The Great Eviction Event Unfolds Chapter 1 free porn video

Hannah-1

Saturday, December 13, 2014. 8:11 a.m.

Hannah awoke with a thumping headache, and a grumbling stomach. “No,” she moaned, burying her head under a pillow.

Where was she, anyway? Not home in her own bed, not having to explain to her roommate in a few minutes how she’d gotten blasted again, and brought a guy back. That would come later, once she got home from wherever she was now. Some guy’s place, obviously.

“Hello?”

Getting no answer, Hannah lifted her head. No male body occupied the bed’s other half. Gazing around one-eyed confirmed the room was unfamiliar. Did she remember last night? Vaguely. “Hello?” she called again.

The bedroom door was closed and the room empty. She spotted no door suggesting bathroom access, only the bi-fold closet doors to her left. Whose bed had she awoken in? “Fuck,” she muttered, covering her head again.

Dozing until 9 am, Hannah was forced awake by her complaining bladder. “Okay, okay,” she grumbled, throwing aside the bedclothes. She covered again, hurriedly, recalling where she was, and that she was naked. Squinting, she confirmed her aloneness in the bedroom.

Why was she naked? Was she so wasted last night that she hadn’t even bothered to borrow a t-shirt from the guy (whoever the guy was), hadn’t even put on her panties afterwards? That wasn’t like her at all. Not up-tight Hannah.

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. Testament to a night of wild sex was her hair, an absolute fright, even unseen. Spotting her reflection in the dresser mirror, she flinched away reflexively; thank God, whoever he was hadn’t seen her like this.

She wavered a moment, then pulled back her hair and held it behind her head one-handed. On the guy’s dresser was her hairband. Retrieving it, she secured her hair in a sloppy ponytail and scanned the bedroom for her clothes. Besides her panties, discarded next to the bed, twisted like a lacy-blue pretzel, everything sat neatly arranged in the room’s single chair. Her purse rested atop her clothes, looking abandoned. Someone had draped her coat over the chair back. Her iPhone sat on the bedside table.

Who was the guy, she wondered? Blasted as she usually got on weekend nights, overindulgence didn’t leave her a blank slate in the morning. But she remembered nothing from about 9:30 last night on, nothing at all. “Fuck,” she muttered again.

Hannah stumbled back to the bed and snatched her panties off the floor, untwisted, and hurriedly slipped them on. A terrycloth robe hung on the bedroom door; hurrying over, she grabbed it down, wrapped it about herself tightly, belting it tight. Putting her ear to the bedroom door, she listened intently.

Hannah was 19, a sophomore at Virginia Commonwealth University. Her chosen program was addiction studies, a field with huge growth potential post-2017, the year she’d graduate. The irony of the choice wasn’t lost on her. Saturday and Sunday mornings usually found her with staggering hangovers. This morning was no exception.

Cracking open the door, she peered out. Directly across was a bathroom, the door standing open, mercifully unoccupied. Scurrying across to remedy that, Hannah closed the door softly behind her, locked it and turned on the light.

The bathroom was bona-fide male, utilitarian and undecorated, if exceptionally clean. A tube of Crest toothpaste stood upright on the sink, along with a pump bottle of hand soap, and another containing hand sanitizer. A decorative set of towels and hand towels hung over a wall rack, draped by a hand towel for everyday use.

The shower curtain was drawn back, revealing a spotlessly clean tub. Various brands of hair care products occupied the built in shelf, and a wire rack hung from the showerhead. Three bars of soap in various states of use were in evidence, indicating an apartment with four roommates. The master bedroom typically had an attached bathroom of its own.

Hannah sat down and peed, wondering if they’d used protection last night. She evidenced the aftermath of aggressive sex this morning: tender inside, raw outside, back feeling slightly sprung, chin abraded from the guy’s beard. In addition, red elbows, knees, and both shoulders proved she’d been doggie during the night, and not always in bed. Her right shoulder was especially sore. They’d done it on the floor.

Sighing, Hannah flushed and stood up. Once she’d faced this guy (God, she really had no idea who it was), she’d get his okay to jump in the shower, hopefully secure a ride home, and go back to bed. Fuck going out tonight, she thought. Stay home and binge watch Netflix and drink an O’Doul’s, or two.

Hesitating in the hallway, she softly called “Hello?” and then repeated the greeting more loudly. The apartment was preternaturally quiet, disturbingly so, though Hannah perceived this only on a subconscious level. Shivering with an outbreak of gooseflesh, she hurried into the bedroom, closed and locked the door behind her. Something was wrong; something had her unaccountably frightened.

Forcing her nerves to calm, Hannah scanned the carpeting around the bed, and then glanced quickly at both nightstands. The guy’s cell phone sat atop his, perched atop an open box of Trojan ribbed condoms; she hadn’t noted that earlier. Locating the trashcan beside the bed, she spotted numerous spent condoms inside, and empty foil wrappers. She counted 5 sets, explaining the acute symptoms this morning. She’d been worked really hard. Hannah felt acutely embarrassed.

“Hope you had a good time,” she muttered. She recalled none of it, not a moment.

What did she remember? Leaving campus yesterday afternoon, she had hooked up with Gin and Candy, gone shopping at Regency Square. It’s where she’d bought the top and skirt on the chair. Forever 21, more specifically, her favorite store. The black heels were Jennifer’s, her roommate. The right heel of her own pair had snapped on the stairs last night, twisting her ankle, leaving her gimpy the entire evening; it was still slightly sore this morning.

Accompanied by Jen, she’d met up with Ginny for a quick snack at Panera Bread, and then headed to McCormack’s Big Whiskey Grill to hang with Sonja and Callie. A girls night out, supposedly. Her last memory was of downing a shooter with Callie and Jen. She’d heard a scream, noted some commotion at the west-facing windows, and then nothing more until she’d awoken this morning in a stranger’s bed.

Venturing into the hallway, she called out again. “Anybody there?” she added, moving toward the living room. The apartment was big, 3 bedrooms along this hallway, including her unknown hook up’s. Two doors had Keep Out signs posted on the face; one bore the name Josh; a second identified the occupant as James. Her mystery man remained unnamed.

It was so quiet. No roommate chatter or ongoing argument, no stereo blaring, no ball game playing on the widescreen TV in the living room. The lights were out, blinds drawn and the TV unaccountably dark. What guy’s shared apartment had she ever been in with the widescreen not tuned to a sports network at 10 in the morning?

Were they asleep? Her hook-up certainly wasn’t; he also wasn’t in the kitchen, living room or dining room, which left only another guy’s room with the door closed, and that possibility weirded her out. Time to vacate this lodging, she thought. Ask Jen to come get her, or Gin, or Callie. Uber, if necessary. Just get the hell out of this place.

Dressing, she sniffed her underarms, and then breathed deeply, shaking her head. She smelled herself, which meant that others could, as well. No way, she subjected her friends to that embarrassment, much less an Uber driver. Un-counseled, or not, she was taking a shower.

Gathering her clothes, cell phone and purse, she migrated to the bathroom across the hall. Locking the door, she removed the robe and hung it over the provided hook on the door. Refusing to face the mirror, she started the shower, and then remembered she had no towel. Muttering curses like a cowhand, she donned her unknown partner’s robe, returned to the hallway, grabbed two towels from the linen closet, and returned to the bathroom.

The shampoo and conditioner’s were all guy products. Choosing the most expensive brand, Hannah lathered her hair, rinsed and then treated it with conditioner. A single bottle of body wash (provided for the occasional overnight guest, no doubt) was the same brand she used at home, for which Hannah whispered thanks. It offered some feeling of normalcy again. Shutting off the water and drawing the shower curtain, she grabbed a towel and wrapped her hair. Then she dried.

To paraphrase an infamous saying, Hannah Donnelly was a pair of boobs that walked. At 5’7” tall and 136 lbs, she filled her size 36C bras to overflowing. The bane of her existence, the large round breasts reflected in the mirror were hugely responsible for her popularity since entering 6th grade at Bishop Carroll Middle School. Not that she had resembled a playmate in 6th grade; that hadn’t occurred until high school, when she’d started wearing outfits meant to conceal her incredible figure. Guys hit on her despite those best efforts, however; and by 12th grade, her reputation was tattered: she fucked whoever took an interest, they said, and everyone took interest. This didn’t actually occur until midway through her first year at VCU. She was borderline promiscuous now.

Quickly blow-drying her hair, she put it back in a proper ponytail this time, removed the bath towel, and dressed. Her coat smelled strongly of alcohol; she’d spilled a drink on it, last night, she’d bet. Donning her heels, she opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. “Is anyone in this apartment but me? Hello? Guys?”

She knocked lightly on Josh’s door. “Hey Josh? My name is Hannah. Are you there?” No answer, nor at James’s door down the hall. Returning to her host’s bedroom, she gave the room a last look, including beside and beneath the bed for personal items. She then quickly made the bed; it didn’t seem right to run off and leave the room a mess.

At the door, Hannah gazed back at the cell phone atop the box of condoms. Her iPhone stayed with her always, even going into the bathroom, or heading to the kitchen for a Diet Coke or a snack. It was the same with her friends, including most guys she knew. It beggared the imagination that someone would leave the apartment, forgetting his cell phone. Or a naked sleeping girl, for that matter. Removing her iPhone, she dialed Jennifer’s number.

“No, no, come on!” she complained. “Don’t go to voice mail.” It did, and she left a terse, five-word message: “It’s me. I’ll text you.”

Wondering where exactly she was, Hannah circled the bed and glanced across the guy’s dresser, then checked his desk. Beside the closed laptop, tucked inside a porcelain bill keeper was a checkbook, an ultra-thin ledger, and perhaps a dozen neatly arranged bills. Carefully removing the front envelope, Hannah noted the name and address on the Exxon credit card statement: Sean Cormady, 1007 N Hamilton Street, Apt. 4F.

She had never heard the name before, had never hooked up with a guy named Sean since Sean Wilkerson in 10th grade. Far as N Hamilton Street went, she knew where she was, even guessed that Sean lived in the Georgetown Apartment complex. She’d been here a number of times, attending parties. The place had a party reputation.

“I’m at 1007 N Hamilton Street, Apt. 4F,” she wrote. “Do you know how I hooked up with Sean last night? Do you know who he is, or how I came to be in his bed this morning instead of my own? Really, Jen?” Miffed, she fired off the text, unloading the blame onto a pair of shoulders other than her own.

Nottingham Green Apartment complex lay 15 minutes distant, in Tuckahoe, just north of Regency Square Mall. If Jen failed to respond (she better not!), she’d try Gin, next, and then Callie Greer. Gin worked this afternoon but should be up by now; Callie was off; her office was closed on the weekends. Gin worked for a vet.

“How fast can you get here?” she inquired of Jen. “Please don’t tell me you’re asleep!”

Anxious, Hannah drifted to the window, opened the blinds, and glanced out. She guessed from her view along N Hamilton that Sean resided midway between Patterson Avenue and Monument. She texted a follow-up message to Jen, letting her know that.

It took a time to note the anomalous stillness outside. The temperature was forecast to hit a high of 55 degrees, today, yet Hannah spotted no one on foot, and vehicular traffic seemed abnormally light for a Saturday morning. Truthfully, she couldn’t remember a single car driving past during the time she’d stood there, awaiting Jen’s reply. Glancing at the phone, she glowered, and then sidestepped to the window’s opposite side, gazing at the traffic on I-195. There was none.

“Come on, Jen,” she grumbled, turning away. “Where are you?”

She texted: “Are you mad at me about something? I don’t remember ANYTHING about last night, so give me a break! Honestly, girl, come on.” Frustrated and angry, she dialed Jen’s number again and spat “Fuck!” when the line rang 5 times and then went to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message this time. Then she texted Ginny.

“Hey, you! What happened last night? I am, like totally alone in some missing dude’s apartment! Call me back as soon as you can! I need a ride home. You don’t work until 3, right?”

Checking her signal, Hannah returned to the window, glancing again at I-195. It took a moment to realize that a car had T-boned another in a parking lot across the highway. A third vehicle, a red pick-up truck, had joined the fray, rear-ending the bronze compact. To Hannah’s unpracticed eye, it appeared the sandwiched car had continued straight at the turn, and the pickup driver had stupidly followed. All appeared badly damaged by the impacts.

Drunks, she thought, shaking her head. Following a church service last night (what she could see of the building suggested a church), the drivers had waited until morning to have them towed. Only, explain the white Mercedes halfway down the adjoining street, smashed headlong into a tree trunk. Based on the trail of debris, the driver had sideswiped a black sedan and then a flashy red convertible, parked at the curb. In no case would an incident like that go unreported, she thought. No way would the wrecked white Mercedes not get towed away, and possibly the others as well.

Hannah turned away, her sense of foreboding heightened. Gin hadn’t answered, narrowing her options to two. Uber time, she thought, heading for the bedroom door.

At the end of the hall, Hannah paused. Think about this, she considered: Once out that apartment door, kiddo, you’re 6 to 7 miles from home, with no ride, and no one left to contact other than Callie, or possibly Sonja, with whom you are not good friends. Which leaves a taxi ride home, and a sizable hit to your credit card. (Uber was cheaper, but Hannah had thrown up in the rear seat of two rides, and engaged in a shouting match with a Pakistani driver who took offence at joking between she, Callie, and Gin. Stuff like that dynamited your rating. Two Saturday’s ago, three different drivers had blown her off. Ginny was forced to handle the ride home from her app.)

She called Jennifer again, and then Ginny, and then Callie, all with the same result. Afraid to try Sonja, Hannah poked the Uber app with a fingertip and logged her petition.

Please, she pleaded silently. I’ll be a good girl today, I will. Any throwing up was done last night, and I am in anything but a joking mood today. I promise a good tip, and you can even stare at my boobs without reprimand. I promise. Just please, someone pick me up!

A minute passed with no reply, and then a second; the app locked up, she thought sourly. Double-clicking the Home button, she flicked Uber off the screen, and then tapped the icon again. Repetition brought about the same result.

“Really? You’re doing this to me now?” she cried in a strangled voice. “I do not believe this!”

Loosing it, she whacked the recliner beside her and then punched it again, cursing lividly. “Calm down!” she finally growled. “Violence helps nothing, Hannah! No wonder, no one wants to give you a fucking ride, knot-head.”

Laughing tersely, she thought how often that word had rolled off her father’s tongue in admonition. “Constantly,” she muttered, missing him intensely. She’d not been home since July, and hadn’t spent much time on the ranch even then. She and her mom got along like a rat and a snake.

Hannah tried the app again, entering home as her destination, UberX as the preferred ride, and confirming a party of one. The app stalled a third time, unwilling, or unable to provide pricing.

“I don’t get it,” she muttered. This dropped her options for getting home to an expensive taxi ride. “I need a fucking drink.”

In addition to beer, the fridge offered a choice of Pepsi cans, and 20-ounce bottles of Sprite. One bottled water. Caring for neither soft drink, she chose the Dasani and twisted off the cap. Sipping, it occurred to Hannah that possibly her options were not exhausted, after all.

“No,” she grunted, taking a swig. “I’m not stupid enough to do that.”

Borrowing Sean’s car would be tantamount to grand theft auto. He was probably out in his car, anyway, so the option wasn’t a viable one. However, returning to his bedroom doorway, Hannah confirmed what memory had suggested to her on a subconscious level.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Hannah.” Like drink yourself blind and powerfuck a guy you don’t know. What did he look like, anyway, she wondered. Had she recognized him last night at the bar? Where they acquaintances and she just didn’t remember?

Crossing to the dresser, she examined Sean’s keys. Nudging a remote bearing the Honda insignia, she took it gingerly between her fingertips, and crossed to the window and looked out. Sean’s bedroom overlooked enclosed patios between this building, and the next one over. Returning to the living room, she picked a window free of obstruction (the goldfish bowl beside it was empty of goldfish, she noted), opened the blinds and peered out. Parked along the front of the building were six vehicles, occupying all available spaces. Half a dozen more sat before the opposite building.

Pressing the unlock button, she watched for a characteristic flash of lights. Pressing the lock button twice rewarded her with a soft chirp to her left: Sean’s car was parked around the end of the building, out of sight. “There’s that, at least,” she muttered. However, she wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

Back in Sean’s bedroom, she grabbed his jeans off the floor, and from the right rear pocket removed his wallet. She inspected his driver’s license. Sean was devilishly cute, with a killer smile, spiky blond hair, and radiant blue eyes. He was 24 years old, a resident of Richmond, Virginia. His address matched that of his credit card statements. Counting out $122.00 in various denominations, she replaced the bills and searched in vain for pictures. She dropped the wallet on his dresser. What now?

“I’m going home, is what,” she informed the empty bedroom. “I’ll call a taxi outside.”

Keys clutched in her hand (she’d return them later, she promised), purse slung over her right shoulder, Hannah veered into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of Dasani off the counter and continued toward the front door. Two steps from the living room, however, she faltered; on the wall beside the built-in pantry was a landline.

“No way. You’re kidding me.” Lifting the handset, she randomly punched 10 digits, purposely avoiding any repetition of numbers. After a moment, the line began to ring. “Answer, I dare ya,” she challenged. No one did.

Hanging up with a bang, she ran to the front door. Twisting the deadlock to the left, and slapping the security chain free of the slide, she yelled: “What the fuck happened last night? Where the fuck is everybody?”

Getting no answer, she screamed, “Fuck!” slammed the door behind her and ran to the stairwell. Behind her in Apartment 4F, the landline in the kitchen rang, unheard, going unanswered.

Rebecca-1 Friday, December 12, 2014, 9:24 pm

Gunther’s disappearance left Rebecca dazed and disoriented. She was barely 16, stupidly wasted on weed and half drunk. In a bedroom upstairs at some girl’s house (stupid not knowing the girl’s name, exactly where she lived, and letting Gunther take her upstairs in the first place), Rebecca looked all around, wondering where he went.

She hadn’t wanted to fuck. She was okay with making out, liked Gunther enough to French kiss with him and let him play with her boobs and grab her ass, but fucking was something else. Being forced to fuck was something else entirely.

She had blacked out, she guessed. Gunther had done her, or had walked away disgusted and left her for someone else to do. Rebecca had no illusions about guys doing a nearly-naked, comatose teen, stumbled across in a darkened bedroom. Offsetting her anxiety somewhat was sensing that she hadn’t been done, or even touched. The flashing red and blue lights illuminating the bedroom window--Gunther hadn’t cared that cops were about to raid the party, detaining underage drinkers or anyone caught doing dope--behooved her to get the hell dressed and away from the house just as fast as she could.

Retrieving her panties and jeans from the floor, she struggled into them while trying to remain erect. Her sneakers sat by the bedroom door, which was locked. Gunther had locked her in, then. Muddle-headedly grateful, she yanked out the swivel chair, sat down and donned her Chuck’s. Wait a minute ... were these even hers?

Music pounded downstairs, vibrating everything she touched. Struggling erect, she stumbled back to the bedroom door and fumbled it open. The higher decibel level in the hallway almost made her close it again. She was nauseous. Holding her head, she moaned and leaned against the door jamb, fighting not to retch right there in the doorway. She was so messed up.

Had Gunther fed her something besides beer and weed, she wondered? She knew about date-rape drugs and how lots of older girls got fed them in drinks at weekend parties. But that was college-age girls, for God’s sake, not 10th graders. None of her friends had ever been roofied.

Hand on the wall for support, Rebecca approached the stairs and gazed down, bleary-eyed. Be careful, she told herself, grabbing the handrail. Descending one step at a time, turning at the mid-floor landing (her own stairs went straight down without a turn-back, but then, her house was a third the size of this one), she made it to the bottom without stumbling. Looking around dumbly, she tried to make sense of the empty main floor, a party without participants. “Gunther?” she called unsteadily.

Before Gunther took her upstairs half an hour ago, there’d been no room to move, barely enough space to breathe. How everyone had fit in the house, Rebecca didn’t know. 150 teens had to be in attendance, as many as a 200, maybe. Bottles of beer, empty cans, red, and blue plastic cups, littered the floor and every available surface. Spilled contents soaked into the previously pristine beige carpeting and expensive furniture. Had everyone simultaneously opened his or her hands and just allowed their drinks to fall? Where the hell were they, anyway?

A voice inside her head--quite drunk---advised that she get back upstairs to the bedroom, lock herself in, and get some sleep. People were fucking with her here, playing games, being common assholes. Gazing back up the steps a moment, she stepped off the bottom riser onto the main floor carpeting. Half a minute passed before she released the newel post and ventured away from the stairs.

“Gunther?” she called again, louder this time. “Amy? Stop playing games with me, guys! Where are you?”

Cowed, afraid to mess with the blaring stereo, Rebecca tread cautiously to the front door and checked through the windows at top. By the curb sat a police cruiser, a black and white SUV with the Huntington Police Department logo on the side. Using her hand as a shield against the flashing strobes, she’d swear no one occupied the car. The driver’s-side door stood half open. Craning to peer in all directions, Rebecca spotted no men or women in blue. “Fuck,” she muttered, dropping back to her heels. “Where Is everyone?”

She crossed the living room, headed down the hall and into the kitchen. Confused, she ogled a pair of wallets on the kitchen counter, and a trio of cell phones, something girls would never leave untended at a party. Wanting to investigate, but filled with trepidation at being nosy, she instead crossed to the patio doors and gazed out. A blue plastic tarp--as expected on a cold December night--safely protected the pool. Rebecca spotted no one in the back yard, hiding, or otherwise. Jesus, were those snowflakes?

“Amy?” she shouted, now really alarmed. Amy was her closest friend, her BFF with a vengeance, whom Rebecca had accompanied to the party. With only the vaguest notion where she was in relation to her house on Wiltshire Boulevard, how would she get home? Was this snow for real? How deep would it get?

Swaying awkwardly down the hall, Rebecca reentered the living room with a fresh eye, observing more abandoned cell phones and wallets, a purse or two, and coats galore. Her sense of decorum objected to the plethora of spilled bottles and cups on the floor. Fuming, she snatched up a bottle at her feet, stumbling forward in the process, catching herself at the last moment on the arm of a chair. Carefully forcing the bottle onto a nearby lamp table--it required shoving other bottles aside to make room--she grabbed a plastic cup from atop the seat cushion and dropped it over the bottle.

Iggy Azalea’s ‘Black Widow’ screamed from the four tall speaker boxes. “That has to go,” she muttered. Advancing on the stereo, she whipped the volume knob to the left; the resulting silence was sudden and profound, triggering vertigo strong enough to make her stagger sideways a step. Trembling, she bent and grabbed her knees. Was she gonna puke? Please don’t let me puke on this expensive carpeting, she thought.

The nausea, if not her light-headedness, finally eased. Standing erect and filling her lungs with air, she slowly blew it out and inhaled another lungful, holding it this time. The tremble refused to go, but at least she could maintain an erect posture.

“This is not funny, guys!” she hollered. “Are you all downstairs?” Stomping downstairs to find out, she discovered the same weirdly empty tableau: abandoned wallets and cell phones, purses and hats and coats, empty bottles and cups everywhere, many on the polished hardwood flooring. Yanking open the bathroom door she discovered no one inside, or in the combination laundry-work room to her left. The sliding glass door to the side patio was unlocked. Pushing it roughly aside, she stomped outside and looked about, hands on her hips. Come on, she thought, finding no giggling partygoers crouched behind bushes, or poorly hidden behind trees and patio furniture. No cops with flashlights, either. The fucking snow had stopped falling, at least. A dusting covered the flagstones, and the surrounding grass. A thick overcast threatened more, however. She ought to head home, and the sooner the better.

“Is anyone out here?” she yelled. “Anyone at all?” Climbing the hill to her left, she approached the tall wooden fence surrounding the back yard. She checked the gate, found it unlocked. Inside, she searched the entire back yard, checking those places not visible through he upstairs patio door. Just like the house and the side yard, the back yard was deserted. She was becoming truly scared.

Retracing her steps, Rebecca slammed the patio door hard enough to rattle the adjacent pictures on the wall. She dashed upstairs to the main level, and then to the second floor, checking every single room, including the bedroom where Gunther had left her abandoned. No Gunther, no Amy, no anyone, at all. The house was deserted.

Jamming fists to her forehead, Rebecca backed against a door jamb, closed her eyes and breathed raggedly through her mouth. She was nauseous again. Leaving her eyes closed, she shakily dug out her iPhone and thumbed the Home button. Peeking one-eyed at the screen, she brought up the messaging app and opened Amy’s text stream. “Where are you!!!!!” she demanded.

Weak-kneed, she crossed to the stairs and dropped awkwardly onto the top step. Anxiety had her chest aching, and her bowels feeling waterlogged. She shifted uneasily, worrying she might need to dash to the bathroom. She’d peed there earlier tonight; Amy’d been with her.

“Feeling a little trippy there, girl?” Applying eye shadow and grinning as Rebecca went pee, Amy eyed her in the mirror. Rebecca shook her head and dodged the taunt.

“Gary looks hot tonight.”

“Gary’s hot every night,” Amy countered. “It’s not Gary paying attention, though, is it, sweetie? Gunther, now...” Her grin widened. “You slutty little ho’!”

Rebecca laughed, unwontedly and foolishly grinned. Gunther shared her history and trig classes, but they rarely interacted, certainly, not like tonight. Her hormones were all in a tizzy over Gunther.

“Better slow down on the booze, girl,” Amy cautioned. “And the dope.” Rebecca had shared a joint earlier with Gunther and two of his friends, claiming a corner of the back yard to light up. She’d returned to the same corner half an hour later with Gunther alone, making out with him while they enjoyed a second joint of fine cannabis. He’d gotten a first feel of her boobs then, and her bottom. Amy was warning her off now. She hadn’t listened, of course, and to the expected results.