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"Come *on*, Casey—keep up!" Mia tossed her glossy black hair over one shoulder, flashing a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes as she adjusted the strap of her crop top. "I swear, you walk like you're eighty."
Casey tightened her grip on the three shopping bags digging into her fingers—two from Mia, one from Sarah—and adjusted her glasses with her free hand. "Sorry," she mumbled, hurrying to match their pace. Her loafers squeaked against the mall's polished floor.
Casey's protest died in her throat as Mia and Sarah practically squealed in unison, their manicured hands clutching each other's arms. "Oh my god, *look* who's here," Sarah breathed, already steering them toward the neon-lit shoe store Casey had been trying to avoid. Through the window, Jake's broad shoulders were visible as he lounged against a display of high-tops, Matt beside him flipping through a magazine. And there—leaning against the cash register with that lazy, predatory grin—was Tanner.
Casey's stomach dropped. She'd seen that look before, usually right before he "accidentally" bumped her books out of her hands or called her *four-eyes* just loud enough for the hallway to hear. "Guys, maybe we should—"
Mia and Sarah were already halfway to the store entrance before Casey finished her sentence. Sarah shot her a look over her shoulder—part amusement, part exasperation—as if Casey had just suggested they all hop on one foot backward through the mall. "Relax," Mia called, already adjusting her posture into something more fluid, more *seen*.
Casey muttered "Heck" under her breath, the closest thing to a curse her parents allowed, and trailed after them like a shadow. Her loafers stuck slightly to the floor with every step, as if even the mall itself was trying to hold her back.
Tanner's arm landed heavy around Casey's shoulders like a yoke, his fingers digging just enough into her collarbone to make her flinch. "Omg, look who's here!" His voice boomed, loud enough that a couple browsing sneakers glanced over. "My *favorite*!"
The laughter hit her like a swarm—Jake's deep chuckle, Matt's snort, Mia and Sarah's synchronized giggles that sounded rehearsed. Casey's glasses slid down her nose as she stiffened, her hands tightening around the shopping bags still cutting into her wrists. Tanner smelled like cheap cologne and the mint gum he was always chewing, the kind that came in those foil-wrapped sticks he'd flick at her in study hall.
Tanner’s fingers tapped against Casey’s shoulder, drumming a rhythm that made her skin prickle. Over his arm, she could see Mia tossing her hair back as Jake leaned in, murmuring something that made her laugh too loud. Sarah was already perched on Matt’s knee, inspecting a pair of glittery heels he’d plucked off the shelf like she was considering them.
"These their bags?" Tanner’s voice dropped low, his breath warm against her ear as he nodded at the shopping bags still clutched in her hands. The paper handles had left red creases across her palms. "Bet they didn’t even ask if you wanted anything." His grin widened when she didn’t answer. "I *know* you struggle with money."
Casey sighed—the kind of exhausted exhale that made her shoulders slump forward like a puppet with its strings cut. She closed her eyes for just a second, long enough to feel the ache behind her eyelids, the pressure of Tanner’s fingers still digging into her collarbone.
"Jesus, Casey, *what* now?" Mia’s voice was sharp, the same tone she used when Casey took too long picking a lunch spot or didn’t laugh loud enough at one of Jake’s dumb jokes. Sarah rolled her eyes, already turning back to Matt, but Mia was still staring—expectant, impatient, like Casey’s sigh had personally offended her.
"Can we just go, please?" The words slipped out before Casey could stop them, small and frayed at the edges like the hem of her sweater. She didn’t mean to sound pathetic—she *hated* sounding pathetic—but her voice cracked anyway, betraying her.
Tanner’s fingers stilled on her shoulder. For a second, the noise of the mall seemed to drop away—the piped-in pop music, the squeak of sneakers against tile, the distant chatter of other shoppers—until all Casey could hear was the sharp click of Mia’s tongue.
"Why do you always act like this?" Mia's voice cut through the mall's hum like a blade, her perfectly shaped brows pinching together. She stepped closer, her sequined skirt catching the overhead lights in tiny, mocking flashes. "It's *embarrassing*."
Casey felt Tanner's fingers tighten slightly on her shoulder—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her he was still there, still watching. The weight of his gaze prickled against her skin like static.
"I—" Casey started, but Mia was already rolling her eyes, stepping so close her perfume—something sweet and aggressively floral—burned Casey’s nostrils. "Is it your parents?" Mia tilted her head, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "Can’t let little Casey cuss or *fuck*?" The last word came out sharp, pointed, just loud enough for Tanner’s grin to widen.
Casey felt her face heat up, the way it always did when someone mentioned her parents, their rules, the apartment that smelled like lemon cleaner and unspoken expectations. She could already hear her mother’s voice in her head: *Language, Cassandra.* She opened her mouth—to say what, she wasn’t sure—but Tanner’s fingers twitched on her shoulder, a silent *stay put*.
Casey's throat tightened like someone had knotted a shoelace around it, her vision blurring at the edges as she swallowed hard against the prickling heat behind her eyes. "I—I'm sorry," she managed, the words splintering into something shaky and humiliating. Her fingers twisted around the shopping bag handles until the paper dug crescent moons into her palms.
Mia's gaze flicked to Tanner, one eyebrow arched in a silent *I told you so*, before she turned back to Jake with a practiced toss of her hair. The dismissal stung more than Tanner’s grip. Sarah, still perched on Matt’s knee, didn’t even look up from the glittery heels she was inspecting—like Casey’s apology was just background noise, static to tune out.
Tanner's hand slipped from Casey's shoulder like a predator deciding its prey wasn't worth chasing anymore. His grin had changed—less lazy amusement, more something sharp-edged and knowing that made her stomach twist. "Damn," he drawled, dragging the word out like taffy. "Didn't realize your parents kept you on *that* tight of a leash." His gaze flicked to Mia, then back to Casey with a slow once-over that lingered on the way her sweater bunched at the wrists. "Kinda explains why you dress like a librarian.”
Ater the Mall: Mia wanted starbucks
The key barely grazed the lock before the door swung inward, revealing her father’s silhouette—broad-shouldered, rigid, backlit by the sterile glow of the apartment’s overhead light. His fingers were still curled around the doorknob, white-knuckled. Casey’s breath hitched. *9:01 One minute.*
"You’re late." His voice was low, frayed at the edges in a way that made her stomach drop. Behind him, the apartment exhaled the familiar scent of lemon cleaner and simmering disapproval.
Casey stepped inside, her loafers barely clearing the threshold before her mother's silhouette detached itself from the hallway wall—a shadow with sharp edges, arms crossed tight over her chest. "Well?" The word cracked like a whip. Casey's mouth was already moving, excuses spilling out in a tangled rush—*Mia needed help carrying bags, the mall was crowded, the bus took forever*— but her mom just rolls her eyes.
Casey's breath stuttered as her father's belt slithered free from his waistband with a soft, leathery hiss. The sound alone made her knees lock—not out of defiance, but that old, familiar terror that turned her bones to water. "Dad, please—" Her fingers flew to her face, rubbing at her temples like she could press the words back into her skull before they spilled out wrong. "It was just *one minute*. The bus—"
"One minute late is one minute disobeyed." His voice was calm, terrifyingly so, as he folded the belt neatly in half. The overhead light caught the worn notch where the leather had creased from years of this same ritual. Behind him, her mother leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mouth a thin line. No rescue there.
The first lash landed with a sharp *crack* across Casey’s thigh—not hard enough to split skin, just enough to bloom a hot stripe of pain that sent her crumpling to the linoleum. Her kneecaps hit the floor with a dull thud, palms slapping down to catch herself. "Ow—Dad, *please*—" The words tumbled out in a gasp, her voice cracking around the edges like old pavement. She could already feel the welt rising under her jeans, the fabric rubbing against it with every shaky breath.
Her father didn’t pause. The belt whistled through the air again, this time catching the back of her calves as she instinctively curled inward, arms wrapping around her knees like a shield. "You know the rules," he said, each word measured, deliberate. The third strike landed higher, biting into the meat of her shoulder through the thin sweater. Casey choked back a sob, pressing her forehead to the floor. The lemon-scented cleaner stung her nose, mingling with the metallic tang of her own sweat.
Casey adjusted the straps of Mia's designer backpack—the one with the tiny golden charms that jingled with every step—as it dug into her shoulders. Sarah's bag swung awkwardly from her left hand, the weight of their textbooks pulling her arm down like an anchor. She could feel the eyes on her as they walked down the hallway—Tanner's smirk from his locker, the whispered giggles of girls who'd seen this routine a hundred times before.
Mia twirled a strand of hair around her finger, laughing too loud at something Jake said as he fell into step beside her. "Oh my *god*, you're *hilarious*," she drawled, leaning into him just enough to make Sarah roll her eyes. Sarah's grip tightened on Matt's arm, her nails leaving little half-moons in his sleeve. Neither of them glanced back at Casey, struggling to keep up with their long, effortless strides.
The invitation came in the form of Jake's arm slung around Mia's waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her hip as he murmured, "Party at my place tonight. You're coming, right?" His eyes never left Mia's face, but the question hung in the air like a dare—one Casey knew wasn't meant for her. Yet when Mia turned, her lips curling into that razor-edged smile, Casey felt the trap snap shut. "Obviously," Mia said, flicking her gaze to Casey. "And *you're* coming too. No excuses."
Casey's stomach knotted. She opened her mouth—to protest, to lie about homework or her parents' rules—but Sarah cut in, linking arms with her like they were best friends instead of captor and hostage. "Don't even *think* about bailing," Sarah whispered, her grip tightening just enough to pinch. "We already told Tanner you'd be there." The way she said it—like Tanner's interest was a prize, not a threat—made Casey's throat go dry.
The walk to Jake’s house felt like a slow march toward execution. Casey trailed behind Mia and Sarah, their laughter ringing sharp and careless in the evening air, while Jake and Matt walked ahead, shoving each other playfully like overgrown puppies. Tanner lingered just behind Casey, close enough that she could hear the rhythmic pop of his gum between his teeth, the sound ticking like a countdown. Her loafers scuffed against the sidewalk—too quiet, too meek—and she resisted the urge to adjust her glasses for the tenth time.
Jake’s house loomed ahead, its windows already glowing with the kind of reckless energy that made Casey’s stomach twist. Music thumped through the walls before they even reached the porch, bass vibrating under her feet like a warning. Inside, bodies moved in the dim light, drinks sloshing over red plastic cups, laughter too loud and too sharp. Tanner brushed past her as they stepped inside, his shoulder knocking into hers just hard enough to make her stumble. "Oops," he murmured, not looking back.
The upstairs hallway at Jake’s house was dimly lit, the wallpaper peeling at the seams where too many shoulders had brushed against it during past parties. Casey’s loafers sank into the plush carpet with each step, muffling her footsteps as she climbed the stairs—slowly, deliberately, like if she took long enough, maybe Tanner would lose interest and melt back into the crowd.
At the top of the stairs, she hesitated. To the left, a half-open door revealed a bathroom where someone was already vomiting melodramatically to the cheers of onlookers. To the right, a narrow corridor led to what looked like a guest bedroom, its door slightly ajar. Casey veered right, slipping inside before anyone could call her name.
Down stairs on the couch, “dude, where’s Casey?”
Tanner's grin curled at the edges like old parchment as he leaned back into Jake's couch, the leather creaking under his weight. "Dunno," he lied smoothly, rolling his gum between his teeth before popping it loudly. His gaze flicked to the staircase infront of them, where the upstairs hallway swallowed the last glimpse of Casey's sweater before she vanished. "Probably hiding in some closet, counting her freckles."
Sarah snorted into her cup, the cheap vodka-cranberry sloshing over her fingers. "God, she's *so* awkward," she muttered, wiping her hand on Matt's jeans without looking. Matt didn't even flinch—just absently draped an arm around her shoulders like she was a particularly irritable cat. Mia, perched on Jake's lap like a trophy, twisted a strand of hair around her finger and sighed.
Mia's fingers paused mid-twirl in Jake's hair, her dark eyes locking onto Tanner with the precision of a sniper. The corner of her mouth curled—slow, deliberate—as she tilted her head toward the staircase. "Tanner," she purred, voice dripping with something between amusement and a challenge, "go find her." The unspoken *you know you want to* hung in the air, thick as the bass thumping from the speakers.
Tanner's grin didn't waver, but his fingers tightened around his red plastic cup, the cheap beer inside sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He took a slow sip, dragging out the moment, his gaze never leaving Mia's. "Alright.” He drawled. His voice somewhat a warning and *If you say so*.
Tanner threw a lazy salute toward the couch, his fingers brushing his forehead with exaggerated flair before he pushed off the armrest. The plastic cup crumpled in his grip as he drained the last of his beer, tossing it onto the coffee table where it wobbled but didn’t spill—a small miracle in the chaos of the party. His boots thudded against the stairs, each step deliberate, like he was savoring the hunt. The upstairs hallway smelled like stale carpet and spilled vodka, the air thick with the bass vibrating through the floorboards. He turned right without hesitation, his shadow stretching long and lean across the peeling wallpaper.
The guest bedroom door was still ajar, just as Casey had left it. Tanner paused outside, listening to the muffled rustle of fabric inside—the sound of someone trying very hard to be quiet. He exhaled through his nose, amused, before nudging the door open with his foot. The hinges groaned, and the rustling stopped abruptly.
Casey was curled into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the faint welt still tender beneath her jeans, when the door groaned open. She sat up so fast her glasses slid down her nose. "Mia—" The name died in her throat as Tanner's silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the pulsing party lights from the hall. His shadow stretched across the floral bedspread like a stain.
"Disappointed?" Tanner's voice was all lazy amusement as he kicked the door shut behind him with a soft *click*. The noise of the party muffled to a dull throb, leaving only the sound of Casey's too-quick breaths and the creak of the mattress as Tanner leaned against the footboard. His eyes—dark and sharp— scanned her hunched posture. "Relax, four-eyes. Mia sent me."
Casey scrambled off the bed, her loafers catching on the floral comforter as she tried to sidestep toward the door. "I should—I should go find them," she stammered, her voice pitching higher than she intended. The words tumbled out in a rush, desperate to fill the silence between them. "Mia probably needs—"
Tanner's hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist like a manacle, and pushed her back down onto the edge of the mattress with a force just shy of rough. The bedsprings squeaked in protest. "Sit," he said, the word more command than suggestion, his thumb pressing into the delicate bones of her wrist just enough to make her pulse flutter under his grip.
Tanner stood between her legs, towering over her sitting form, his shadow swallowing her whole. He chuckled—low, throaty—as his free hand came up to adjust her glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of her nose with exaggerated precision. "Jesus, chill out," he murmured, thumb lingering near her temple for a beat too long. The scent of his cologne—something aggressively musky—mixed with the stale beer on his breath, making her stomach twist. "You look like I'm about to murder you."
Tanner’s grip on her wrist loosened, his fingers sliding up her arm with deliberate slowness before his thumb and forefinger hooked under her chin, tilting her face upward. Casey’s breath hitched—the movement was too controlled, too practiced, like he’d done this a hundred times before. His palm was warm against her jaw, his fingertips pressing just hard enough to leave faint indentations in her skin.
Her fear was naked in the way her eyes darted from his face to the door behind him, in the way her lips parted slightly as if she might say something but no sound came out. The dim light from the hallway caught the lens of her glasses, casting odd reflections that made her pupils look dilated, almost black. Tanner’s gaze lingered there for a beat too long, his expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Casey's body went rigid as Tanner's fingers dropped from her chin to the first button of his jeans. The metallic *snick* of the button popping free sent a jolt through her, her thighs clamping together instinctively. "Tanner—no, please—" Her voice splintered into something thin and desperate as she tried to twist away, but his grip on her wrist tightened, pinning her in place. "I don't—"
"Relax," Tanner murmured, his free hand working the next button loose with infuriating slowness. The denim gaped slightly, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband. His grin widened at the way her breath hitched—like he was cataloging every flinch, every tremor. "Just making myself comfortable." His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, a mockery of reassurance. "Unless you *want* me to stop?"
Casey forced herself to believe he was joking—had to be joking—even as her pulse thundered in her ears loud enough to drown out the bass still vibrating through the floorboards. The panicked little laugh that escaped her sounded foreign, tinny, like someone else’s voice piped through her throat. "Tanner—please," she tried again, a fraction louder this time, pushing against his chest with her free hand. Her fingers barely made contact before she recoiled, as if touching him might accelerate whatever sick game this was.
Tanner's fingers tangled abruptly in her bun, yanking her head back with a sharp tug that sent pain spiderwebbing across her scalp. The elastic snapped with an audible *twang*, her brown hair unraveling in messy waves as she gasped—half-surprise, half-pain—her hands flying up instinctively to claw at his wrist. "Ow—*stop*—!" The plea ripped out of her throat raw and jagged, her glasses askew as she twisted away, her legs scrambling against the mattress for purchase.
The bedsprings shrieked as Casey lurched backward, her fingers slipping against Tanner's forearm, slick with sweat. His grip tightened, hauling her back toward him with terrifying ease before she managed to wrench free—only to overbalance, her body pitching sideways off the bed. The floor rushed up to meet her knees with a sickening *crack*, the impact shuddering through her bones. Her palms slapped against the carpet too late to break her fall, the fibers scraping against her skin.
Tanner’s fingers knotted into her hair again before she could scramble away, wrenching her head back so sharply her vision blurred at the edges. Her scalp burned where strands tore free, the pain bright and starburst-sharp. Casey choked out a noise—half-sob, half-gasp—as Tanner’s other hand dipped past his waistband, the denim gaping obscenely.
The scream tore through Casey’s clenched teeth, muffled into a thin, reedy whine as the hot, musky weight of Tanner’s erection pressed against her lips. His grip in her hair kept her head tilted back at a brutal angle, her throat exposed, her glasses askew. The taste of salt and something unnervingly metallic seeped past her sealed lips—precum, she realized with a jolt of nausea—as Tanner rubbed himself against her mouth in slow, deliberate strokes. "Open," he murmured, voice rough with amusement, his thumb digging into the hinge of her jaw. "Or I’ll make you."
Casey’s breath came in frantic little huffs through her nose, her nostrils flaring with each panicked inhale. She could feel the ridge of his cockhead nudging insistently at the seam of her lips, the pressure just shy of painful. Behind her, the party’s bassline throbbed through the floorboards, a distant pulse that did nothing to drown out the wet, obscene sound of Tanner’s skin sliding against hers. Somewhere beyond the door, laughter erupted—bright and careless—a world away from the terror knotting her stomach.
Casey's lips parted with a sharp gasp—whether from pain or sheer panic, she couldn't tell—and Tanner took advantage instantly. His cock slid into her mouth with terrifying ease, the blunt head hitting the back of her throat before she could even think to clamp her teeth down. The taste exploded across her tongue—salt, musk, something faintly bitter—and she gagged violently, her throat convulsing around him as her eyes watered. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks, blurring her vision further as her glasses slid crookedly down her nose.
Tanner groaned above her, his fingers tightening in her hair until her scalp burned. "Jesus, *fuck*," he hissed, hips jerking forward instinctively as she choked around him. Spit dribbled down her chin, slick and humiliating, as her body fought against the intrusion. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at his thighs, nails catching on the rough denim of his jeans, but he didn't pull back—just held her there, his breath coming faster now.
The sharp sting of enamel against skin—whether accidental or deliberate, even Casey couldn’t say—sent Tanner jerking back with a hissed curse. His cock slipped from her mouth with a wet *pop*, glistening with her spit. For one dizzying second, she thought she might have won a reprieve. Then his hand cracked across her cheek, the slap echoing off the bedroom walls like a gunshot. Pain bloomed hot and bright across her face, her glasses knocked askew, tears welling instantly in her eyes.
"None of that shit," Tanner growled, his fingers digging into her jaw hard enough to leave bruises. He wrenched her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with something that wasn’t quite anger—something worse, something hungry. "Hands behind your back.”
Casey's lips trembled as she tried to form words—*please*, *stop*, *I'll scream*—but Tanner shook her head sharply, his fingers tightening in warning against her jawbone. The threat was silent but unmistakable. "Now," he repeated, low and thick with intent.
Her arms moved like they belonged to someone else, stiff and puppet-like behind her back. The position forced her shoulders forward, making her sweater ride up at the waist where cold air prickled against exposed skin.
Tanner exhaled through his nose, a satisfied sound that curled in the air like smoke as his fingers tightened in her hair again. His grip was relentless—not enough to tear, but enough to make every shift of his knuckles send bright spikes of pain across her scalp. The other hand stayed clamped around her jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the hinge where it ached already. Casey's breath hitched wetly around him, her lips stretched obscenely wide as his dick slid back into her mouth with a slick, effortless glide.
The taste flooded her tongue instantly—salt and something muskier, something inherently *Tanner* that made her stomach heave. He didn’t push all the way in this time; instead, he dragged the head of his cock along the flat of her tongue in a slow, taunting stroke before pulling back just enough to let her gasp. Spit pooled in the hollow of her lower lip, spilling over in thin, glistening strands down her chin.
"Good girl," Tanner murmured, the words dripping with mocking praise as his thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw—a grotesque parody of tenderness. Casey shuddered, her fingers flexing uselessly behind her back, the muscles in her arms twitching with the urge to shove him away. But she didn't. Couldn't. The threat in his grip was implicit, his fingers tangled so tightly in her hair that every slight tilt of his wrist sent fresh pain spiderwebbing across her scalp.
Tanner's movements were deliberate now, slow and savoring, the drag of his cock against her tongue obscenely wet. He pulled back just enough to let her gasp—a cruel mercy—before pushing forward again, the head bumping against the roof of her mouth. Casey's throat convulsed preemptively, her body bracing for the inevitable gag, but Tanner didn't give her the relief of choking this time. Instead, he kept the pace torturously measured, his hips rocking in shallow thrusts that coated her tongue in the bitter-salt taste of him.
Casey blinked rapidly, her eyelashes fluttering against the smudged lenses of her glasses as she fought to keep her jaw slack. The sting from Tanner's slap still burned across her cheek—a throbbing reminder of what happened when she resisted. His hips began moving faster now, the rhythm less controlled, his fingers tightening in her hair with each thrust. "Look at me," he growled, voice rough with arousal.
Her eyes—wide, wet, pupils blown with fear—flicked upward. Tanner’s face was flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. There was something terrifyingly focused in his gaze, like she was nothing more than a puzzle he'd solved, a toy he'd figured out how to break. A shudder ran through her as his cock slid deeper, the tip nudging the back of her throat. She gagged reflexively, saliva spilling over her chin, but this time she didn’t clamp down—just let her body convulse uselessly around him.
Casey's hands flew instinctively toward Tanner's thighs—half to push him away, half to steady herself—but he caught her wrists midair with a sharp, warning squeeze. His grip was ironclad, fingers digging into the delicate bones until she gasped. "Hands *behind*," he repeated, voice dropping into something dark and liquid that sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Her fingers twitched uselessly before she slowly, reluctantly, curled them behind her back again, the position forcing her chest forward in a way that made her skin prickle with humiliation.
Tanner exhaled—a satisfied, almost conversational sound—before his hips snapped forward without warning. The sudden thrust shoved his cock deep into her throat, the head bumping against her soft palate with a wet *click*. Casey gagged violently, her body convulsing against him, tears spilling hot and unchecked down her cheeks. Her glasses, already askew, slid further down her nose as she choked, the lenses fogging with each ragged breath she tried to suck through her nostrils.
Tanner's hips snapped forward again, the force of it sending Casey twisting awkwardly on her buttocks—her loafers scrabbling against the carpet for purchase as her upper body pitched backward. The impact of her skull against the mattress was dull, muffled by the floral comforter, but it still sent a sharp jolt through her neck. Tanner didn't pause, didn't even seem to notice. His fingers stayed knotted in her hair like reins, his thrusts relentless now, each one dragging her head forward just to shove it back again. The bedsprings squeaked in protest beneath them, the rhythm obscenely synchronized with the wet, gagging sounds spilling from Casey's throat.
Her glasses were gone now—knocked askew, then lost somewhere in the tangle of fabric beneath them—leaving the world a smeared, unfocused mess of shadows and Tanner's silhouette looming over her. Spit pooled in the hollows of her cheeks, spilling over in thin, glistening strands that streaked down her neck and into her hair. Every inhale through her nose was a frantic, whistling thing, her nostrils flaring wide with the effort to pull in air around the obstruction in her throat. Tanner's hips stuttered once, twice, his breath coming in ragged bursts above her, and Casey squeezed her eyes shut—bracing.
Her knees were jammed tight against her chest, a feeble shield, her fingers clawing at the carpet fibers like they might anchor her somewhere safe. Tanner’s grip on her hair slackened—only for his hands to slam down on either side of her head, caging her in.
Tanner's palms flattened against the mattress on either side of Casey's head, his arms rigid as he held himself above her. The bedsprings groaned under his shifting weight, the sound swallowed by the wet, rhythmic gagging coming from Casey's throat. His hips pistoned forward with brutal efficiency, the slap of skin against skin muffled by her saliva-slick lips. "Use your fucking tongue," he gritted out, his breath ragged. The command wasn't a request—it was a demand, edged with the kind of impatience that made Casey's stomach clench.
Casey's tongue moved sluggishly, a muscle too exhausted to feign enthusiasm. She swiped it along the underside of his cock in a weak, trembling arc—more reflex than obedience. The taste of him flooded her senses again, bitter and cloying, clinging to the roof of her mouth like a stain. Tanner hissed through his teeth, his fingers flexing against the mattress, his knuckles blanching white. "Like you *mean* it," he snapped, thrusting deeper, the head of his cock bumping against the back of her throat like a punch.
Casey's tongue fluttered uselessly against the underside of Tanner's cock, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated—like a moth battering itself against a lightbulb. Every time she gagged, his hips stuttered with a frustrated jerk, his breath hissing between clenched teeth. "Jesus *Christ*," he muttered, fingers flexing in thr sheets near her head. "It's not fucking rocket science."
The next thrust came harder, faster, the head of his cock hitting the back of her throat with a wet *thok* that sent tears spilling fresh down her cheeks. Tanners hand grips her hair again, keeping her head back on the mattress. Her nose bumped against his pelvis, the sharp scent of sweat and cheap cologne flooding her senses. She tried to pull back—just an inch, just enough to breathe—but his hips were already moving.
Tanner's fingers dug into Casey's scalp, pinning her nose flush against the coarse thatch of hair at his base. The musky heat of his skin seared her nostrils, each shallow thrust forcing her lips to stretch tighter around him. "I'm almost done," he grunted, hips stuttering against her chin. His words slurred slightly—breathless, drunk on power rather than alcohol. "Stay fucking *here*."
Casey's vision blurred further without her glasses, the room dissolving into smears of color and shadow. Her throat convulsed around him on reflex, but Tanner didn't pull back this time—just kept her locked in place, his cock twitching against her tongue. The taste was overwhelming now, salt and something sourer, coating her mouth like a film. She gagged again, a wet, shuddering noise, and her fingers tense in the carpet.
Tanner’s hips jerked forward one last time, his grip on her hair tightening to the point of pain as a low, ragged groan tore from his throat. The first spurt hit the back of Casey’s throat—hot, bitter, thicker than she’d imagined—and her body recoiled instinctively, her hands flying to his thigh to shove him away. But Tanner didn’t budge. His fingers twisted tighter in her hair, holding her in place as he pulsed against her tongue. "Swallow," he ordered, voice rough and uneven, his breath coming in sharp bursts.
Casey gagged, her throat convulsing around the sudden flood of warmth, her nose still pressed into the coarse hair at his base. The taste was overwhelming—salt and something metallic, something inherently *him*—and she choked, her nails digging into the denim of his jeans as she fought not to vomit. Tanner’s thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw almost absently, a mockery of tenderness, as he murmured, "All of it."
Casey's throat worked convulsively as Tanner's grip finally loosened, allowing her to tip her head forward just enough to gasp. A thick, viscous strand of saliva—and worse—stretched between her lips and his softening cock before snapping, leaving a wet trail across her chin. The urge to retch clawed up her esophagus, bitter and insistent, but she clenched her teeth against it, swallowing convulsively instead. The taste lingered, cloying and sour, coating her tongue like spoiled milk.
Tanner exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers still tangled loosely in her hair as he watched her struggle. His thumb brushed her temple—almost gentle, if not for the way his other hand still pinned her wrist to the mattress. "That’s it," he murmured, the praise curling around her like smoke. His grin was all teeth when she finally dared to look up, her vision blurred by tears and the absence of her glasses.
Tanner stepped back with a slow, satisfied exhale, his fingers working the button of his jeans with deliberate ease. The metallic *snick* of it fastening was obscenely loud in the quiet room—a punctuation mark to what had just happened. He reached down, plucking Casey’s glasses from where they’d tangled in the rumpled bedspread, and held them out to her between two fingers like she might contaminate him if he touched her skin. "Here," he said, voice roughened but already regaining its usual lazy drawl. "Wouldn’t want you walking into walls on your way out."
Casey’s hands trembled so violently she nearly dropped the glasses twice before managing to hook them over her ears. The world snapped back into focus—Tanner’s smug face, the peeling wallpaper, the wet spot on the carpet where she’d choked—and she had to press her lips together to keep from whimpering.
Casey's knees wobbled as she pushed herself upright, her palms slipping against the damp carpet fibers. The room tilted—her glasses, now smeared with fingerprints and condensation, turned Tanner's smirk into a watery blur. He stepped forward before she could steady herself, his hands rising to cup her face with a gentleness that made her stomach lurch. His thumbs brushed the tear tracks on her cheeks, wiping them away with slow, deliberate strokes.
Then he kissed her.
Tanner's tongue tasted like stale beer and salt, pushing into her mouth with a lazy dominance that made Casey freeze—not in compliance, but in sheer, disoriented shock. His fingers still cradled her face, deceptively gentle, as if this was some twisted afterthought to what he'd already taken. The kiss was slow, almost exploratory, his teeth catching her lower lip just hard enough to sting. Casey's hands hovered uselessly at her sides, her fingers twitching with the ghost of a reflex to push him away, but her body refused to obey.
The door creaked open with a groan of hinges, flooding the dim bedroom with a wedge of pulsing party light. Mia's voice sliced through the haze first—sharp, amused, "*There* you are—" —before cutting off abruptly. Casey didn't need to see her face to know the exact moment Mia registered the scene: Tanner's broad back blocking most of Casey from view, his hands still framing her tear-streaked face, her lips swollen and glistening.
Casey's sleeve scraped across her mouth before she even registered moving—rough cotton dragging over spit-slick lips, the fabric catching on her split lower lip where Tanner's teeth had bitten too hard. The taste of him lingered, thick and sour at the back of her throat, and she swallowed convulsively, her stomach heaving. Tanner's chuckle was a low, rolling sound in his chest as he stepped back, his hands lifting in mock surrender.
Mia's fingernails dug into the doorframe, her knuckles bleached white against the chipped paint. The pulse of the party lights behind her threw her silhouette into jagged relief—all sharp angles and frozen disbelief. Sarah's vodka-cranberry sloshed over the rim of her cup, dripping onto the carpet unnoticed. Neither girl moved. Neither breathed.
The clock on the nightstand blinked 11:07 PM in jagged red numbers—an hour and seven minutes past curfew. Casey's fingers spasmed against her thighs, the fabric of her jeans still damp from where she'd scrubbed at her mouth. The numbers seemed to pulse in time with her racing heartbeat, each flicker a fresh jolt of panic. Her father's voice echoed in her skull, crisp and methodical: *Nine-thirty means nine-thirty, not nine thirty-one.* The belt would already be waiting on the kitchen table by now, coiled like a sleeping snake.
Mia's manicured fingers tightened around the doorknob, her French tips digging into the brass. "What the *fuck*," she hissed, not quite a question. The party noise swelled behind her—shrieks of laughter, the thump of a body hitting a wall—but the bedroom felt vacuum-sealed in silence. Sarah's mouth hung open, her glossed lips parted around some aborted comment. Tanner merely adjusted his waistband with a shrug, his grin all teeth.
Casey's throat clicked when she swallowed—too loud, too dry—her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth like damp paper. The silence stretched, taut as a wire, until Mia's stiletto snapped forward, embedding itself in the carpet between Casey's sprawled knees. "You *filthy* little—" Mia's voice cracked on the last word, her manicured hand fluttering near her collarbone like a trapped bird. Tanner's chuckle curled through the room, low and satisfied, as he palmed the back of his neck.
Sarah's cup hit the carpet with a dull thud, vodka-cranberry bleeding into the fibers like cheap dye. Her fingers hovered near her parted lips, smearing gloss across her chin. "Did you—" Her wide eyes darted between Tanner's smirk and Casey's smudged glasses. "Oh my *God*."
Casey's lips parted—the words *he made me* crowding her tongue like stones—but she pressed them together again before they could escape. Mia's narrowed eyes and Sarah's slack-jawed shock weren't the kind of faces that believed explanations. They were the faces that dissected rumors in the girls' bathroom, that giggled behind cupped hands when someone cried in class. Casey knew that look. It was the same one they'd worn when she'd flinched from Tanner's touch in the hallway last week—*God, Casey, stop being so dramatic.*
Mia's stiletto twisted deeper into the carpet, grinding fibers against Casey's kneecap. "Jesus *Christ*," she breathed, not to Casey but to Tanner, her voice caught between disgust and something uncomfortably close to admiration. Her manicured hand fluttered toward Tanner's arm—half-shove, half-caress—her French tips digging into his bicep. "You *animal.*" The accusation sounded more like a compliment.