The front doors of the school loomed ahead, glass and metal and the promise of another day. I pushed through them Thursday morning, and the warm air hit me first—stale and familiar, the smell of floor wax and bodies already packed into the halls.
My thighs were still sore from yesterday. The marks on my nipples, hidden under a fresh pink top, throbbed with every step. I'd worn a white cotton one today, thin enough that my nipples showed through, dark circles against the fabric. A blue skirt that barely reached mid-thigh. The same black lace thong.
I took three steps inside.
Three.
"Hey."
A girl I'd never seen before fell into step beside me. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail. Sharp eyes. She was shorter than me, but her hand found my hip immediately, fingers curling around the waistband of my skirt.
"Hi," I said, smiling.
Her hand slid down. Over my ass. Then under my skirt.
"Val said you'd be back."
Her fingers pressed between my legs, right through my thong. Two of them, pushing the fabric against me, finding the heat there. I kept walking, my smile fixed, because that was what friendly people did. They kept going. They didn't make it weird.
"I'm always back," I said. "I have class."
"Yeah, you do."
Her fingers pressed harder. A slow, deliberate drag along my slit through the lace. My breath caught. My body already responding, the familiar rush of wetness, the ache that never really went away anymore.
"I'm Tina," she said. "You're Elena."
"That's me."
She laughed, soft and low. "Everyone knows who you are, party gift."
Her hand stayed. We walked together, her fingers tucked between my legs, pressing and stroking like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we were just two friends walking to class. Her thumb found my clit through the fabric and circled slowly. Deliberately.
I let out a small sound. Couldn't help it.
"Yeah," Tina murmured. "Val wasn't lying."
We rounded the corner into the main hallway, and the crowd hit me like a wave. Students everywhere, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the chaos of a school morning. And hands.
A boy in a letterman jacket reached out as I passed. His palm landed flat on my ass, squeezing hard, pulling my cheek apart through the skirt. "Morning, Elena."
"Good morning," I said, my voice steady.
Another hand found my breast from the other side. A girl I didn't recognize, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, molding it through my top. "She's so fucking soft," the girl said to someone behind her. "Like a cloud."
I kept walking. Tina's hand still between my legs. The letterman's hand still on my ass. The girl's hand still cupping my breast, her thumb finding my nipple and rolling it through the cotton.
"You just let everyone touch you, huh?" Tina said.
"They're friendly."
"Yeah." She laughed again. "Yeah, we are."
Another step. Another hand. A boy I'd seen in the cafeteria yesterday—lanky, dark hair falling into his eyes—slid his palm up my thigh from behind, his fingers catching the hem of my skirt and lifting. Just enough to expose the curve of my ass cheek through my thong.
"Nice," he said.
"Thank you," I said, because it seemed like the right thing to say.
His hand stayed. Stroked. Squeezed.
I was surrounded now. Three of them at least. Maybe four. Hands on my ass, my breasts, my thighs. Tina's fingers still working between my legs, picking up a rhythm, pressing harder, faster, her thumb circling my clit through the soaked lace.
"You're already wet," she said, not a question.
"Yes."
"You're always wet."
"Yes."
She laughed again. "I love that."
A hand slid up my skirt from the front now. A boy's hand, rough and warm, pressing into my thigh, higher, reaching the wet lace and pressing against it. Three sets of fingers now. Maybe four. I couldn't tell anymore. I was just a body in the middle of the hallway, being touched by everyone, my smile fixed, my eyes half-lidded, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
"She's so fucking pretty like this," someone said.
"Look at her face. She loves it."
"She does. Don't you, Elena?"
"Yes," I breathed. "I love being friendly."
The hallways were filling up now. The first bell would ring in five minutes. But no one was rushing to class. They were rushing to me.
A girl with braids pushed through the crowd, her eyes landing on me. "Is this her? The party gift?"
"That's her."
"Shit." The girl stepped closer, her hand reaching for my free breast, the one not being groped by the first girl. She cupped it, squeezed, then pinched my nipple hard through the cotton. I gasped, arching into her hand.
"She reacts so good," the girl said.
"Told you." That was Tina. Her fingers were curling now, pressing deeper, finding my opening through the thong and pushing against it. The wet fabric gave slightly, and I felt the tips of her fingers at my entrance, not inside, just there, pressing, testing.
"Val says she belongs to the whole school," Tina said, looking around at the crowd. "That true, Elena?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm taking my turn."
Her fingers pushed harder. The thong shifted, the fabric sliding aside, and her finger slipped inside me. Just one. Knuckle deep.
I cried out. A sharp, breathless sound that cut through the noise of the hallway.
"Fuck," she said. "She's tight. Like, really tight."
"Let me feel." The letterman boy's hand left my ass and slid around, pushing between us, finding the same spot. His finger pressed against where Tina's was, nudging, testing.
"There's room for two," Tina said.
His finger pushed in beside hers. I felt the stretch, the invasion, two fingers side by side inside me, pressing against each other, against my walls. I stumbled, my knees going weak, but hands caught me—someone's hands on my waist, someone's chest at my back, holding me up.
"Fuck, she's tight," the boy said. "Tighter than—"
"Yeah. Keep going."
They moved together. Slow at first, then finding a rhythm. In and out, their fingers sliding against each other, against me. The sounds were wet, obscene, filling the air around us.
I was dimly aware of the hallway. Of students passing by, some stopping to watch, some just stepping around us like this was normal. A teacher's voice somewhere in the distance, calling for someone to hurry to class. No one stopped. No one told them to let me go.
"She's going to come," someone said.
"Yeah. Look at her face."
I was. I was going to come. Right here in the middle of the hallway, with two sets of fingers inside me and hands all over my body and a crowd watching. My hips started moving, thrusting against their hands, chasing it.
"That's it," Tina murmured. "Come on. Come for us."
"Want to feel that tight pussy squeeze," the boy said.
His thumb found my clit, pressing hard, circling fast, and that was it. The orgasm hit me like a wave, my body convulsing, my cunt clenching around their fingers, a long moan escaping my lips. I heard myself say something—"Please, please"—but I didn't know what I was asking for.
Their fingers kept moving through it. Slower now, drawing it out, milking every pulse.
"Fuck," Tina said, pulling her hand out. Her fingers were slick, shining in the fluorescent light. She looked at them, then at me. "You're soaked."
I was trembling. My thighs shaking. The boy pulled his hand out too, and I felt the wetness dripping down my leg, soaking into my thong.
"She's gonna need a towel," someone laughed.
"She's gonna need a lot more than that."
Hands were still on me. Stroking, squeezing, exploring. A girl cupped my breast and leaned in, pressing her mouth to my nipple through the thin cotton. I felt her tongue, wet and warm, circling the tight peak. She sucked, hard, pulling the fabric into her mouth, and I gasped, my hand finding her head, holding her there.
"More," I whispered. "Please."
She laughed against my skin. "Greedy."
"Friendly," I corrected.
"Same thing," she said, and went back to sucking.
I was going to be late for class. I knew that. But the first bell hadn't rung yet, and there were hands all over me, and every touch sent sparks through my body, and I was so happy. So happy to be here, to be wanted, to be friendly with all of them.
The girl at my breast pulled back, her lips wet, my nipple dark and visible through the stained cotton. "You taste good," she said. "Like salt and something sweet."
"Thank you."
"She says thank you," someone repeated, laughing. "She's so polite."
"That's the best part," Tina said. She was still standing beside me, her hand on my hip now, not groping, just resting there. Proprietary. "She doesn't fight it. She just takes it and says thank you."
"Like a good girl."
"Exactly."
The first bell rang. A sharp, insistent sound that cut through the haze.
Hands started pulling away. Reluctantly. Slowly. A squeeze here, a pinch there, a final stroke between my legs. But they left, one by one, until only Tina remained.
"You have first period?" she asked.
"Room 204. English."
"That's across the hall from my math." She smiled, sharp and friendly. "I'll walk you."
She took my hand. Not grabbing, not groping—just holding it, like we were friends. Like we'd known each other for years.
We walked through the emptying hallway. The crowds thinning, students ducking into classrooms, the noise settling into a low hum. My legs were still shaky. My thong was soaked through, the wetness cooling against my skin. I could feel it dripping down my thigh with every step.
"You're a mess," Tina said, not unkindly.
"I know."
"You need to clean up before class?"
"I don't have anything to clean up with."
She stopped. Looked at me. Then reached into her bag and pulled out a small pack of tissues. "Here. Go to the bathroom. Wipe yourself down. You can't sit through class dripping like that."
"Thank you."
She smiled. "Don't mention it. And Elena?"
"Yes?"
"Good." She squeezed my hand once, then let go. "Go clean up. I'll see you around, party gift."
She turned and walked into her classroom, disappearing into the rows of desks.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, my body aching, my thighs slick, my nipples hard against the stained cotton of my top. The tissues were in my hand. The bathroom was down the hall.
I walked toward it, my steps slow, my smile still in place. I could feel eyes on me. Students watching from their desks. A teacher standing in a doorway, his gaze lingering on my body, my wet skirt, the dark circles of my nipples through the fabric.
He didn't say anything.
No one ever did.
The bathroom was empty. I locked myself in a stall, peeled off my thong, and wiped myself clean. The fabric was ruined—translucent with my wetness, stained and slick. I couldn't put it back on. I stuffed it into my skirt pocket and pulled my skirt down, the thin fabric of my top the only layer between my bare cunt and the air.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dark, wet eyes. Hair mussed. Marks on my collarbone from yesterday's party, a faint bruise on my neck.
I looked like someone who had been touched.
I smiled at myself. Adjusted my top. Smooth my skirt. Took a breath.
Then I walked to Room 204, took my seat near the back, and opened my notebook to a fresh page. Mr. Harrison was already at his desk, writing on the board. He didn't look up.
I pressed my thighs together under the desk, feeling the bare heat of my cunt against the hard plastic of the chair. The ache was still there. Always there.
I smiled, my eyes on the board, my mind already on lunch. On more friendly attention.
I was ready. I would always be ready.