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No sooner than the second you sit down to eat lunch do the students at your table pick up and leave. They grab their friends and usher them to come, too. You hear murmurs of fight and courtyard, and distant shouting from outside. They rush to the mouth of the canteen where a bottleneck forms. You look to Sydney at your side for an answer, but he only frowns.
“Violence is never the answer,” he says, shaking his head disdainfully. You're normally inclined to agree with him, but you’re getting dizzy from the throng of students pushing past your table to join the others. It seems like everyone wants to catch a glimpse of what’s going on, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t, too.
“I just want to see,” you say as you stand, walking hesitantly toward the crowd. Sydney calls out your name, but your curiosity is going to kill you one way or another.
You follow them to the front courtyard. You shelter your face from the high noon sun as you emerge from the dingy school, nearly tripping on the steps leading down. You hear them before you see them—a wall of students from every year, shouting and chanting as a fight breaks out on the other side. You hear a dull thwack as you approach, the unmistakable sound of a bare fist colliding with someone’s jaw.
The crowd erupts in cheers.
As you get closer, you catch a glimpse of sandy blond hair. Your gut clenches anxiously, but you use your arm to lead your weaving through the students. Some recognise you and allow your passage, but most seem too engrossed in the brawl to notice. You get shoved around as other students jostle for a better view. You resort to elbowing anyone that refuses to budge, and it works. You finally manage to reach the front of the crowd.
Wild blue eyes lock with yours the second you emerge into the clearing. It takes time for your brain to register that the person straddling an underclassman is even human. It’s Whitney, and he’s fucking pissed.
Both you and Whitney seem surprised to see the other. Time stands still as you take it all in. Whitney’s teeth are bared in a snarl, blond hair tousled in dirt and blood, face swollen and bruised. More blood drips down his chin and neck all the way from his nose, drenching his white shirt. His blazer is missing entirely.
Truthfully, you don't think he even recognises you in this state of mind. His eyes are glossed over, pupils dilated. You cup your hands around your mouth and shout, louder than the students behind you, “Get his ass, Whitney!”
Whitney’s smile is full of teeth and blood as he slams his fist into the boy’s face with a sickening wet plap.
You don't care if he was provoked or not. You don't care who started it, don’t care if violence is wrong, nor do you care that you’d get just as much detention as him if you were seen encouraging his behaviour. Whitney’s friends flank him on either side, cheering him on with unsolicited advice on how to fight. He dodges the boy’s hands as he tries in vain to fight back against the bigger student, but Whitney grabs him by the collar and slams his head down into the ground.
Feral, ruthless, bloodthirsty. Whitney grunts as he pelts the boy with more and more jabs. He becomes less and less responsive until finally, finally, Whitney pulls the last punch before it connects. Satisfied with the carnage, or perhaps just bored now that his opponent has tapped out, he sits back on his heels to catch his breath. He wipes his fringe from his face, inadvertently smearing more blood across his temple.
His mates rush to help him up, and he holds his fists over his head in victory like a champion boxer. The students go mad. The clicks of faux camera shutters overlap. Whitney poses for them like he’s on the red carpet.
There’s something oddly endearing about Whitney’s bloodlust, and more concerningly, oddly arousing.
The underclassman is none other than Lucas O’Neal, a lissome boy that cornered you in the boys’ toilets last week. At least you think so—his face is swollen and bloodied nearly beyond recognition. Dread drops in your gut like a rock as you wonder if the fight is related to last week.
Lucas’s mates retrieve their barely conscious friend, but not before Whitney can hurl a bloody wad of spit on the boy’s disfigured face. Another one of them confronts Whitney, ready to throw hands himself to avenge his friend. Whitney laughs like a madman, but doesn’t back down. It takes three of his mates to hold him back while his victim’s mates hold back the challenger.
Testosterone must be one hell of a drug, you think to yourself.
Whitney lobs some more choice words at the group of underclassmen delinquents as they retreat, allowing you enough time to jog over. You’re not sure why you’re approaching him when he’s looking less like a boy and more like a wolf. Teeth gnashing, blood spattering off his split bottom lip with every threat and insult. His friends struggle to keep him locked in their grip as he thrashes around. You could get caught in the crossfire, but don’t care.
Whitney shoves his friends aside with a snarl the minute you’re in his sights, assaulting your lips with a hard, desperate kiss. His hand slips under your uniform skirt to grope the soft meat of your bare ass, pawing and kneading roughly. He smears blood all over your thighs and skirt, but even as you note the sharp, metallic tang of more blood in your mouth, you’re too fucking horny to care.
He holds you by the small of your waist, and the fingers of his other hand tangle in your hair, locking you into the embrace even further. You couldn’t escape even if you wanted to, and God dammit, you would rather die than stop kissing him. He hugs you so tightly to his chest that you start to struggle for breath, but it’s still not close enough.
You hang your arms around his neck and you nearly jump into his embrace, your thigh popping up to cross your ankle around his leg. You can feel his clothed erection throbbing against your bare cunt, and you rock into him for friction, but it’s short lived. You hear more shouting, much more poignant than the ambient roar of students—teachers finally arsed to emerge from their lounge to break up the fight.
Whitney nearly snaps at the friend that tries to pull him off of you, but it gives him the clarity he needs to recognise that it’s time to dip. You come to the same conclusion and reluctantly release his shoulders, but Whitney grabs you by the shirt collar. “Uh-uh—you’re coming with me.”
He drags you from the school grounds until you find yourself thrown into an alley, barely managing to catch yourself from stumbling. The rest of Whitney’s goons file in after him, but he isn’t having it today. “You sorry fucks weren’t invited!” he barks out. “Get the hell out!”
There’s some grumbling protests and lingering glances at you, but they obey.
“You,” Whitney says as he eyes you up like a piece of meat. He wipes his bloodied nose on the back of his hand, still looking every bit the feral creature you found in the courtyard. You take an apprehensive step back, but he’s on you again in two strides. He grabs you by the waist and walks you back against the wall, pinning you there as he works his lips against yours like he’s starving. Even though he reeks of testosterone, blood, and boy sweat, and even though he ruins your school shirt as he rips it open like an animal, you can’t say you mind all that much.
Whitney bites your bottom lip before giving you enough respite to breathe. “Wanna know the best part about beating a cunt within an inch of his life?” he growls. “Always makes me wanna fuck.”
Your cunt flutters and tightens around a disappointing emptiness under the weight of his voice. You whine into his mouth as he kisses you with such force that your head knocks against the brick wall. His tongue flicks across your bottom lip before it delves deeper into your mouth, tasting every part it can reach. His bloodied hands grope your breasts over your bra until he drags the cups down over your belly.
You can hardly keep track of how quickly he moves, but you get to work shakily thumbing the remaining buttons on his shirt through their loops. You rip the garment from his arms and unfasten the bra from your back as his lips suction to your neck and throat. He squeezes your tits in both hands, hard enough to make you groan in discomfort, but you expect this encounter to be dirty and brutal. You want it to be.
What you don't expect is when he sinks his teeth into your supple neck. “Ow!” You smack his shoulder in defence. “Fuck, Whitney! That fucking hurts!”
Whitney grabs a white-knuckled handful of your hair and jerks you down to your knees. The damp pavement scrapes your bare skin, and you cry out in more pain. It’s plain to you now that his rational thought is nothing but a distant memory. A potent cocktail of testosterone and adrenaline is the only thing preventing Whitney from truly feeling the extent of his injuries. Raw, open wounds throb on his knuckles, and his nose is still dripping fresh blood. He wipes it away again just to have more take its place.
“You know what that cunt said to me before I beat his ass?” Whitney hisses breathlessly. He emphatically shakes your head in his grip, smearing blood all over your face. “Know what that shit stain said to me, slut? Said he ran a train on you last week with his mates. Said you did it willingly, that it was your fuckin’ idea. Now why the fuck would he say that? Was it because you actually did it?”
You struggle to gulp down the lump in your throat, petrified by the ire brewing in Whitney’s eyes. You can’t recall ever seeing him this angry, this livid . You briefly wonder if you should lie, tell him what he wants to hear in an attempt to calm him down, but you have a feeling that he already knows that you did it. If someone spreads their legs in this town, it doesn’t stay a secret for long.
You nod with a frantic, “Uh-huh!” It’s not the full truth, but ‘I only did it because they didn’t give me a choice’ is too convoluted for him right now. Simple is best.
“And who the fuck said you could do that? Because I know it wasn’t me.”
“N-No one!”
You’re fighting to hold back tears, but it’s a losing battle. You’re terrified. You know he has a temper. The mental image of Lucas’s mangled face stands in the forefront of your mind. Would Whitney do that to you, too? You’re almost certain that the answer is no, but Whitney’s eyes are all wrong. He’s not there, not really—the Whitney you knew is gone, and whatever monstrosity he keeps shackled inside has broken free.
“Then why’d you do it, huh? Is it because you’re a fucking slut?”
You nod dumbly, amenably. “Uh-huh!”
“Say it!” Whitney tightens his grip on your face. “Say you fucked that loser because you’re a fucking slut.”
You sniffle, tears making your voice croak. “I—I fucked Lucas O’Neal b-because I’m a fucking slut.”
“And his friends.”
Your breath shudders as you focus on doing as he asks. “I fucked Lucas O’Neal and his friends because I’m a fucking slut!”
Whitney laughs, a reaction you can’t say you were expecting. It’s forced and curt, more like a cackle, but when he returns his attention to you, his eyes look a little less monstrous.
“Say you begged them for more.”
“And I begged them for more!”
“Yeah? Did you?”
“Y-Yes!”
“Why? Are you their slut?”
“N-No…”
“No?” he repeats in a patronising cadence. “Then whose slut are you?”
“Y-Yours.”
He laughs again, more genuine than the last, but still cruel and jaded. “I don’t want a slut that doesn’t ask permission first.”
“I-I’m sorry!” Your whole body shakes with fret. You don’t want to disappoint him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Whitney!”
“Damn right you’re fucking sorry. You’re gonna apologise.” Whitney brings his bloodied knuckles to your lips, smearing them in red. He winces; even the softness of your skin shoots pins and needles up his arm.
You recoil on first instinct. “Wh—No, Whitney, that’s—”
“Stick out your tongue and clean this shit up. Don’t make me say it again.”
Whose blood is this?
You don’t dwell on it. Your tongue flicks over his knuckles to lave the raw, open wounds. Your pink tongue gets coated in vibrant red with every long, sensual lap. Sensual—God, you’re fucked in the head. Whitney breathes a cross between a whimper and a grunt. You can’t tell if it’s pleased or pained because this has to be painful for him. Right? Either way, his cock is printing against his thigh through his trousers.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck…” More curses tumble from his lips, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand, even as it begins to tremble.
You look up at him, concern painting your features. “Whitney, are you—”
Whitney tugs your hair so roughly that your neck snaps back, your mouth hanging open in a gasp. He spits a wad of blood and drool into your mouth, causing you to flinch. “Toilets don’t talk.” He punctuates his insult by grinding your face into his crotch. “Get to fucking work.”
You shudder from the abuse, but set to work unfastening his trousers. Your own hands are unsteady from the anticipation until you’re wrapping your lips around his hard cock. Your hands flatten against his thighs for stability as his strong scent triggers something in your brain to shut down and suck.
“Jesus…” His voice breaks when you begin bobbing up and down on him. You forgo the usual kitten licks and kisses meant to show off for him and his friends, skipping straight to gulping down his length like it’s going to be your last meal. He tastes salty from sweat and piss, but you can’t get enough to satisfy. Your tongue rapidly swipes side to side across his glans, coaxing out his bitter precum to replace the lingering copper and iron in your mouth.
You can’t help the pride blooming in your belly when Whitney braces his forearm against the wall behind you. A few more bobs and you’re rubbing your nose into his pubic fluff. You hold yourself there willingly, shoulders racking with obscene gags that you try desperately to contain without much success. You’re well-practised, but he’s still not easy to take.
“Fuck. Good girl, good fuckin’ girl. Love when you choke on it.”
It’s no surprise to Whitney that his girlfriend’s chin, nose, cheeks, and neck are covered in blood, but the visceral response it’s inciting in him is something new. Your perfect lips are covered in his blood, smeared in patches across your soft skin. His fucking blood . He’ll be damned if seeing you like this doesn’t make him harder than he has any right to be.
“Look up at me,” he grumbles under his breath. He nearly comes undone the minute you do. Your eyes almost seem black, streaks of blood splattered all over your face. Seeing this submissive bitch reduced to nothing but a set of holes to fuck—money couldn’t buy this sort of happiness.
“Slut,” he groans as he gathers your hair from her face. He thrusts his hips forward and locks your head against the brick wall. He’s going to mark you with as much cum as his balls can supply. You are off. Fucking. Limits. He’ll drill it into you, and then he’ll fuck you in front of the whole godforsaken town. He’ll tattoo it on your forehead: Property of Whitney. He briefly wonders if he can put his blood in the ink.
You struggle to take him, your face bunched up and eyes squeezed shut. “Choke on it,” he growls at you. “Choke on me.”
Your eyes roll back and you hum involuntarily. The possessive lull in his tone is intoxicating, and you feel your thighs already sodden in arousal. It’s not fair how easily he can rip away your autonomy with just a tug on your hair and a growl under his breath. The metallic tang of blood seems to engulf your senses. You can’t remember consenting to this, but you don’t have any interest in stopping.
Whitney uses both hands to pry you away from his length just to see that pretty little fucked-out expression left on your face. “You fucking whore.” Thick strands of pink saliva dribble down your chin, snapping free from their connection to his shaft. You stick out your tongue as he slaps your cheek with his cock. “Dumb little slut. Who do you belong to?”
“You,” you say, but it’s still not enough for him.
“Say my fucking name.”
“Whitney! I belong to you, Whitney!”
Whitney plunges his cock back into your warm, soft mouth. You suck on instinct, slathering him in your spit to help him glide down your throat. Your eyes are watering, but you've long given up on wearing mascara to school for this express reason. He takes over and starts to selfishly fuck your face, hands grasping behind your head to use your mouth like a fleshlight. You struggle to keep enough air in your lungs to keep the edges of your vision from feathering. Snot runs down your nose as tears dribble down your face. He groans and pants, cursing and whining as he reaches his limit in an expectedly short few minutes. He’s taught you to suck cock like your life depended on it, and right now, it feels like it does.
You gasp for air when Whitney withdraws from your throat just to slap you across the cheek. Your ears ring.
"No," he growls. "Your slutty little cunt's gonna get my load."
You're dragged to your feet and shoved against the wall, knees shaky and close to buckling. You don't get a chance to clear your fuzzy vision before he's lifting your leg and sheathing himself in your tight heat.
"Fuck, Whitney!" you moan as he bottoms out on the first thrust. His mouth is back on yours, kissing you with tongue and teeth as he holds himself inside, growing accustomed to your silky cunt as it sucks him in. God, it feels like heaven inside your pretty fucking pussy. Moulded to his shape, guaranteeing that no one can ever fill it like he can. No one but him.
He slams into you violently, repeatedly, loudly. Both of his arms end up hooked under your knees as he fucks you against the rough brick wall.
"Stupid fucking bitch," he gasps between kisses. "I'm not fucking playing around anymore. Your slutty ass is mine. Mine to fuck, mine to beat, mine to do whatever the fuck I wanna do to it."
"Y-Yours," you manage to whimper out. "Only you, Whitney. I'm your fucking bitch, so fuck me like you'll break me."
Whitney murmurs a string of curses and buries his face in your neck as he cums. You feel the warmth of his semen filling you, then dribbling down his cock and balls. It doesn't seem to stop, his cock throbbing with every sputter of semen painting your insides.
"D-Damn it," he hisses under his breath. "Fuck…" He sets your feet down on the ground and grasps your face in both hands. He pants heavily, eyes boring into yours, but you can't read his expression. He swallows thickly before crushing his lips against yours. He works his lips over your mouth, opening it so he can delve his tongue inside and taste you. He's still frantic, but it's not as rough as before.
Several minutes pass of just kissing as he tries to allow his breathing to return to normal. It's difficult when you're almost certain he can't breathe through his nose.
"Who owns you?" he whispers against your lips.
"Whitney," you breathe, still drunk on his kiss. "Whitney owns me."
"Good girl."
You cup his cheek when he pulls away, brushing his hair from his bloody face. He winces as you accidentally touch a tender spot, already bruising. "Ow, fuck!"
"You're a fucking idiot," you tell him sternly.
Whitney seems taken by surprise, barking out a bemused laugh. "You're one to fuckin' talk."
"You're lucky the other guy looks worse."
"That means I won, you know. You should be congratulating me." He flashes you another charismatic grin, the kind that melts your heart. You hate how much you love him.
"Congrats on getting your ass kicked."
He laughs, but winces and holds his ribs. "Fuck. Hurts to laugh."
You begrudgingly pick up his bloodied shirt and put it on.
"That's not yours," he says, but he doesn't seem interested in stopping you.
"You ruined my shirt."
Whitney shrugs, scooping up your shirt and bra to toss them into a nearby dumpster. There was nothing wrong with your bra, of course, he just hates it when you wear them.
"Come on," he says, hand sweeping around your waist. "You're gonna keep me company while the nurse patches me up."
"The nurse isn't going to let me blow you while she wraps your bloody knuckles."
"But you're my emotional support slut!" he baulks, sticking an unlit cigarette in his mouth. "I need your fat tits to look at to distract me."
"Lucky me."