner, it's a barbecue. You don't wear a dress to a barbecue."
"Well, I am," she swept her hand over the floral print she had on. "And so are you. Coach Matthews invited us over for a special occasion and you are going to look presentable."
"You're seriously going to dress me? I'm not 6-years-old anymore."
"That's right, Lo, you're not, which is all the more reason for you to dress like an adult." She folded her arms. "If your brother Benji can wear a polo shirt for a few hours, then I think you can survive one evening in a new dress. So chop-chop," she clapped her hands, "because I do not plan on being late."
"Fine," I sighed, sulking my way upstairs.
My attitude changed when I saw the dress spread across my bed. It was a spaghetti strap cocktail dress in coral, trimmed with lace and flared above the knee. I picked it up and let the material run through my fingers. The cotton was thin but beautifully woven and amazingly soft to the touch. It was just my style, cute and trendy. I couldn't believe my Mom had managed to pick it out without asking me a thing.
Next to the dress was a note.
"Congratulations, Lola. So proud of you. - Mom."
Guilt washed over me. I had been such a brat about getting changed, and all along, she had just been trying to give me a present! But my guilt was mixed with annoyance. Why couldn't she just tell me that the dress was a present? Why did she always have to make everything into an argument between us? Or was it me who did that to her?
I pulled the tank top over my head and went fishing inside my dresser for a strapless bra. For a fleeting moment, I envied some of the small-breasted girls on the tennis team, who could've worn a dress like this without a bra at all. But then, as I unhooked the bra I was wearing and looked at myself in the mirror, the thought disappeared.
Big, soft tits.
As I looked at the ripe, heavy mounds that hung from my lithe, athletic body, I remembered the first time I heard a guy comment on my tits. I was 16, and I was sunning myself with some girlfriends at an outdoor pool near the university where my Dad worked. I had been dozing in a red bikini with my sunglasses on when a guy called out to us.
"You girls go to school here?"
I opened my eyes to see a couple of college guys in board shorts looking at us waiting for a response.
"We go to St. Simon's," my girlfriend called back.
"Ahh, okay," they said, turning away from us.
As they walked away, one of the guys gave the other a shove.
"Man, I told you they were jailbait."
"Whatever," the other said. "Red top definitely could've been a college girl with those big, soft tits." They laughed and disappeared into the locker room.
Red top! I stifled a smile, trying not to let my girlfriends see. Had they heard it, too?
Shaking myself back to the present, I pulled the strapless bra over my big, soft tits, smiling at the memory. Next came the dress, which slipped snugly over me, hugging the curves of my body from the waist up.
"Damn, Mom," I said approvingly to no one in particular. I couldn't remember the last time I had dressed up like this. It seemed like ever since we moved, it had been a steady stream of jeans, tank tops, hoodies, and athletic wear. But the coral fabric complemented the deep, butterscotch tan I had acquired during the tennis season.
As I admired myself in the new dress, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Caleb.
"Mom wants to if u mom or lil bro have any allergies."
I text back. "No, all okay."
"Cool. Whats ur eta?"
"20min"
