The Reluctant Coed

This is the third story in my reluctance series. As you can tell, I was probably as confused as Claire as to where her story should go. After some meandering, I decided to end it on a cliff-hanger. There will probably not be a sequel.

I shouldn't have come in here.

The air was thick--cigarettes, sweat, the tang of spilled beer--as I gingerly sat at the bar. Ordering a hard cider, I tried to be invisible. But why had I come?

I sensed them at the back of the bar, in the pool room, hanging together next to the pool table. Leather jacket caught my eye. Why had I looked? He motioned to me with a twist of his lips.

All five of them looked at me like they knew I didn't belong. Like I was something sweet dropped in a cage of wolves. I moved from the bar. Why didn't I stay put. I stood before them too proud to flinch, too dumb to leave. My glass trembled slightly when I set it down.

I wasn't even drinking. Not really. Just nursing the cider, cheap and sticky, hoping they'd lose interest. They didn't.

The one in the leather jacket leaned in first, his voice low, gravelly. "What's an uptown college girl doing here, all by herself?"

I didn't answer. I didn't look at him. I just traced a circle on the table top with one finger, the wood sticky under my skin.

Another one--clean-shaven, in a suit that looked out of place--said, "Here to get a real man experience, sweetheart?"

I blinked. My throat was dry. I hated how true it sounded.

The oldest one--the one with hands like shovels and eyes like knives--reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. I froze. His fingers were dry and rough, and I hated how they made my skin buzz.

"You came to the wrong place to play shy, girl," he murmured. "Maybe college guys aren't doing it for you?"

They were so close now, all around me. My back pressed to the pool table. No room to slip away. My mouth opened--maybe to say no, maybe to ask them to back off--but nothing came out.

Then one of them, the one in the cap, offered me his beer. "Have a drink on Butch, Sweetheart."

I hesitated. My hand moved anyway.

I brought the bottle to my lips, though my hand shook. It tasted like fermented something and shame. Stale and wrong. They watched me swallow, watched my throat move, and something in their faces shifted. Approval? Hunger?

I gave the bottle back and tried to say, "I should go."

But I didn't move. Didn't even push away from the pool table. I could feel the heat of their bodies hemming me in, too many knees brushing mine, too many eyes waiting to see what I'd do next. My heart kicked against my ribs like it wanted to bolt without me.

"You don't want to go yet. We want to have some fun." the man in the cap said. His voice was smooth, gentle in a way that didn't match his eyes. "Do you want some fun?"

I shook my head before I could stop myself. Maybe I was scared to lie. Maybe I didn't know the answer.

The one with the suit had unbuttoned his jacket. His shirt clung to his chest, sweat beading at the collar. "She's not leaving," he said to the others. "Not until she becomes the true slut buried behind those tight clothes."

"What--what do you mean?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

But I knew.

He reached out and took my wrist, slowly, deliberately, then guided my hand to his crotch. My breath hitched when I felt what was there--thick, hard through the fabric of his pants. I wanted to pull away. I didn't.

"You feel that?" he said.

I nodded. My throat was tight, cheeks burning.

"Good," he said. "Now unzip me."

My fingers trembled as they found the tab of his zipper. Every muscle in my body was screaming, but I didn't stop. I don't know why. Maybe I wanted to prove something. Maybe I wanted to be wanted. Maybe I just didn't want to be the girl who ran.

The zipper came down slow. The pool room was too quiet. I felt the men around me shift forward. Lean in. Waiting.

He wasn't wearing underwear. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, pointing right at me like it knew exactly what it wanted.

"Go on," he said, voice a little darker now. "You knew this was coming."

I didn't say yes. But I didn't say no either.

I lowered my head.

My lips hovered, barely an inch from him, and I could smell it--flesh and salt and something musky, something male. I'd never been this close to a stranger's cock before. Never even imagined it. But here I was, bent at the table, four men breathing down my neck, and the fifth holding himself in his hand like he owned me.

I hated how wet I was.

Not aroused--no. Not that. I told myself it was fear. The fear of being watched. Of being used. Of becoming something I couldn't take back. But my thighs were pressed tight together, and I could feel the heat between them like a shameful pulse.

My breath ghosted across the head of his cock. He twitched in his grip. A drop of pre-cum beaded up, shiny and obscene. I didn't even mean to open my mouth--but I did. I didn't mean to kneel, but my bare knees ground against the dirty floor.

It touched my tongue.

Salty. Slick.

He groaned above me. His hand tangled in my hair, not yanking, not yet, but firm. "That's it," he said. "Fucking knew you weren't just here to look."

My cheeks flamed, but I closed my mouth around him anyway. Not deep. Just the tip. I felt their eyes burning into me from all sides. I sucked slowly, softly, my lips stretched, my jaw tight. He was big. Too big. I gagged a little when he nudged deeper and had to pull back.

But he didn't let me go.

He guided me forward again, and I opened wider, my tongue sliding along the underside of his shaft, cheeks hollowing. He grunted above me, hips giving a small thrust.

I hated the noise it made. Wet. Sloppy.

One of the others muttered, "Jesus, look at her. She's certainly been around a few cocks before!."

I reddened. I had been around. I wasn't supposed to be here on my knees in a dive bar, cock halfway down my throat, tears burning the corners of my eyes. But I kept going. Because they were watching. Because I didn't want to be a coward. Because part of me needed to know how far I'd let it go.

He pushed deeper. I gagged again. My hands clutched at his thighs, fingernails digging into the fabric. His cock throbbed against my tongue, hot and pulsing. I was drooling now. I could feel it on my chin. One of them reached out and wiped it away with his thumb, slow and deliberate.

I flinched.

But I didn't stop.

He started thrusting now, slow and shallow, but firm. I wasn't even doing anything anymore--just kneeling there, lips stretched tight, letting him fuck my mouth. My jaw ached. My eyes watered. But I didn't pull back.

I couldn't.

One hand gripped the edge of the pool table, the other still braced on his thigh, like I needed to hold on to something real. But nothing about this felt real--just heat and breath and the scrape of the dirty floor against my knees. He was moaning now, low and guttural, fingers tightening in my hair like reins.

Behind me, one of the others crouched. I could feel him there--so close his breath touched the bare skin above my ass where my top had ridden up. He didn't speak. He just dragged a knuckle down the back of my thigh, slow as a threat. I shivered.

"She's fucking beautiful like this," someone said. "Look at that throat work."

He was right. I was gagging again, spit sliding down my chin, his cock pushing deeper now. I hated how my body tried to adjust, how my lips softened, how my tongue moved without thinking. I hated the soft moan that escaped me--just a sound of effort, I told myself. Not pleasure. Never pleasure.

And yet my nipples were hard under my thin top. My pussy ached. My thighs slick.

It was humiliation. That's what was turning me on. That's what made it worse. I was on display--face fucked in front of strangers--and a part of me wanted them to see. To know. To remember.

"Almost there," the man above me grunted, hips twitching.

I panicked.

I tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, yanking me forward. "Uh-uh. You take it. You wanted this."

I whimpered fighting my gag reflex.

The first spurt hit the back of my throat. Hot. Bitter. Then another. And another. I gagged again but forced myself not to pull away, not to spit, not to cry. My eyes were closed tight now, tears slipping free as he emptied himself in my mouth. I swallowed instinctively, the taste disgusting, the act worse.

He let go of my hair.

I pulled off, coughing. My chin was slick. My lips felt swollen. I stayed there on my knees, chest heaving, throat raw, heart hammering like I'd run for miles.

None of them said a word.

Then someone clapped. Slow. Mocking.

"That," the man in the cap said, "was the hottest thing I've seen in years."

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But all I did was wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and whisper, "Can I go now? Please!" I hated the whine in my voice.

He crouched in front of me, tilted my chin up with two fingers. "Not yet."

I stayed on the floor.

The wood under my knees felt gritty, like old dust and spilled beer had settled into my skin. My thighs trembled--not from cold, but from the sheer effort of holding myself together. My jaw throbbed. My throat was raw. My mouth still tasted like him.

I hated that I hadn't spit it out. I deserved it!

His cum sat thick in my belly like it anchored me there, a weight I couldn't throw off. I wrapped my arms around myself, not to hide--there was no hiding, not now--but just to hold something that was mine. My chest rose and fell in shallow waves.

They were still around me, close but quiet. Watching. Breathing.

I tried not to look at them. But I felt their eyes. I could feel what they were thinking. What they wanted next.

And I wasn't sure I could say no.

I told myself I hadn't agreed to this. Not really. I told myself I could still get up and leave, walk out into the cold night and pretend none of this happened. I could go back to my dorm. Shower for an hour. Scrub the taste out of my mouth. Cry until the sun came up.

But I didn't move.

The man who'd finished in my mouth was zipping himself up like it was just a thing he did every day. Like I wasn't even still there in front of him. Another one stepped closer, and my body flinched, muscles locking. He didn't touch me--yet--but I felt his shadow fall over me.

"You ready, sweetheart?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Be a good slut."

I wasn't, was I. A slut. But I couldn't make myself stand. Leave.

I looked down at my hands. My fingernails had broken against the pool table. One was bleeding. I didn't even remember doing it. I closed my fingers into fists, then opened them again. Just to feel something I controlled.

They were waiting for me to make the next move.

Or maybe they were waiting for me to not move at all.

And the worst part?

A part of me wanted to see what they'd do if I stayed still.

I stayed still.

Not because I was frozen. Not because I was afraid--though I was. But because I wanted to know what I was to them now. A mouth? A body? A game? Would they push me harder if I didn't resist? Would they back off if I turned limp?

I kept my arms crossed over my breasts. My hair hung forward, veiling half my face. I let my knees spread just slightly. Not obvious. Not desperate. Just... available.

The shift in the air was instant.

They noticed. Testosterone was in the air.

The man closest to me--thick wrists, workman's hands, eyes like coal--pulled me up and turned me towards the pool table. He moved behind me. His boots scraped the floor as he closed me in. I felt his fingers at my waist, then sliding slowly up under my top, his touch possessive, not gentle.

I didn't stop him.

His palm spread across my bare stomach, hot and heavy. He pushed higher. I sucked in a breath when he found my breast. His thumb brushed my nipple, and I twitched, more from the rawness of it than the pleasure. There was no warmth in the way he touched me--just a need to claim.

"You're huge," he said quietly into my ear. "You like getting these monster milkers squeezed?."

I closed my eyes. I didn't have an answer. A moan escaped my lips.

Another man stepped beside me. Suit guy. Still buttoned up, still polished. His hand cupped my chin, pulling my face toward him. His thumb pressed against my lower lip, pushing in. I opened my mouth. He slipped the digit inside and watched me suck.

"Look at that," he said softly. "She wants to see what happens when she stops fighting."

I did. I hated how true it was. I hated how my thighs clenched when he spoke.

I pulled back just enough to say, "Will you stop if I ask?"

No one answered. My eyes pleaded with them.

That silence--it said everything.

And still I didn't try to push off the pool table and walk.

The man behind me lifted my top. I felt the cold air hitting my skin. His hands were firmer now, kneading. The one in front leaned closer, his breath warm on my cheek.

"You are such an obedient slut, aren't you?" he murmured. "You want to know how far we'll go."

I froze pussy clinching but nodded, just barely.

"No," he said. "Say it."

My lips parted. My voice was barely there. "I want to know."

He smiled.

And then they began.

The man behind me gripped my hips and pulled me up towards him, slow but rough, like I was a doll. My legs were unsteady, trembling as I moved, and my skirt slid up with the movement until it was bunched at my waist. My best assets were bare now--my nipples flushed, erect, exposed under the bar's flickering neon glow. My white panties stained with my come.

I didn't cover myself. I just stood there.

He stayed behind me, one arm across my belly, the other reaching up to cup both breasts, squeezing them together like he was weighing them in his palms. I gasped. It wasn't gentle. My skin ached from the friction of his calloused fingers, and my nipples throbbed when he pinched them.

"I like the sound she makes," someone said. I didn't know who. I didn't look.

Another hand--new--slid between my thighs from the front, pressing against the heat there. I jerked, a moan slipping out of me before I could bury it.

"She's soaked."

The shame hit like a slap. I turned my head, burying my cheek against the arm holding me. But that didn't stop them.

The one tugged at my panties. His knuckles brushed my belly as he pulled the them down, slow and deliberate. He didn't ask. None of them asked. They just acted like I'd already said yes to everything.

Maybe I had.

My panties slid down my hips, catching at my thighs. I stepped out of them, barefoot now on the sticky bar floor, wearing nothing but my skirt bunched around my waist. The man in front ran a finger up my tracing my slit. I whimpered.

"I think she wants to know what it's like to be used," he said.

The man behind me chuckled darkly. "Time to get real."

My legs parted instinctively as his hands settled on my thighs, pulling them apart further.

I wasn't even pretending to be shy anymore.

I wanted to know what they would do to me.

How far I would let them.

The hands on my thighs dragged upward, rough palms grazing tender skin, until thumbs pressed into the crease where leg met hip, parting me like I was just something to be opened. He turned me. Bare ass against the pool table. I gasped, knees wobbling. My body wanted to close, to fold away from the intrusion, but they held me wide--exposed.

Someone crouched between my legs. I could feel his breath--hot and close--then the first drag of a tongue.

I jolted.

It wasn't slow. It wasn't delicate. He licked me like he was claiming territory, wide and wet, his stubble scraping the inside of my thighs. My breath caught in my throat. I reached behind, trying to brace myself against the body still holding me upright, but he seized my wrists, pinning them tight across my belly.

"I've got you," he growled. "Now keep still."

I whimpered again as the man between my legs began eating me in earnest--his tongue plunging between my folds, curling up against my clit, then dipping back down. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't kind about it. He licked me like I was already his, like I'd asked for it, like I needed it.

And maybe I did.

Because I was soaking now, thighs slick, my hips grinding down without permission. My nipples were throbbing, tight and aching in the open air, and I hated the way my body betrayed me. Hated the moans spilling from my lips, desperate and soft.

One of them leaned forward--one I hadn't seen move--and began to suck at my breast, hot tongue circling my nipple before he bit down, just hard enough to make me cry out.

They didn't care who saw.

Didn't care who heard.

I was spread open, half-naked, getting tongued and sucked and pinned in place while a circle of older men took turns finding new ways to use my body.

The man between my thighs groaned against me, grinding his face harder, forcing my legs even farther apart. My head dropped back, mouth open, eyes fluttering. I could feel the pressure building, fast and sharp and humiliating. I didn't want to come. I didn't want to give that to them.

But it was happening.

"I--I can't--" I gasped, thighs shaking.

"Let go," the one behind me hissed into my ear. "You need to. You fucking need to."

I did.

It ripped through me--fast, brutal, unstoppable. My body spasmed, my moan broke into pieces, and I collapsed back against the table. The mouth between my legs was relentless. He licked me through it, licking and licking, until I was twitching and raw and too sensitive to stand.

He pulled back slowly, like he wasn't done, just pausing.

And I was still there--legs shaking, chest heaving, body glistening.

Completely silent inside.

I leaned against him, spent and slick and trembling. My legs felt hollow. My throat was sore. I'd bitten down on the inside of my cheek at some point--metallic blood mixed with the aftertaste of cum still coated my tongue. The room was too loud and too quiet all at once.

My panties were somewhere on the floor. My top was off. My breasts stood firm, filled. My nipples ached. My pussy throbbed, open and wet, air kissing it every time I shifted.

And then--

I heard my name.

Not from them.

From the bar.

I froze.

The men around me didn't notice. Or didn't care. One was still groping my tits, another wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smug and lazy. One nuzzled my neck like I belonged to him now. Like I was his toy.

But I'd heard it. I wasn't imagining it.

"Claire?"

I turned my head like it weighed a hundred pounds.

And there--standing at the bar peering at me, backlit by the neon beer signs, eyes wide and mouth parted--

My cousin.

Julie.

My fucking cousin.

She was supposed to be back at school. She wasn't even from this city. But there she stood, backpack slung over one shoulder, keys in her hand, frozen solid like she'd walked into a nightmare. My nightmare.

Or maybe she had.

Her eyes locked on me. Then on my bare breasts. Then lower.

I watched the horror bloom across her face, slow and gutting, as her gaze followed the sticky shine between my legs, the hand still resting on my inner thigh, the way I looked like I wanted this.

I tried to say something. Anything.

But I couldn't speak.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Then she turned and left--fast. Gone.

The door slammed behind her.

I stood there, still naked, my breath coming in shallow gasps. One man said something--I didn't hear it. The one who'd been between my legs reached for me again.

But I backed away stepping away from the pool table. Stepped out of their circle. My panties were in a crumpled heap. I bent to grab them, hands shaking.

"What's the rush?" one of them asked, voice slick with amusement. "You're not done."