Frat Mom (Scarlett Johansson)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

I don’t know if it works combining a silly and fun “A plot” (Scarlett Johansson teasing horny college boys) with a dark “B plot” about mental illness and bullying and so forth. I wrote it after watching Heathers.

Mu Sigma Phi has one rule: you can’t fuck the frat mom.

(tags: m/F, f/F, mm/F, handjob, blowjob, clothed titfuck, teasing, voyeur, MILF)

Frat Mom



Chapter 1: Scarlett, Why Are You Here?

Brad and Kyle did not wake up, exactly. It was rush week at Mu Sigma Phi. They went from comatose to fractionally less comatose.

A breeze stirred Brad’s hair. “Muhhhh…” he gurgled on the party mansion floor. “Nate left the fucking door open again.”

“On God…” Kyle lay face-down on the couch. “I’m pledging that geed until he dies.”

“Don’t blame Nate,” a woman’s voice whispered from behind their heads. “I did it.”

…The fratties jerked upright like they’d been assfucked by forty thousand volts of campus cop taser.

“Good morning, boys!” Scarlett Johansson skipped past them to the center of the house, bright and perky and bouncy, her butt jutting back at them.

“Good morning,” Brad and Kyle mumbled, conscious of the filth they were lying in.

Scarlett spun to face them. Her effervescent grin had the avid chill of surgical steel.

“Show some college pep!” Her green-eyed stare flicked left, then right. They cowered, like her gaze was a bullwhip. “It’s ‘Good morning, ma’am!’”

“Good morning ma’am,” they chorused, trying not to stare at her big heavy tits.

The frat mom wore a tight cashmere sweater today. Her obscene chest stretched the ΜΣΦ letters to bursting point. She wore a tiny, box-pleated miniskirt that would have had a cheerleader sent off the pitch for indecent exposure, and white socks that sucked their way up past her knees; like clasping hands, eager for her ass. Her acid-blonde hair was whorled into pigtails. A fanny pack was slung low on one hip, Clint Eastwood style. Instead of a six-shooter, it held cleaning supplies. A coach’s whistle bobbed between her balloon-sized fuck-jugs.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t good…”

Scarlett leaned down, cleavage sloshing toward them inside her bra. They smelled her sweat, her bodywash, and began to get erections.

“The state of this room!” It’s absolutely disgusting! I think I’m going to vom!*"

Kyle and Brad looked guiltily at the remnants of last night’s Mu Sigma Phi rager. Broken bottles. Stains on the floor. Dirty laundry tossed everywhere. A jumbled of Coors Lite cans connected by ragged duct tape from where a luckless PNM had tried to make a wizard staff.

Scarlett reached up to her ear, and began spinning one of her pigtails in a high-velocity loop. One of her gestures, habitually used when meting out justice to young male delinquents.

“You guys paid a cleaning deposit to the frat. Five hundred bucks or something, right?”

“A grand,” Kyle admitted.

“And actually our parents paid—” Brad’s brother drove an elbow into his side too late.

Scarlett’s smile hit a balmy zero degrees Kelvin.

“As house mom, my job is to make sure this place still stands when—if—you graduate.” She gestured at the mess. “So, there are two ways we can play this. One, I make a call to the chapter, mom and dad’s thousand bucks goes bye-bye, and you both get black marks on your academic records.”

Brad and Kyle looked crestfallen. Scarlett raised a finger, her smile driving amused dimples into her face.

“But there’s another way! We could clean this place! What a concept! Since I haven’t photographed it, I wouldn’t be able to make a report, would I? Who knows, if the room is clean in ten minutes, maybe I’ll give you a treat!”

Scarlett quick-drew a stopwatch from her fanny pack, and tapped it.

Ticktickticktick…

“Your time has already started! Get to work, boys!”

Brad and Kyle leaped up, collided like a Three Stooges act, fell down, leaped up again, and began picking up garbage.

A treat…

Everyone at the frat shack loved Scarlett’s treats.

* * *

Usually, the a house mom is a glorified narc. An older woman—appointed by nationals, the college, or by her own damned self—who hangs out at the frat mansion, cooking and cleaning, checking your pillow for bongs and your parties for underaged girls, trying to get you in trouble with anyone who will listen. A chick who puts the rat in frat. Hard to respect. Harder to love.

But Scarlett was different.

For one thing, her threats of punishment had genuine teeth. As they’d had ample opportunity to learn in the past four weeks, she had the power of God at the frat house. She could fine you, suspend you, detain you, maybe expel you, and probably execute you. She seemed to have friends in high places among the alum society. If they knew why a big-screen movie star with 50% of an EGOT was slumming it at a second-rate party college’s frat mansion, they weren’t telling.

She also had…other powers over the rambunctious frat boys.

Two of which lay under her sweater, almost turning the cashmere sheer with their jiggling size and fullness.

Brad and Kyle slaved and sweated and cleaned, hangovers forgotten, conscious of the stopwatch ticking in ScarJo’s palm.

The frat mom’s rewards were infrequent but very cool.

* * *

With thirty seconds left on the clock, they stood before her, panting with exertion.

“We finished!” Kyle’s face had begging puppy-dog look.

Scarlett glanced around, and gave the boys a grudging nod. “I suppose that will do. I’ll let you both get to your classes.”

They whined piteously as she turned to go.

“But ma’am…!” Brad and Kyle choruesed, their cocks throbbing furiously in their shorts. “You said we could have a treat…!”

Scarlett rolled her eyes—and heaved out a theatrical sigh.

“Ugh. Fine. Get your shorts off.”

They shuffled out of their boxers. Two huge teenaged boners swayed and bobbed in front of her.

Scarlett gave an indignant the-things-I-do-around-here huff, retrieved neoprene medical gloves from her fanny pack, and tugged them onto her hands. She slooowly pulled them up to her wrists like that chick on the Blink 182 album cover, making the act pornographic, stretching out the gloves until the rubber latex hand-holes almost screamed, then releasing them to snap against her wrists. She pumped a quick squirt of lotion onto each palm. Squik-SPLURT!.

Then, her rubber-gloved hands settled on their cocks. They squirmed at the cold slippery chemical sensation.

Scarlett gripped their stiff, jutting dicks, feeling pulses go beatbeatbeat under the rubber…

“Don’t get used to it, boys.”

…and started jerking.

squiiiick shliiiick shuuuuullkkk!

A lewd liquid sound bubbled up from her hands, rolling out a slippery, sticky cadence upon the air.

Her strokes were long. Slow. Excruciating. The pauses between the strokes were even more devastating.

Brad and Kyle shuddered, knees buckling as she slid her palms over their erections. Their eyes bugged. Pre-cum belched and drooled from their pricks.

They couldn’t believe what she was doing.

Scarlett’s jerkoff technique was poetry. The type of eloquent warrior philosophy normally reserved for a samurai’s Hagakure. Her hands skated smoothly across the cocks’ oil-slick surfaces, fingers folded like origami around the engorged poles, speeding up, slowing down, calibrating her rhythm with a watchmaker’s precision to their grunts and whines, keeping them tightly in sync so that neither boy popped before the other.

They were two studs racing each other, and Scarlett wanted a photo finish.

The two cocks throbbed between their legs and against her palms, releasing a steady river of prostatic fluid that traced dual paths down Scarlett’s gleaming hands and wrists. Brad and Kyle shuddered and gasped, mouths opening and closing like carp. The only other thing that moved was her hands—and her breasts, which wobbled heavily under her cashmere sweater with each yank and pull of her wrists.

Scarlett smiled one of her Scarlett-smiles—small and laden with thespianish irony. Her hands pistoning up and down their slippery shafts with increasing speed. The slow discursive squelches accelerated into a rapid incoherent discourse as rubber luged wickedly across flesh.

squick! squick! squick! squick-squick-squick-SQUIKSQUIKSQUIK!

Their eyelids fluttered, their mouths dropped open. They were about to orgasm. Moments away, seconds away, milliseconds away…and then her hands stopped. From fifth gear to no gear to reverse.

Scarlett slid her gloved hands back to the heads of their penises, where her fingers lay poised like waiting cobras.

The boys trembled in pent-up tension, sweat shining on their thighs, knees quivering, cocks throbbing frantically. Their faces were burgundy-red with desperation

Don’t stop. Their eyes said. Don’t stop.

Balancing their orgasms on a knife’s blade, Scarlett found a trash bin, hooked her sexy foot around it, and pulled it close. Then she took the stiff, throbbing dicks, and aimed them at the bin.

She gripped and twisted each cock just once—like cracking walnuts.

They howled, orgasms exploding.

Their piss-slits yawned, and cum spewed out in slippery, messy ropes. Brad erupted first. His cock bucked like a shotgun in her hand, loosing an enormous white ribbon that looped in an arc across the room, splattering into the trashcan like a bomb-blast. Kyle burst a split-second later, his cock firehosing out rapid jets that crisscrossed Brad’s in the air.

Combined, over twenty cum-ropes streamed out, hitting the back of the trashcan with fat percussive splats. Scarlett aimed and angled both dicks carefully as they drained their balls. Not one spurt went on the carpet. Finally, the cocks stopped spewing and went soft in Scarlett’s sperm-splattered hands.

She released the cocks to flop limp and drooling between the boys’ legs.

Brad and Kyle shared a guilty glance, faces flushed and boxers around their ankles.

Moving with a flight attendant’s alloyage of warmth and professional detachment, Scarlett stripped off the soiled gloves, threw them into the bin, pulled the trash bag out, and yanked the drawstring tight.

“I want that in the dumpster.” She handed the tied-up bag to Kyle. “You can also appoint a sober pledge to clean up after you at parties, so we don’t have this conversation again. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of your day, boys!”

Then she leaned in, pecked them both on the cheek, and wriggled out through the open door.

They gazed in awe at Scarlett’s big knockout ass, ticktocking from side to side, until she—and her wagon of a rear end—were lost to view behind a hedge.

“Damn…” Kyle gasped out, rubbing the place where her pink lips had touched him.

“College rules…” Brad panted, his flaccid penis dribbling on the floor. “Wait, did she say we have classes?”

* * *

Why was the world’s most famous actress schlepping as frat house mom for a bunch of affluenza burnouts trying to kill braincells they didn’t have via warm Natty Light and assorted head trauma?

Good question.

Nobody fucking knew.

Scarlett had just appeared at the frat mansion one day. With the alumni board’s agreement, she moved in as their frat house mom, on the condition that the entire frat sign agreements not to discuss her presence on social media. Everyone had signed. The actives, the pledges, even the GDI non-hackers. All of them no doubt thinking the same thought as they scribbled a signature on the form.

Yo, we’ve got ScarJo living at our mansion!

…Who’s gonna be the first to bone her?

The answer, they’d learned with a quickness, was nobody.

Whatever Scarlett was here to do, it wasn’t to ride the college cock carousal. Not a single frat boy had gotten the gorgeous actress in bed. Many Mu Sigma Phi initiates had made a pass at the beautiful woman. Few had made a second one.

Someone had groped her ass at the semester’s start. She’d made a call to nationals, and the miscreant had been frog-marched by campus police to a mandatory five-day Title IX training course on sexual harassment that had left his brain leaking out of his ears. There was a lesbian poetry drum circle, he’d whispered on his return, his stare a thousand yards deep.

The frat brothers had left Scarlett alone after that.

Occasionally, she would bestow a small treat upon a well-behaved boy. But it only happened on her terms, and it never involved actual sex.

The Mu Sigma Phi fraternity had just two laws.

You don’t fuck Scarlett, and you don’t fuck with Scarlett.

* * *

Outside the frat mansion, a tall and shaggy-haired teenager trimmed the hedges.

Nate Copelander was the only boy who hadn’t gotten drunk at last night’s rager. Rush was over, and he was now a pledge. An opportunity he took very seriously.

I can’t fuck this up, he thought, wiping sweat from his eyes. His dad was an Mu Sigma Phi alum, and expected his son to get into the frat, too.

The Mu Sigma Phi social chair had explained his new duties earlier that morning.

As pledge, he would mop and clean, conduct basic repairs, go on alc runs, check IDs at dorm parties, call the cops or paramedics if necessary, and if it was, accept blame for whatever cuckoo bananapants clownfuckery had just gone down.

If he did all this flawlessly—and if the brothers liked him—he would be initiated into the frat at the semester’s end.

Dad got a bid in freshman year, he thought, and this sucked the yolk out of much of his joy. But if I get a bid in sophomore, that’s not so bad, right? Beats not being in Greek society at all.

He imagined himself peacock-strutting across the campus quad, chest puffed out, wearing the ΜΣΦ letters on his polo like they were Congressional Medal of Honor.. Nobody’s gonna pick on me anymore. I’m gonna be one of the cool kids. Girls will finally talk to me.

He was lost in happy daydreams when a pair of shadows fell across him. It was Brad and Kyle.

“Yo, pledge!” Kyle threw a trash bag at his feet. “Take this to the dumpster.”

Bristling sullenly, he picked up the bag. “My name’s Nathan.”

“Sure, pledge. Whatever you say.”

As they walked away, he heard their snickered laughter. “Man, what a geed.”

Nate didn’t let it get to him. A bit of mild hazing was part of the pledgeship process. Dad had gone through way worse back in the eighties—a fact about which Steven Copelander never failed to remind his son. Whatever they dish out, I can take it. He thought, clenching his teeth. I’m going to be one of them, no matter what it takes.

Not looking where he was going, he crashed into Scarlett Johansson. Or rather, her tits. They projected quite far in front of her.

“Nathan!” she shushed his attempts to apologize. “What are you doing here!”

He gestured at the bag. “Taking out the trash.”

A microbladed eyebrow arched in suspicion. “That’s the same trash bag I gave to Kyle and Brad. Are they making you do their work?”

Nate cringed from the beautiful woman. He knew what a pledge was supposed to say.

“I saw them carrying the trash bag and offered to help.”

She sighed. “Why are you lying for them?” She crossed her arms over her breasts, and shook her head. “What’s in it for you?”

Nate shrugged. A woman wouldn’t understand.

“I’m not lying,” he said, as solemn-faced Daniel Negreanu at a $500k buy-in. “I volunteered, of my own free will, to take out the trash.”

“Suit yourself,” Scarlett said with a shrug. As she turned to go—God, her ass looked hot from the side—his raging lust for her caused an imprudent question to slip out.

“Scarlett, why are you here?”

Her stare became suspicious. Appraising. “Why do you want to know?” Her tone sharpened—became dangerous. “Are you trying to sell my story to someone?”

He cringed. I always fuck up wih girls. “No. Sorry. Just wondering.”

Her expression melted. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you. The world will know soon enough.”

Scarlet kneeled, and beckoned him to kneel with her. A secret-sharing posture.

“Listen, I’m here because I’ve been cast in a movie. A William Inge psychodrama about Greek life.”

“A what?” Nate frowned.

“Nevermind,” Scarlett sighed. “I’m playing the girlfriend of a frat chair. The director wanted me to work with an acting coach. I had a better idea. What if I actually live at a frat for a while? Really work the method. The director is a Mu Sigma Phi alum, he pulled strings with the old boy network, and two shakes of a lamb’s tail later, mom’s the word.”

Then she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“So, that’s my secret. Now tell me yours.”

Nate broke eye contact.

“Why do you want to be in the frat?” she asked. “I know how things are. You…don’t have good relationships with most of these guys.”

They bully me. Nate thought. It was like an egg of pain had cracked inside him, releasing a harsh, stinging yolk.

“When I get bidded in,” he said defiantly, “that will change.”

Scarlett sighed. “‘I don’t want to be in any club that would have me for a member.’ Groucho Marx. And you shouldn’t want to be in any club that doesn’t want you as a member.”

“My dad got into Mu Sigma Phi.” Nate spat, drawing himself up defiantly. “And I will follow in his footsteps. Even if it kills me.”

Scarlett shook her head sorrowfully. “You ask me why I’m here….but I don’t think you know yourself.”

She kissed him on the cheek, and walked away.

His face flushed. The place her lips had hit felt ticklish and hot. Nate gulped. Hot and chilled rushes raced through his body as he watched her stride away.

Her thick, luscious legs, flexing with extravagant muscle, her huge ass exploding out her miniskirt, her tits bouncing under an overloaded cashmere sweater, the globes darting teasingly around the sides of her back with jolting whiplashing moves—jiggling flesh caught and reeled back by her sports bra’s elastic straps.

Scarlett didn’t have a body. She had a physics simulation.

His head filled with Scarlett. Her pretty upturned nose, her laugh, her Noo Yawk accent, the smell of her bodywash, her tits and ass…

Sweating, he hurried to dispose of the trash bag, so he could return to his dorm room and spend the rest of the morning masturbating.

* * *



Chapter 2: I’ll Do You A Solid

Scarlett Johansson did not respect the sock over the door.

Chad Grandstaff was fucking a girl in his dorm room when she came calling. The girl’s legs were spread, and he was deep-dicking her with rough, aggressive lunges. The pudgy raven-haired sorostitute he sawing his dick through was called Rebecca, except she spelled it a weird way, like Rebeckah or Raebeccah or somefuckingthing. So lame how girls expected you to remember their names. He struggled to remember his own half the time.

It had taken a half-hour of pleading before she agreed to let him feel her up, and another twenty minutes before the bra came. He’d finally cracked the last of the retarded chick riddles Whogivesafucka had thrown in his face—“if we do this, what will we be?”, “do you love me, or do you just LOVE me?”, “what if I was a worm?” et cetera, forever—and was finally getting some pussy, when four sharp knocks landed on the door.

Rat-a-tat-tat!

“Go away!” Chad yelled, gripping Becca’s wrists, spearing her twat. This girl liked black dudes, which probably explained why she felt like a goddamn train tunnel.

“Won’t!” a female voice singsonged, then the door burst open. Scarlett Johansson walked in, saw them on the bed, and put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my Gawd!”

The girl screamed, and tried to pull the bedsheet up over her chubby naked breasts.

Scarlett filled the dorm room in a swirl of skirt and blonde hair. He felt like a little kid. She towered over him, seemingly ten feet tall. Chad was too stunned to react. His cock did, though. It immediately went soft, pulling out of the co-ed’s pussy.

“Chad!” she said brightly, clasping her hands together. Her nails were painted to a shade like blood. “Having fun?”

“Scarlett….” he whimpered.

She grinned, exposing teeth. Her eyes were full of steel. “Yes, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out. When you took out lodging on campus, you signed a piece of paper, correct?”

“Uh…” Chad made eye contact with Becca.

"I don’t suppose you actually read the document you were signing? Probably not. That would be like asking for the moon on a fucking stick. If you had, you would have seen a condition: No girls allowed in dorm rooms."

Scarlett’s gaze flowed like cool, molten honey from Chad to Becca.

“…And this looks like a girl to me.”

“Damn. Sorry.” Chad said. He looked sheepishly at the sorostitute. “Yo, Becky, you gotta skedaddle…”

Scarlett leaned forward. Her tits poured against against the buttons of her blouse, threatening to spill out.

“No, Chad. That won’t work.”

“Won’t it?”

“Think about it. You’ve already broken dorm policy. Throwing this young woman out in the cold isn’t going to unbreak it. All it will mean is that you’ve got two pissed off women on your hands instead of one. So I’ll do you a favor.”

She stood over them both, hands folded against her hips. She loomed, her stare commanding over the awesome swell of her blouse-clad breasts.

“Fuck her, while I watch. If you make her orgasm, I won’t report this.”

Fuck her, while I watch. Chad couldn’t believe what she’d just said. “Why are you doing this?”

“I listened at the door. You were making way more noise than she was. Ergo, your dick game sucks. I’ll do you a solid, as frat boys said in my day, and correct your technique.”

“What are you? Some kind of voyeur?”

“A feminist.” She leaned forward and arched her fingers—an arch with her stare piercing through. “I had a lot of crappy sex in college, and I’m trying to spare other women the same fate.” Scarlett relaxed against the wall, crossing her arms, and nodded. “So, continue as you were.”

Chad just sat on the bed for several minutes. His cock lay on his bare thigh, totally soft. Scarlett began drumming her fingernails against the windowsill. It sounded like a drumroll to his execution. Soon, even Becky was eyeing him with impatience.

“Let her help you,” she whispered, holding his hands “You…could have been better.”

Chad whined miserably. “Oh, come the fuck on! Everyone’s a critic!”

“Baby, just do as she says. I don’t have much time. I have night classes, and my boyfriend is gonna start wondering where I am.”

Conscious of both women looking at him, Chad began awkwardly trying to stuff his flaccid dick back into her box. This wasn’t performance anxiety, it was a performance panic attack.

After three failed attempts to proverbially throw his proverbial hotdog down the whorority girl’s proverbial hallway, Scarlett yanked him off her.

“Do I have to do everything myself around here?”

She shoved him aside, and took his place on the bed.

“Watch, and learn.”

She kicked off her pumps, swung her curvy body onto the mattress, and climbed on top of Becky. Scarlett’s turbothick ass wriggled from side to side like a cat’s as she lunged up the girl’s body, almost climbing her like a stripper pole.

The sorostitute’s eyes fell open like window shutters, as the older woman’s face drew level with hers.

“Hi girlfriend…” Scarlett purred. Her breath coiled around Becky’s throat. A serpent, winding tight around her neck. “Are you comfortable with this?”

“I…I guess.”

Chad just stared, and not even at the big butt and curvy thighs jiggling in front of his face. Scarlett had such a natural grace to her movement. She didn’t clamber, she slid. Like a snake uncoiling. She seemed to pour forward with consummate feminine grace.

Scarlett straddled the girl, clasping the sides of her face with her hands.

“This is a little unusual, but do you mind me using your body as a classroom for a minute?” Scarlett planted moss-soft kiss on Becca’s cheek, which flushed red. “You’ll like it. Pinkie swear.”

“Sure.”

Scarlet repositioned her sinuous body, pulling her thick rump back onto her heels. Now, her head and hands were in line with Beccy’s crudely shaven pussy. It was razor-sharp with four day stubble. Chad had a thousand little cuts on his crotch.

“Foreplay goes a long way, Chad. Allow me to demonstrate.”

She reached underneath Becky’s ass, and dug her red fingernails into the girl’s tensed asscheeks. The girl trembled. Her feet and toes twitched as Scarlett stretched out the supple teenaged flesh, tugging handfuls of the girl left and then right,

Scarlett’s wet pink tongue flickered from her arched lips. The moist tongue drew wet, narrowing circles on Becky’s upper thighs and navel. Circles that resolved at her glistening slit.

“The clitoris has ten thousand nerve endings,” she said, painting a wet road of herself across a landscape of shuddering, tumultuous skin. “But you can hardly touch it with your dick.”

Her panting face lay at the fork of Becky’s legs.

Scarlett let her tongue loll luxuriously from her mouth, slapping the wet tube of flesh against the engorged clit. The girl shuddered. Then again, as the tongue didn’t leave, and began drilling at her.

schliiick-sluuurp

Becky gasped. The gasps merged and became one with her breathing. Pleasure and life, twining together around the red-haired head scything and sawing at her pussy.

schliiick-sluuuuurp!

As her cunt was splayed, spit, and devoured, Becca’s eyes were prophecy-wide. She was underdoing revelation. Epiphany. More, her half-broken stare said. Deeper. Take me to the end of this road, wherever it leads.

Chad felt a stab of jealousy. It had taken so much begging and bullshit before she’d even agreed to hold his hand. Scarlett had known this girl for all of three minutes, and now owned the deed to her soul.

“Ohhh….” a single sound glitched from Becky’s throat. Pure and childlike, it did not belong in her throat, and sounded wrong in the air of the dorm room. Obscene gushes and wet pops sparkled out, delirious bubbles of sound blown around Scarlett’s wickedly surgical tongue.

Gripping the girl’s thighs, Scarlett pulled her tongue from Becky’s shivering slit, and dragged it up her navel to her belly button.

“Use your fingers, hands, lips, and tongue. They have more articulation than your dick.”

She reached a hand between the girl’s legs. Becky flinched, then relaxed. Scarlet began rubbing her hand against the bud of flesh. Gently, insistently, weaving subtle spells of flesh and blood.

“…And gauge feedback. If she likes what you’re doing, you’ll hear something. Feel something.”

Then she attacked.

This wasn’t foreplay. This was the 1940 German blitzkrieg. She lunged back down, burying her face in the wet narthex of cunt, slobbering and sucking. Muscles in the 40 year old woman’s swanlike neck flexed as her tongue played coed’s clit like a savage violin maestro, dragging out terrifying ostinatos and pizzacatos of pleasure from Becky’s foaming, pleasure-wracked mouth. Scarlett Johansson was Sappho of Lesbos, fused with Paganini.

“Ooooh! Ooooh! OOOOOOH-SCARLETTT!”

Becky was whining now. Wailing. Screaming. So loud that Chad Grandstaff found threads of panic coiling in the back of his own mind. The girl was so loud. What if faculty was walking down the hall?

Scarlett seemed to have no fear of discovery. She singlemindedly cunnilinged Becky, as though the world was a vortex of the just two of them. Her pliant tongue slithered and spoke vowels of pleasure over Becky’s private flesh, exploring her hood, her clit, the trembling bands of fat and muscle looping her tight insides, while her hands relentlessly attacked and took apart the nerves of the girl’s body.

What was he supposed to learn from this? Chad just gazed, slumped over like a broken toy in his chair, as Scarlett slurped the girl’s pussy. His eyes widened as her pliant lip chased the rills and concavities of the slag’s pussy. A caveman seeing fire.

Bec’s face flushed with pleasure. Her lips began tensing with repressed sounds. Then, the firebreak failed, and she began whining. Loud. Wild. Desperate. Something was approaching…it was coming on fast…a sneeze that started at the hips…

“Oooh. Oh. Oooooh.”

A delirious note sang across the air as Scarlett’s tongue splayed her open, as those gripping hands wrestled palmfuls of sweaty, bucking assflesh. The girl began humping, blindly losing herself to Scarlett’s wet facefucking.

Cords of muscle stood out on the girl’s neck as she was shlicked and licked and stimulated. Closer. Closer. Right to the edge. The very edge.

…Then Scarlett swung her body off the bed. Her face was covered in saliva and vaginal fluid. A drop of liquid hung from her perfect arched nose.

Curiously, her face bore no marks from Becky’s pubic stubble.

“You may finish her off.” She wiped herself off, and then a compact makeup mirror appeared in her hand. “Use a steady rhythm. Go harder or softer, but never faster or slower. Remember, she doesn’t know what you’re doing. She needs a predictable rhythm if she’s going to cum.”

Then Scarlett left, shutting the door behind her. Distantly—as though from another star—they heard her re-fitting the sock over the door handle.

Immediately, Chad lunged for Becky. She eagerly spread her legs.

There was no foreplay. Whatever lesson Scarlett had intended to impart was blown from his mind by the winds of teenage lust.

Chad gripped her shoulders, punched his cock into her, and began slam-fucking harder than a pneumatic drill.

Vicious strokes punched through the girl’s quim, making her knees buckle and her legs curl back like a spider’s. Her sweaty flesh shook and vibrated with the impacts. Her body quaked and twisted under his possessive grasp, which slipped and squeaked across her moist shoulders.

It didn’t matter that he was a selfish lover.

Becky was so murderously aroused, she could have gotten off from Tiny Tim serenading her on his ukelelie,

Neither of the wildly-copulating teens were able to make eye contact with the other as they orgasmed. Eyes are windows to the soul. And they knew what those windows would show

Chad imagined he was fucking Scarlett. Becky imagined she was still being fucked by Scarlett.

They both knew it.

They both knew that they both knew it.

They both knew that they both knew that they both knew it.

With a moan, they pounded their engorged genitals together one final time. A simultaneous orgasm broke like chain lightning through their surging, slapping bodies.

Chad’s balls launched their payload of sperm. Becky’s pussy convulsed upon his shaft in languid, rubbery spasms. Chad pulsed out his load in several hard jerks. Becky whimpered and flopped. Then they separated, and lay beside each other on the filthy bed.

…with Scarlett still pirouetting through their thoughts like a demented dominatrix ballerina.

“Damn!” Chad said. “I can’t believe I made a girl cum!”

That earned him some side-eye.

“Er,” Chad stammered, “I mean, I can’t believe I made another girl cum. I do it so often, you know…”

* * *

Nate sat in his dorm room, two weeks into his pledgeship.

He couldn’t do this.

He had to. But he couldn’t.

He closed his eyes, his mind echoing like hell’s zoo with the frat’s laughs; the frat’s taunts.

I hate them. And why shouldn’t I? It’s perfectly clear that they already hate me…

The bullying hadn’t stopped. It had become worse. He was trying to do a good job—he really was—but it was impossible not to fuck something up.

A week ago, he’d accidentally bought low-carb beer for a party. As punishment, they’d made him watch a replay of the WNBA finals while keeping a scorebook in his head. They quizzed him afterward, using Wikipedia as a reference. If his scores had one mistake, he had to start over. By the time he finally got it right, he’d seen the WNBA game four times.

Then, he’d failed to deliver invitations for a co-ed mixer to the sorority girls across the quad. The result? A party with forty guys and like ten girls, which soon became eight, and then five. Nobody likes a sausage party, especially not the buns. As punishment, the frat had made him “gargoyle”—perch on a stool, posing with his hands outstretched like claws—until past midnight. His legs were still cramping.

They saddled him with so many duties, and sometimes these duties made no sense or contradicted each other, plus he was only getting four hours of goddamn sleep a night, and somehow he felt that all of this was by design, and that making him fail was the entire point.

They were setting him up to bomb out of his pledgeship. He was almost certain of it.

And then had come yesterday’s disaster.

Nate had been in charge of organizing the frat’s tailgate party for a college football game. He’d forgotten to pay the deposit for a parking lot. Desperate and out of options, he’d parked the trailer in the street. It had been towed by the city, and the frat had been slugged with a four hundred dollar fine to get it off the impound lot. All his fault.

As punishment, they’d tried to put hot sauce on his dick.

Scarlett had seen this and stopped it. She’d cited anti-hazing laws, thrown around threats of expulsion left and right, and they’d apologized. More to the frat mom than to him.

We’ll get you next time, geed. Their eyes had glinted nastily as they’d slunk away. She won’t always be around to save you.

When they were alone, Scarlett had touched his shoulder—a maternal gesture that said so much and meant so little and changed absolutely nothing. With her fingers cupping his shoulders, he’d started crying, babbling pathetically. Like she was his mother.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m useless. I’m a failure. I fuck everything up.”

“You’re not a failure.” She’d hugged him. “But you don’t belong here, Nate. You’re not like them. Which is a good thing.”

“What can I do?” he wailed. “I’m already a pledge!”

“Quit. Stop showing up at their parties. Tell them to shove their duties up their collective asshole. What can they do to you? Nothing.”

“It’s not that simple…” he said, eyes swimming. “My dad was in this frat. In his freshman year. So was his dad, and his dad, and before then, there was no frat to join. If I don’t get in, I’ll be the only man in my family who couldn’t cut it…”

She nodded. “So you don’t even want this. It’s forced on you.”

Rage twisted through him, and he pulled away from her.

“I don’t want the frat. I want dad to know that I’m…worthy…”

Nate’s voice became harsh. Bitterly hateful.

“All the time at home, he makes these little jokes when I’m in the room. Calling me ‘Natalie.’ Telling me I’m the best daughter a man could ask for. I’m not his daughter. I’m his son. I’m just as much a man as he is. And I’m gonna prove it to him.”

Scarlett shook her head. She’d looked genuinely concerned, her green eyes piercing.

“Between the devil and the deep blue sea. I guess there are no answers sometimes, are there?”

And now he was back in his dorm room, alone and miserable, next to organic chemistry textbooks that were gathering dust because he had no time to study, and a social calendar that consisted of parties he wasn’t allowed to get drunk at and hangouts with “friends” who treated him like dirt, and fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK I’m deathspiraling into pain and misery again…

And once more, he did it.

Opened the drawer beside his bed.

Stared at what was inside.

The gun seemed to stare back. It was his father’s. Nate hoped dad didn’t check the gunsafe—and notice the missing sidearm—until the semester ended. It was a safe hope. Steven Copelander plinked at a range once or twice a year.

The Walther P22 shined like a death-adder’s eye. He picked it up, turned it over and over, watching rivers of light course over the polished metal. He held it close to his face, inhaling deep the banana-scent of oil. He closed his eyes, cradling it to his head, imagining all the parts of the gun—hammer, receiver, rollpins, breech block, springs, ejector—locking and weaving together in awful art, in artful awe, fluxing like steel macrame, imagining the spell unleashed through the trigger, the demon called through the circle, bang-bang, goodnight.

Inside the gun was a fire that chilled. A flash that turned off your lights forever. A second, louder Big Bang to consume the first one, to undo the primal sin of a man’s birth.

Touching the gun in his drawer had become a habit for Nate whenever he felt lonely and small. The gun felt like his friend. His only one, aside from Scarlett.

Maybe Scarlett.

Soon he felt better, and he put the gun away.

This will be over soon, Nate thought. I’ll be in the frat. I’ll be cool and popular and everyone will like me and I’ll have a girlfriend and dad will be proud of me.

Then I’ll return dad’s gun to the safe. He’ll never know it was ever gone.

* * *



Chapter 3: The Age of Moral Depravity

Scarlett “voluntold” a boy called Scott Mikkelson for the dishline one night.

At six, the frat descended like a Viking horde on the campus mess hall, ate a metric ton of sausages, bacon, mashed potatoes, ice-cream, and other crap, and then disappeared. If a fifty year old man ate like these boys, he’d be dead of coronary thrombosis in one week.

Scarlett hauled dirty plates from the kitchen bar to the sink, and scraped waste into the trash, sighing at various efforts at comedy.

Sausages with condoms stretched over them. A heap of mashed potato sculpted into the shape of boobs, with peas for nipples. Someone had helpfully written the letters SJ under the boob-sculpture in red ketchup.

I’m an optimist, Scarlett thought as she tipped the elaborate boob-sculpture into the trash, then flung the plate into the sink. Maybe his girlfriend’s name is Sarah Jessica.

In the emptiness of the hall, Scott and Scarlett worked as a team. She hauled plates. Scott washed and dried. They joked, they bantered, they flirted. His glances her way became increasingly common—and increasingly hopeful.

Scarlett was in a good mood. And you never knew where Scarlett-in-a-good-mood ended up.

She didn’t allow the boys to fuck her, but her body could be a veritable lootbox of sexual favors. Jim, Frank, and Cliff had gotten blowjobs. She’d let Chad dry-hump her as a reward for helping her clear away football equipment. She’d footjobbed Sam at a public park. He wondered what was in store for him.

“So…” Scarlett raised an eyebrow. "You’re one of the Mu Sigma Phi chairs, right? Any goss on who’s getting into the frat at the end of the semester?

“It’s a secret.” Scott shook a plate free of soapy water.

She arched her eyebrows, and pouted. She put her hands on her hips, letting her large bust stretch out the water-splattered apron.

“Tell, and you get a treat.”

And lo, it was no longer a secret. “Darren. Steve. Maybe Chris. Depends if he stops no-showing at parties like a total pike. That’s about it.”

“How about Nate Copelander?” Scarlett asked.

Scott laughed. “Hell no. Zero percent chance.”

“Why make him a pledge if he has no chance?”

Scott shrugged. “Every semester, we rush a few no-hopers. Never hurts to have an extra pledge helping with chores and shit. But they never get bidded. Nate’s in that category. Nobody wants him in the frat.”

“You’re exploiting him for free work,” Scarlett said. “That’s cruel.”

“Cruel world.” Scott met her stare. “The only way Nate will get initiated is if he does something really cool. Next level shit.”

Scarlett leaned in closer, chewing a lip. “Define ‘next level shit’. What would he have to do?”

Scott smiled. “Whatever it is, he’s not capable of it. I’ll tell you that much.”

Then he looked around.

“Sure is quiet,” he said hopefully. “I don’t think we’ll be disturbed.”

Scarlett dried her hands. “Not so fast. First, I need to make sure all these plates are clean.”

She stepped over to the rack of drying plates, her boobs putting stretch lines into the fabric of her blouse, her big ass making the dishwashing apron explode out at the back. She ran a soap-wet finger along the plates, checking for caked-on crumbs. As she leaned down to look, she stuck out her ass, like a dinette as a 1950s gas station. Scott hungrily stared at her rubenesque lower body, her flaring diamond-shaped calves, the broad muscular hamstrings lacing up her thick thighs, the huge butt that visibly cut into the underwear beneath her skirt. He swore he could hear a truck reversing—beep, beep, beep—as her ass wriggled out further and further.

She nodded her approval. “Looks clean. Good work, Scott.” She touched her pinky into the corner of her mouth. A cartoonish chick-lost-in-thought pose. “Hmm…what shall your reward be?”

His mouth dried up. He felt his pulse echoing like the snare in a Duran Duran track.

“I just remembered something…” Her grin became a narrow, saucy pout, that scrunched up her pretty face adorably.

She leaned forward—face to face. Her sharp-pointed tongue flickered out, and touched his nose. Oh God. Scott’s heart tore almost disintegrated his ribcage with its pounding. The world bled of color as seemingly every blood molecule in his body rushed straight to his dick.

Still making eye contact, Scarlett’s hands roved langurously up her body, starting from her hips.

As they hit her chest, they got stuck by large obstacles. They scooped up enough breastflesh to overfill the palms of her hands.

“…I’m not wearing a bra under this getup.”

For the first time, he noticed that her nipples were jutting through the pink fabric. Her pendulous globes swelled forward, threatening to burst buttons. Their heart-stopping curvature was like an explosion choreographed in slow motion, two wobbling globes of meat that trembled with pressure, exerted from her hands and clothes.

Then Scarlett let her tits fall. Her hands slithered at his throbbing crotch like a card sharp trick, finding his belt, releasing the catch, then tugging down his pants and underwear.

Cold air from the mess hall washed over his bare penis and testicles. A bright, silvery shiver made a racetrack of his spine.

Then she was on her knees, and the cold air over his genitals was replaced by Scarlett’s hot breath.

“One. Button. Undone.” she incanted from her position at his crotch. “That’s how we do this tonight.”

Then the same hands that had just brushed his cock through his pants reached back to her overflowing blouse….and unhooked a single button from its loop, at the level of her nipples.

Pop!

The button yielded. The sheer mass of her bulging tit-tanks blasted open a diamond-shaped hole in her blouse.

An inviting cock-slot, a ribbed with polyester instead of flesh. The blouse gaped like a mouth, exposing dark, sweaty cleavage that pillowed against the hole, seeking to escape.

Scott stared dizzily at her bare tits inside the button-hole. Light pooled and puddled on aquieous surfaces. Her skin seemed like like precious porcelain behind lock and key, and he was staring through the keyhole.

Her hands clasped her jugs, and smooshed them forward. He snorted in lust as an awesome white surge of creamy titmeat blew forward, pouring out of the hole like bread dough rising out of a tray.

The sharp line of her cleavage was visible—and so was the thing the kneeling actress wanted him to do with it.

Pants around his ankles, he waddled forward, and lined up his cock with the unbuttoned hole in her blouse. The hole was just wide enough for his fatly-throbbing penis.

From her knees, Scarlett arched her back, throwing her chest forward wantonly.

“You’ve thought about fucking my tits before,” She bared her teeth up at him.

“N…no…” he stammered. Nothing like Scarlett to make you feel like a rizzless geed with no game at all.

“Right,” the kneeling sexpot said. You fantasized about it. Don’t deny it."

Quivering, feeling like a shaken-up soda can, he rested his fat red glans against high-pressure wall of breast.

Then he thrust his hips into it.

Scott’s dick tensed, then pushed into her cleavage, a torpedo ploughing through an ocean of breastflesh. Her tits seemed like living pools of jelly, sucking him deeper and deeper, pulling him into their softly smothering trench, until his cock head bumped her breastbone.

He gazed down. His penis was now fully buried inside the gorgeous actress’s blouse, fucking over six inches of her tits beneath the fabric!

Still on her knees, Scarlett clasped her boobs with the palms of both hands, and began pressing them together, jerking them from side to side.

Scott trembled as her huge tits clasped and swallowed and smooshed his cock, pulling it left and then right with their side-to-side sloshes. His cock felt like it was trapped between enormous pillowlike lips. He throbbed in the hot, sticky darkness of her sweltering breast-flesh, disgorging a trail of pre-cum.

“OOOOHHHH!” he sighed, as his cock gave a rubbery lurch.

He pulled it back out—shining with her sweat and his own prostatic fluid—then shunted his hips forward again, fucking his prick into the hole in her blouse.

He settled into a rhythm.

Scarlett watched with a commanding sneer as the the huge slab of teen boy fuckmeat curved and bent and wriggled through her cleavage like a snake. Her entire blouse was wobbling massively from his fucking. So was the rest of her body. Her ass trembled on her heels as she fought not to lose balance. Her nose crinkled in amused disgust as his smelly cock audibly squished and glubbed between her heavy fuck-tanks, making them wetter and wetter.

Pre-ejaculate pulsed in a river from his piss-slit, until the purple glans was skidding along on a lubed-up trail through her breasts.

She clasped both hands, trapping his throbbing pole in heavy spongelike masses. She squeezed so hard that more buttons threatened to burst from her blouse. He roared as walls seemed to implode around his dick.

“Fuck, that feels good!”

Scott wildly flung his hips into her cleavage-packed blouse, ramming his shaft through her hole with brutal force. A wet stain was spreading over her midriff, where pre-cum had streamed out of her chest. His dick-essence was smeared all over her marshmallow soft flesh, from his penis fucking and tasting and exploring everywhere in her dark, obscure cleft.

Scarlett massaged her rack, pumping her jugs outward at the same rate he pumped his cock inward. Her eyes were shadowed and amused as he fucked away, happy and brainless, gripping her shoulders, pummeling the wobbling canyon of her fun-bags.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

“Oh! Oh! OHMYGOD—I’m gonna cum soon!”

His shaft popped free. It bobbed before her eyes, vomiting out copious amounts of clear fluid. Desperate to cum, he stuffed it back into her blouse, and began rolling his hips back and forth in her trench of sweaty flesh.

Scott frantically lunged his cock into her gelatinous and gooey void of breastmeat. After several minutes of titfucking the actress, he lost rhythm, tossing his hips in crazed, stabbing jerks. A boy losing control he’d never really had.

“Uhhh…uhhh…UHHH! UHHHH! GONNA CUM! GONNA CUUUM!”

He jackhammering the kneeling woman’s jugs. A massive load was welling in his balls, ready to glaze her breasts.

“GONNA CUUUUM!”

Her foxlike teeth bared, she began slapping the sides of her bazooms, a fierce left-right-left-right tattoo. Her big jugs jiggled and crashed in waves around his plunging cock.

“I’M GONNA….UGH!…SHOOT IT ALL OUT BETWEEN YOUR BREASTS!” he whined as his penis was pulverised to raw lunchmeat inside her the storm-tossed sea of her white breasts. “I’M CUMMING! I’M CUMMMING! CUUUUUUUUMMMIIIIINNNNNGGG!!!!”

One last time, Scott humped himself balls-deep into her blouse, thrusting so hard Scarlett was nearly thrown off her heels. His entire body arched forward into her chest, rutting with his hips, his mouth opened in rapture.

His buttocks began twitching and contracting.

Her cock-filled blouse also began twitching and contracting.

splurcch! splooorch! spluuurk! spliiiirk!

His pulsating prick blew out sperm in a rush. A gushing, splattering sound was audible as his load pumped and chugged out inside her boob-packed blouse. She felt warm, thick, goop squirting between her cleavage—her buttoned collar shielded her face and neck from the explosion of cum that was typical her teenaged charges’ ejaculations, but she still felt cum splattering everywhere it could within the warm valley of her chest. She felt stray shots of warm gloop flying into her collarbones, squirting into her armpits. She felt a slithering sensation between her cleavage. The boy’s disgustingly large cumshot poured between her breasts like thick clam chowder.

Scott’s face twisted as he creampied her cleavage. His orgasm lasted nearly thirty seconds. Ropes became spurts. Spurts became dribbles. Dribbles became dry spasms. Then his balls were empty.

With a satisfied humph, he tore his softening cock out of Scarlett’s ruined blouse. SCHLOP! It popped free of her cum-packed cleavage, steaming in the kitchen air, still linked to Scarlett’s fresh-fucked breasts by a glistening strand of sperm.

Scarlett cut the strand with a slashing fingertip.

It was as though Scott was a human mannequin, and the cum-rope was all that was holding him to her. Once it was gone, Scott fell away from her, knees wobbling, mouth trembling,

Still on her knees, she pulled up Scott’s pants, gave the soft cock a gentle kiss, then tucked the sensitive organ back into his pants.

“Good boy.”

Then she examined her own situation. Her ass was sore from sitting on her heels for so long. Her back ached. Her overflowing blouse was squishing and squelching with its payload of smelly white boysperm. It had soaked through from her neck to her waist, clinging to her bare skin.

She huffed, and flapped her hands in indignation. “Young guys are such a handful,” she reached for a handful of napkins.

If he thinks this isn’t coming out of his personal laundry deposit, he’s got it twisted.

* * *

One week until the semester’s end.

Nate grinned more and more as the day raced closer.

It was the grin of a skull. Broad. Toothy. Not exactly alive, though—kind of the opposite, really.

He laughed sometimes, too. The laughter would become crying with no clear line in between. Just a grinding, whining noise escaping his chest, neither happy nor sad, just broken. The sound a wrecked shopping cart makes when it’s pushed too fast, too hard.

He hated everything. The world in general, the frat in particular, himself most of all. His pledgeship continued. So did the hazing. And he wasn’t even being hazed by the social chair or someone important. He was getting hassled by college freshmen. Guys one or two shaves away from being literal goddamn children. Boys who were younger than him, smaller than him, stupider than him, meaner than him…these boys suddenly seemed to have power of life and death over him. Why? Because they’d made Mu Sigma Phi freshman year, and he was just a pledge.

It’s not fair! he thought, fingernails driving half-moons of rage into his sweating palms. None of this is fair!

He’d just “spoken” to his father over the phone.

Kind of.

Nate couldn’t remember the last actual conversation he’d had with his father. Dad didn’t talk to you. He talked at you. When Steven Copelander opened his mouth, it disgorged a torrent of macho bravado, cornball cliches, and nostalgic reminiscence, delivered too fast and loud to get a word in edgeways. Dad didn’t expect you to reply. He expected you to nod your head at key points—maybe interject the occasional yeah and sure,—but never interrupt his precious thoughts with one of your own.

“I can’t wait until you’re in, kiddo. Got a spot on the mantlepiece for your admission plate to sit, right next to mine. You took your time, I gotta say. When you weren’t selected as pledge in your freshman year, I started to wonder if somethign was wrong. I made Mu Sigma Phi as a freshman. Did I ever tell you that? And college was actually college back in my day! Pledging was actually hard!”

“I’m not sure I’m getting bidded, dad,” Nate’s voice was so soft that dad just steamrolled right over it.

"There was no woke liberal bullshit at college back then. No cell phones recording what went down at the frat house, either. You think you got it tough, kiddo? I could tell you stories about my pledging that would singe your hair! One time they made me…wait, what did you just say?"

“Maybe I don’t get in,” he whispered.

“What makes you think that?”

“The boys…they don’t respect me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they respect you! And if they don’t, make ’em respect you! You gotta learn to become the BMOC, Nate, like I was. Man, we really fucked your generation up with this self-esteem horseshit. Everyone wants a participation trophy these days. It was different back when I was your age, kiddo. Back then, you had to work for what you had…”

And holy fuck, it just went on and on and on…

After the call ended, Nate crawled into bed, hugging his knees to his chest in a fetal position. The shadows in his room seemed to lunge forward at him, like demonic clowns.

He sighed, cried a bit, and played with his dad’s gun some more. Sometimes, he heard the Walther P22 speaking back.

Nate? the gun whispered. I know a way to make them respect you. Want to hear it?

“No.” He shuddered, skin tense, scalp sweaty, blood seeming to crawl through his veins with the itching slowness of maggots.

In fact, they’ll do more than respect you. They’ll fear you.

“Leave me alone,” he started crying again. Sobbing. Out the window, he watched a car pull up. It had the ΜΣΦ letters on it.

It was a person from nationals, doing an inspection of the frat.

Whoopie, he thought.

He watched Scarlett’s tight ass walking down the path, jiggling hypnotically beneath a tightly restraining pencil skirt. Apparently, she was helping oversee the inspection.

He was so miserable he’d even stopped jerking off to her. He held the gun to his ear like a conch, and heard it speak again.

I can get you what you need from Scarlett, too. The gun whispered eagerly. Savagely. **She won’t have a choice. She’ll do whatever you want with a smile on her face, because if she doesn’t, she dies. And if anyone tries to save her, they’ll die.*

The thought thrilled him and shamed him in equal measure.

What’s wrong with me? Oh my God, I’m such a sick person.

Two days left until the bids were revealed.

I’m getting in, he thought, his mind a chalice overflowing with absolute rage, misery and horror.

I can’t suffer this much and not get in. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.

In three days, he would be a Mu Sigma Phi man, and this whole nightmare would end.

It had to.

* * *

The inspector for the Mu Sigma Phi nationals was a gray-haired woman who looked she hadn’t been in college since Animal House had been in theaters.

She interviewed five actives, with Scarlett Johansson standing close by. She was used to being shocked by the antics of frat boys. But these five had found an all-new way to shock her.

“…And you’re all active in off campus socials?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” one boy said politely, hands folded into his neatly-pressed dress pants. “We do Bible readings with senior citizens on Fridays.”

“And we do charity fundraisers and bake-offs.” An overweight frattie sat. “Last semester, we raised five thousand dollars for an animal shelter in Darfur or somewhere.”

A tall kid piped up. “And next semester, we’re launching an community initiative to stop the misgendering of housepets. It’s not okay to say ‘good boy’ to a female dog. Our words have power to harm.”

The inspector turned to Scarlett, beaming.

“Scarlett, you’re a miracle worker! These boys are wonderful!”

Ever since Scarlett had been the Mu Sigma Phi house mom, the frat had been transformed.

There had been no arrests among the fraternity actives. One or two minor cases of misconduct. No cases of alcohol poisoning. No incidents of rape or harassment reported by female students. Not so much as a noise complaint from the off-campus neighbors.

In the time Scarlett had presided over the frat mansion, the on-campus Mu Sigma Phi chapter had gone from being among the nation’s worst fraternities to one of the best. The chess club got up to more trouble than these boys.

“I must admit, when I heard about this whole famous-actress-becomes-house-mom thing, I wasn’t sure you had what it took,” the woman said. “But you’ve been a sterling success! What are your methods for controlling these boys?”

Scarlett giggled bashfully. “I’m just aware of their unique learning styles.”

One of the frat brothers tittered, and was elbowed into silence.

“Learning styles?” the inspector said. “What do you mean?”

“We’re all different,” Scarlett said. “College is a pretty female-coded space these days, and risks leaving young boys behind. We just have to be aware that men have a different style. One that we need to positively motivate instead of punish.”

The old dame looked curious. “How do you motivate them?”

“Oh, I was raised around boys. I know how they think.”

“Well, there’s nothing more for me to do here. You’re already on top of everything! Is there anything I can do for you? Need any help or support.”

“No. I’m only here for another week, and then I leave. Hopefully I’ve made a difference.”

But then Scarlett thought of Nate Copelander.

“Actually…What services do nationals make available, from a counselling and mental health perspective? Not for myself. For one of the boys.”

The woman produced a card from her purse. “We can comp some therapy, I’m sure. What’s going on? Anything serious?”

Her gaze sharpened.

“Any hazing?”

Scarlett chose her words with care. She didn’t want to say Nate’s name with the frat boys listening.

“No hazing. Just exam stress. The usual.” Scarlett took the card, and smiled sunnily, clasping together her hands around her skirt.

When the old woman returned to her truck, she thought of what she’d seen.

The clean dorm rooms. The organized meal rosters. Boys all engaged in community service and outreach and church. This was a model frat.

We’re in an age of moral depravity, the old woman thought, touching the cross on her neck. But there are still good boys out there.

She sent up a prayer for the young men of the community, who had not strayed from the path of moral righteousness.

* * *

schluuuuuuurrrrrppp

Lewd, raunchy sucks echoed through the air of the frat mansion, as disgustingly loud and moist as a plunger yanking out a blocked toilet.

The obese frat boy relaxed on a Lay-Z-Boy recliner, his pants around his ankles. Scarlett kneeled between his hairy legs, blowing him in front of his friends.

The other four boys lay draped across furniture, half-stunned, their pants likewise torn down. Huge wet explosions of Scarlett’s saliva and their own cumshots were plastered over their crotches. As soon as the Mu Sigma Phi inspector had driven away, she’d closed the door and blown them all with brutal expediency and economy. Scarlett’s tongue could pull chrome off a trailer hitch.

Dazed from their orgasms, they watched her fellate their friend. On her knees, her super-thick body bent and curved like a lab retort stand, her ass propped up on her slingbacks, twisting, writhing, shifting with a sexy feline sway as she feasted on his crotch. Her arms gripped his knees for support. Her tits swayed in her shirt—moving like hypnotic flesh pendulums with each suctioning pull of her throat.

“Thanks for accomodating my unique learning style, ma’am,” the fat boy said to the acid-blonde head bobbing between his legs.

The others laughed.

One boy eyed her panty line, and the way it cut into her hot flesh and ass crack, causing ribbons of soft feminine fat to spill out around the taut elastic.

“You know,” he piped up. “I think my learning style includes ass-to-mouth anal.”

Scarlett rocked back, spat out the kid’s cock, and put her hands on her hips. “Yes, Jason, I’m sure it does. Unhappily, our deal was one blowjob each.”

“Aw, you’re no fun at all.”

It didn’t look like the kid she was blowing agreed. A shudder raked his body as the beautiful actress’s head returned to his shaft, lashing her searing-hot tongue around it.

“You’re trying to get Nate Copelander into therapy, aren’t you?” one asked.

Scarlett screwed up her face, but didn’t reply.

She hoped this wouldn’t make its way back to Nate, but assumed it would.

“That kid is nuts,” the tall guy said. “Fucking full-delulu schizoid bugman type shit. He just sits in his room all day. I hear he’s got a gun in there. Good thing he’s a total pussy, or I’d think he was about to snap and Adam Lanza our asses.”

They giggled cruelly.

Nate, the perennial punching bag.

Scarlett pressed her face into the fat boy’s musky, unwashed crotch, slurping and feasting on his big cock like a hog at a trough. Her cheek bulged out as his foul-tasting prick jabbed inside her mouth. Soon, he O-faced, his feet kicking out as he spooged.

“Oh. Oh. Oh.”

SPLOOOORRRT. SPLUUURRRRP. SPLLRRRRCH. He pumped out a massive load, the chunky ropes of sperm blowing out her cheeks. His cock leaped and bounced inside her throat, shooting out thick, disgusting boycum with each thrashing jerk.

Scarlett swallowed industriously, throat bobbing as his cum flushed into her stomach, joining the loads of the four others.

* * *

Scarlett took Nate on a walk around the mansion. Trying to get a sense of the darkness festering in him.

She had to be careful. Nate already had a reputation as a momma’s boy, as the frat mom’s pet. To be seen with her would not inprove his status in the least bit.

They crossed into the shadow of some emerald-lustre viburnums Nate busted his ass trimming.

“…but that will all change when I’m in the frat,” he said.

She sighed heavily.

“Nate, I’ll spoil the ending. You aren’t getting in.”

“Oh.” Nate said softly. “How do you know?”

“I spoke to this kid on the chair. They’re just using you for free work.”

Nate recoiled, as if she’d slapped him. In his eyes, she saw a war take place. A war between truth and hope.

A war that truth, as always, lost.

“No, Scar, you don’t understand.” Nate drew back, gaze stormy and turbulent. “I’ve done so much for them. They promised me at the start that I’d get in if I prerformed my duties, which I have. They owe it to me.”

They owe it to me.

Scarlett kicked the sidewalk morosely.

She knew Nate’s type. We are assured from the dawn of sapiency that the world is fair: virtue is rewarded and vice punished and life will go smoothly if you just follow the rules. Say your prayers every night, take your Hulk Hogan multivitamins, look both ways before crossing the street, and you’ll be fine.

You grow up believing this. But soon, you get tall, and your eyes get wise.

You see a friend cheat on an exam and is not caught. Your uncle drives drunk and God does not smite him with a lightning bolt. You see glimpses of a different world, a different reality, where the rules don’t actually exist. Where you’re a sucker for believing them.

Nate would be miserable at ΜΣΦ. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together could see that.

But getting into the frat was a rule.

His father obviously didn’t care that he was throwing his son to the wolves. Frat equals successful son. Successful son equals successful father. So what if his son was violently unhappy?

Faced with this observable and irreconcilable difference between the world that should be and the world that is, some kids grow up, and some kids don’t. Nate was one of the latter. No. The truth can’t be the truth. Everyone can’t have lied to me. It wouldn’t be fair.

Scarlett chewed a lip, gears turning in her head.

She had the ability to get Nate into the frat.

She wondered if she had the cruelty.

* * *



Chapter Four: Next-Level Shit

The end of semester party went off like a grenade. Bright, loud, and accompanied by numerous casualties.

For sixteen hours, unbridled alcohol-fueled chaos reigned at the frat mansion. It bulged at the sides from nearly thirty brothers and uncountable pledges, GDIs, and—most importantly—girls, all of whom were determined to make the most noise, raise the most hell. Helpless GDIs were put in straitjackets and thrown screaming from the upper balcony into the swimming pool. Inside the house, people played Edward Fortyhands with malt liquor and swordfought with wizard staffs made out of Miller Light cans. A roid-pumped gymbro hjiacked the aux cord, and blasted “Barbie Girl” at ear-splitting volume on loop over the stereo, threatening to kick the ass of anyone who tried to stop him.

The entire mansion was redecorated in festive colors. Someone had flung a banner out the window with Mu Sigma Phi emblazoned on it…Except someone had crossed out Sigma with spraypaint, and written Scarlett on top of it.

This was a special party—a bittersweet one—because it marked the last weekend the Scarlett Johansson would be with them. The cat was more or less out of the bag by now. Everyone knew about the movie. With preproduction well underway, Scarlett’s time with them was at an end.

This was their way of saying goodbye to the frat mom. In her short stay, she had become genuinely beloved.

Besides, none of us got to fuck her, all semester. A look of defeat was on all their faces. Man, we suck. What are we even doing?

* * *

Scarlett strapped a swimsuit around her overflowing body. Her fat asscheeks ate up the strap. Her boobs were forced upward in a high-pressure geyser of cleavage that threatened to engulf her face—or, if you were lucky, yours.

A gaggle of teenaged boys watched her change. She didn’t seem to mind. As soon as she finished, they rushed to their dorm rooms to jerk off, sharing guilty glances.

As soon as she stepped off the upstairs balcony, everyone cheered.

She spread out her arms, and dived into the pool with the flow of an Olympic synchronized diver, crashing beneath the surface three stories below. Her sleek body curved like a fish through the water, knifing up out of the water again. She pulled herself up onto the poolside, wet muscles flexing, flanks heaving.

“We’ll miss you, ma’am,” Chad said.

She squeezed his hand. He blushed. Mischievous, making sure they weren’t being watched, she reached between the legs, and squeezed the heavy sausage of college boy beef loaf fattening between his legs.

“Don’t cry because it’s over,” she said. “Smile because it happened.”

* * *

Nate stepped outside, trying to relax and enjoy the party.

He crossed from the entryway to the hedges he’d slaved for weeks to trim. The pool he’d thanklessly scooped clean of leaves, and—in one memorable case—a dead rat.

The bids were today.

Had Scarlett lied? Was he getting in, or not? Soon, he’d know.

His eardrums rang with the party. Partying frats and srats ringed him, seeming like howling, hooting apes. Alienating. Scary. A large blow-up inflatable animal was drifting in the cerulean surface of the pool, bouncing wildly whenever a human body cannonballed into it.

I’m getting in.

I absolutely am getting in.

A girl cut in front of him, giggling and drunk and flirty. “Hiiiiii!” she brushed her hair compulsively with her hand. “I’m Jessica! What’s your name?”

He never got a chance to reply. A hulking frat boy got in front of him first. “That goober’s just a pledge. You don’t wanna talk to him.”

“Oh.” Jessica looked at him. “Okay. What’s your name?”

Then she walked away, laughing and flirting with the active.

Nate was bummed out. Then he remembered that in a matter of hours he’d be an active too. That cheered him up.

Then Scarlett appeared behind him. “Nate! How ya doing…”

He gaped shamelessly at her luscious thick body. She must have needed butter and a shoehorn to get into that outfit. Audacious female flesh gushed and exploded from every hole and opening, glistening from the pool.

She was just…excessive. Awooga, va-va-voom, heart-explodes-out-of-your-chest, tongue-rolls-out-across-the-floor-like-a-carpet Tex Avery cartoon type shit. He felt dirty just looking at her.

“Let’s go swimming together,” she said.

“I dunno…”

“I insist!” She bounced up and down like a cheerleader. Heavy boobs slopped up and down. “Come on!”

Scarlett steered him outside to the pool, then pushed him in. The cold water was a bracing shock. Soon, she hit the water next to him.

“This party…” she said, shaking droplets from her eyes. “…It’s alright…but you know what it needs?”

Her fingers gripped his shoulders.

“…It needs some next-level shit.”

* * *

Following her lead, he climbed onto the floating raft. Some frat boys noticed, and made kissie sounds. Aw, look at wittle Nate. The momma’s boy.

Nate just sighed, too depressed to even snap back. Why am I here? I should just leave. Go back and hold the gun some more.

Then Scarlett pounced on him, and kissed him.

Hard, and on the lips.

Shock erupted through him, like fracture lines racing through glass. He shuddered beneath the seismic impact of those soft, soft lips pillowing across his face. He tasted her saliva. His mind went slightly insane.

“Scarlett…” he whimpered.

“I want to fuck you.” She said bluntly, tracing fingers along his scalp.

“But you can’t…” Nate said. “You’re the frat mom! It would be a violation of, er…”

What would it be a violation of? He couldn’t think. Couldn’t complete that thought. The kiss had sucked most of the air out of his lungs.

A smile curved Scarlett’s pouty lips like a pirate’s wicked scimitar.

“I’m not your frat mom anymore. That part of my life has ended. Now I’m just Scarlett Johansson.” She hooked two fingers into the neckline of her tank top and pulled it down. “But before I go…there’s something I can do for you.”Her ample cleavage deepened another dozen inches.

Shock channeled into delight as Scarlett hooked the bottom hem of her swimsuit, and yanked it up over her head. Her enormous tits exploded into the air, pink nipples jiggling as they dropped down her chest. He wanted to step forward, but found he didn’t need to. Scarlett had already climbed on to him, making the pool toy rock beneath her bucking body.

“Darling, dearest Nathaniel…why don’t we just fuck, right here and right now, and let the devil take the hindmost?”

Then her leg swung out. And onto him. Her weight slid onto his crotch, hot loins seeking, hungering…

And then…holy fuck…his cock was inside her pussy!

This is an interesting dream. He thought as his penis slid along the mucus-lined tunnel of her quim, parting the corrugated folds of her vaginal rugae. Too bad it’s not real.

He was fully inside her moist, sweltering cunt. She’d swallowed him to the balls.

She grunted throatily, and collapsed on top of him. The pool raft bounced again under her weight as she landed on his face.

Her fat, doughy breasts smashed flat against his face, drowning him in milk-white skin. She felt warm and heavy, covering him like a blanket. He panted as a giant pair of knockers heaved and squeezed against his face, grinding salty chlorinated poolwater into his eyes. He squeezed them shut. He was plunged into a world of shadows, of water, of pressure, of moans, of hot and willing female meat.

Scarlett squeezed his cock with her strong hips.

“You going okay there, sport?” Scarlett’s lips spat soft, dulcet words into the side of his face. With his eyes closed.

“Yeah…” he was. “Is my dick inside you right now? Sorry if it is.”

Shut up. Shut up.

He didn’t know what part was more absurd. The apology, the question, or the fact that he’d said he was okay.

Nate was not okay. Shivering, panic-struck, pussy-fucked, feeling like he was running a high fever, he was in the hot sun in a cold pool and inside a hot pussy and inside cold fears and he was experiencing feelings he’d never had in his life and he was at the antipode of okay.

“It’s inside me,” her words lilted, twisted, curved like the pistes of poisonous tulips. She shifted her shoulders sexily, grinding her tits against his bare chest. For the first time, he felt how diamond-drill hard her nipples were. They augured against his chest like knives.

“That’s the idea here. Or part of it.”

“What’s the next part?” he asked, hating how he had to be led by the nose by this dominant, impossibly hot older woman.

“That you fuck me, over and over, all night long.”

The words exploded like depth charges in his mind.

This was happening.

Nate clenched his teeth, and opened his eyes. The white skin of her neck and her collar and her shoulders and her cleavage poured and flowed out onto him, like obscenely rich white chocolate. He gripped those shoulders. To stop his fingers slipping, he dug into Scarlett’s warm skin with his nails. That provoked a tension inside her. A short, sharp moan.

And something seemed to squirt and flow from her cunt, leaking over his balls.

This was a go signal to him.

As he was mounted and ridden by the bucking body of the hottest woman in all of Hollywood, he began throwing his hips upward. Shafting his horny, eager cock up into her guts. Over and over he stroked into her, making her pussy gush and ooze.

He was vaguely aware of the other frat boys, watching them messily fuck on the rocking pool float.

Nobody was laughing at him now.

“Oooh…” she said. “Not so fast. Just a bit…slower. If you go slower, you can go harder.”

He fucked upward with all the skill he could muster, throwing his hips against hers with rhythmic claps and plaps. She felt her pussy convulsing as it absorbed his strokes.

It was revelatory. The truth shattered like dark lightning. Siddhauta Gotama had not been left as enlightened and changed as he was by her vagina clasping around him, sucking him to the balls.

He lay back, hips shooting forward, motorboating the massive pair of tits jammed into his face.

They fucked like that for over an hour on the pool.

She faked her first orgasm.

To her surprise, her second and third were quite natural.

* * *

Rumors hit the mansion.

“Guys,” Scott yelled. “Someone’s fucking Scarlett in the pool!”

“Who?” they all stared at him. The chairs remembered the promise they’d made in secret at the semester’s start.

That if a pledge successfully had sex with Scarlett—in circumstances not involving chloroform and a pillow over her face—they would be instantly bidded in. The person who made it with Scarlett would be a god among men. The party god of all party gods.

So who is it?

They all raced outside, texting their brothers, texting their girlfriends, texting their parents, texting their parole officers in some cases. This is fucking incredible. One of us is getting laid with ScarJo!. The goddamn world had to know!

Then they stood around the edge of the pool, and watched dumbfounded as Nate Copelander and Scarlett screwed on top of the floating raft.

Scarlett was in control.

The actives glanced at each other. Aw, shit, no.

“Do we have to do this?” Brad whined.

“There’s no other way, dude.”

They stared at Nate.

And so it was that the party ended the way nobody ever thought it would have: with Nate Copelander being initiated into Mu Sigma Phi, to a soundtrack of “Barbie Girl”.

* * *

That night, he lay in Scarlett’s arms, a new Mu Sigma Phi active. His face was blank. A wall.

His brown eyes normally radiated everything he was feeling. He had soulful eyes. This was that had made him a target for bullying, she guessed.

“How do you feel?” she stroked fingers through his hair.

He shrugged. “Like nothing.”

“Happy? Sad?”

He rolled away, so she couldn’t see his eyes anymore. “Just empty.”

“That’s not how you should feel, when you achieve a dream.”

No answer from the boy lying against her breasts.

“This was never your dream,” she said, playing with her hair—a friendly gesture this time.

“No, it was,” he stubbornly said. The voice of a man not speaking to convince another, but to himself.

“Well, the worst thing that can happen to a dream is to fulfill it. Becaue then it’s not a dream anymore. It’s just cold, gray, boring reality. You know a saying I heard about showbiz when I was your age? It’s like climbing a huge stinking dung heap to pluck a rose at the top…only to find at the summit that you’ve lost your sense of smell.” That was about movies, but a lot of life is like that. Don’t you think?

Nate laughed humorlessly. He’d won. What did it matter if he simply didn’t feel anything? If the emptiness in his heart had only cracked open wider? What did it matter if he was still Nate Copelander, a total geed loser, and his admission into Mu Sigma Phi didn’t make him cooler but instead made the frat worse?

He nuzzled into her armpit.

He whispered words into the musky-smelling dark of her skin.

“Brad offered me a handshake. Welcoming me as a brother.”

“Did he…?” Scarlett whispered.

“But when I stuck out my hand, he pulled it back and laughed.”

The old bitterness was back in his voice. Or the new bitterness. It had never left, had never had a chance to become old.

“So what lesson do you take from that?”

“It’s not going to stop, is it?” he hissed silkily in the dark. “They still don’t respect me. And they never will.”

And to this, Scarlett could say nothing.

He shrugged, unable to escape the truth.

Being initiated. Being bidded in. Having champagne sprayed into his eyes.

It hadn’t made him feel half as good as when he cradled the gun he’d stolen from his dad.

Like climbing a huge stinking dung heap to pluck a rose at the top…only to find at the summit that you’ve lost your sense of smell.

Troubled mind, troubled future, flying blind and radarless through emotional turbulence, Mu Sigma Phi’s newest minted member fell asleep in the frat mom’s arms.

THE END

(part two coming)

[HER_ABHORRED_SHEARS]

Frat Mom 2 (Scarlett Johansson)

(tags: m/F, f/F, mm/F, handjob, blowjob, clothed titfuck, teasing, voyeur, MILF)



Chapter 5: Born Under a Bitter Star

The air stank from fucking. The bedroom’s dusk-ashed walls resonated with lewd, obscene sex-noises: squelching, slurping, rutting; moaning, grunting, panting; the moist slippery beat of flesh piledriving flesh.

They screwed on the bed, twisting like snakes, two dripping and burning bodies chiaroscuro’d in shadow and sweat. Their hands and tongues and hips seemed to fuse together like white-hot metal. They were losing grasp on distance and orientation and space and time and life and death. Against the awesome and all-encompassing present, everything was noise.

Nate dropped his hips between Scarlett’s cum-splattered thighs. Again.

Hilted his dick inside her spasming fuckhole. Again.

Saw tendons pop and nostrils flare and lips slash the air apart with screams. Again.

Scarlett groaned as his cock slowly sawed back through her oozing cunt. Her massive, sweaty tits collapsed into her armpits. Then next lunge of his hips flung a shockwave across her body, catapulted her breasts forward on her chest. Nate’s bone-jarring fucking tossed her tits back and forth like speedbags. They rebounded with meaty WHAPS and CRACKS as he filled her slack cunt with dick, her nipples whirling complex figure-of-eight patterns as they spun and collided.

Nate fucked his wet, slippery cock into the huge-breasted actress’s cunt, time becoming stuck. They were both caught inside a single broken and spliced and looped back into itself so that it repeated, repeated, repeatpeatpeatpeatpeated.

“Oh yes…oh yes…like that…again…HARDER!” ScarJo’s fingers clawed handfuls of linen as she was gaped. Blonde hair burst across the pillow in a radiant spray. It was the only point of brightness in the room. “HARDER! FUCK ME!”

The cries smashed against Nate’s numb ears. How many times had he heard that, since the bedroom door had swung shut a lifetime ago? How many times would he hear it, before it reopened, and he was free?

It had started in the pool of the frat mansion. She’d screwed him atop the floating inflatable toy. Then she’d dragged the shellshocked young pledge upstairs, like a lioness dragging a zebra to her den, with cheers from the frat bros ringing out around them. She’d shoved him through the bedroom door, and locked it behind them. Shutting out the world.

“Welcome to the frat,” she’d said matter-of-factly, before falling on him like a hammer.

They’d fucked three times in quick succession. Him on top of her. Her on top of him. Doggystyle on the floor. Three explosive fuck-sessions scored by her curses and exhortations. Scarlet had a slavedriver’s mind. Give everything to me. Your mind, your soul, your body. Over and over, she drained him of cum. Every time he thought he was done, she bullied him back between her thighs.

“You owe me,” she growled, fingernails tracing a slow drag across his stunned face. “You owe me everything. Now get hard, damn you. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

Scarlett was berserk. Inhuman. The Terminator 1000 with tits. She could not be bargained with. She could not be reasoned with. She did not feel pity, or remorse, or fear.

Finally, Nate was utterly exhausted by her relentless sexual demands, and had begged for sleep.

Then she had given him something from her handbag—a blue-striped capsule, no way of knowing what it was—within thirty minutes, a thrilling numbness was drumming under his skin, chanting catechisms through his blood. His skin rippled into a carpet of gooseflesh, hot and cold all at once. He stared at the ceiling, and his mind lifted away into a vast region of cold arctic sky, like a Wagnerian ubermensch. He had won the throne to the entire world, but as Scarlett splayed her legs apart for him, he suddenly only wanted one part of it.

They’d gone at it all night, and throughout the day, with only brief pauses between sessions. The sun had fallen on the mansion, then risen, then fallen, always capturing them in much the same position. Cock inside cunt.

They’d rutted in bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, on the couch, on the floor, against the window overlooking the college campus, and in many other places. He didn’t know what time it was now.

The artillery-fire of his rapidly-fucking hips against Scarlett’s slavering cunt broke against his ears. “Uhhh! Ughhh! That’s it! Almost there! Almost…THERE!”

Lunging and rocking wildly, skewering her on drumming slaps of his hips, he pounded Scarlett into her next dizzying climax.

“AuuughhhhhHHHH!!!” Her mouth howled, and her cunt seized like a bear-trap around his cock. Her walls imploded on him, frantic jerking convulsions almost crushing his shaft. Trying not to cum, he slapped her broad hips, plowing her hard, submerging his shaft to the hilt in scalding hot slutflesh. Her face tore and twisted like a Halloween mask.

“UGH! UGH! UGGHHH!”

She came and came, discharging like a blunderbuss, arching her back into a question mark as he delivered hard pounding strokes into her core. Her body slackened. He thought he’d fucked her unconscious or worse. Then she roared back to life.

Her fingernails tore four streaks of pain across his back. “Don’t stop! DON’T STUHHHHHPPPP!”

The wild screwing continued. Bedsheets flew, and the headboard thudded against the wall, punching a dent in the drywall. WHAM! WHAM! Plaster-dust spewed out in clouds.

Nate hammered at the woman splayed beneath him. Her legs curved back to receive him. His own orgasm was racing down on him; with a maglev’s force and velocity.

Their hips twisted together, cock socketing in cunt, squelching at the bottom in a churn of slathering flesh.

Pinned on his plunging cock, Scarlett busted another nut. Her body writhed brokenly, and she screamed. Her tight-banded muscles—seemed to grip his cock in a sequence of squelching surges as her body exploded in orgasm.

Then the world before Nate’s eyes vanished in a shock of white, and he was spewing cum too.

He hilted his penis inside her yawning pussy, tensed, and exploded. Sperm gushed from his leaping penis, splattering against her walls. Twitch. Twitch. Twitch. Each pulse of his prostate shorted out his vision like an electrical storm.

His orgasm ran down. Incipient darkness clawed over him in a drowning-deep ocean. He closed his eyes, ready to be washed away in whatever sea might exist beyond oblivion.

Then a sharply fingernailed hand traced lines up his face, until she cupped the side of his head.

“We are having such a good time,” sounding so ironic, so sardonic.

Then she slapped him, harder than playfully. Her hand seemed to cut his face like a hatchet’s blade.

“Why have you stopped moving?” Her eyes slitted into knives of dark. Avaricious. “Don’t you want me to have a good time? I thought you were a real man, Nate.”

I’m not. Something inside Nate threatened to break beneath the force of her. I never was.

He was exhausted. What more could he do? What more could she take from him? He couldn’t move. His muscles were filled with burning ice. He couldn’t even flinch in fear as her slapping hand slid across his face.

But she pulled his head closer, pressed their lips into a kiss, and her hot dirty tongue was exploring his mouth.

And with it, another pill. Fuck-energy in a capsule. She had put it inside her cheek.

It slid into his mouth, wet with her saliva, and he swallowed it.

Then magic happened. Sparks raced through his extremities. His penis began re-erecting inside her cum-filled cunt. It happened so slowly that it was imperceptible even to him. Then her other hand clawed a handful of his ass, making him gasp and jerk forward. He slammed forward, slammed back into her. It was a reflex. Then his cock plopped out again, twitching on her thigh.

“I brought you up here to fuck.” Her voice was silk draped over a knife. She found his asshole and started fingerfucking it. “So why don’t you start doing it??”

Gasping, trembling, lungs drawing shallow useless breath, he began to ream out her pussy again. To ride a tiger is to know great power.

You cannot get off, though. Do you care?

* * *

Downstairs, the party had ended days ago.

A hopeful frosh tried to gain admittance to the upstairs bedroom. A bouncer barred the way.

“No go,” the 6’4 frat bro said, crossing his steroid-pumped arms. From behind the door came violent crime-scene noises. Grunting, thrashing, and ringing bedsprings . “Room’s occupied.”

“I left my meal card in there,” the dude whined, fixing his popped collar.

The bouncer crossed his arms over his chest. “Sucks, man. That’s the frat’s newest member and he’s banging the mom. Right now, they get the room. You’re in a place of history, dude. Show some respect.”

Behind the door, a woman had an orgasm. Her moans screamed out like wind beneath the door.

“I came here yesterday,” the kid whined. “Someone said the same thing.”

“That’s right. They’re still going.”

“Should I come back later?”

“No point.”

“I didn’t tell you when I’d come back.”

“Doesn’t matter when. Whatever time you say, they’ll still be fucking then, too.”

* * *

Night swung meaninglessly to day. The sun drenched the slats of the blinds yet found no purchase.

Scarlett grunted obscenely. Violently. Her huge boobs wobbled in her armpits like soft, jiggling abysses.

Clasping her shoulders, Nate humped her into the bed, struggling to breathe. Sweat dripped from his chest into her face. Air. Air. The fucking air. Where was all the air?

“Can’t you drill me harder with that teenage prick of yours?” Scarlett spat up at him, twisting her sweat-shiny hips around the cock pinning her against the mattress. She ground her slippery pussy against his pumping shaft, dirty and messy and hot, trying to make him ejaculate.

He lifted his eyes from Scarlett’s cock-filled cunt and stared into space, wondering when this final, apocalyptic initiation rite would be over.

Every time he tried to rest, to stop, to slow down, she started climbing on him, kissing his lips, kissing his cock, making him hard with her body. Telling him what he could do with her tits. With her asshole. She was just full of soft places and crevices that would fit his cock. Scarlett Johansson was all cunt. All hole. All orifice.

Gathering the broken remnants of himself, he lunged for her, and slipped inside.

One last time.

She gasped as he speared apart her slavering walls open with a single galvanic stroke, ripping her tight moist cunt wide open. His prick slid deep inside her, glans throbbing like a grenade against the nerve-rich of the anterior fornix, causing shivers and screams. Scarlett’s head tipped back, eyes rolling, tongue dangling out as a tsunami of pleasure rolled out from her cunt. Thudding. Unending. Demonic.

“I’m gonna cum!” she bellowed.

At long last, he’d shredded through her thespian eloquence and sophistication. She looked like a demon-possessed Realdoll.

Almost crying, Nate propped himself up on his elbows. His lower body muscles were flickering in and out of commission like a truck’s engine light. He punched his cock into the spasming sleeve of her pussy, wrestling his cock up the ribbed tube of squeezing muscle. She arched her ass up to meet his thrust, her movements taut and explosive. Vile noises exploded out of their mouths, their grinding hips. An entire zoo of animals in full rut wouldn’t have been so loud, so lewd, so wanton.

He throbbed in Scarlett’s slithering fucksleeve. His balls itched hotly against the puffy flesh of her labia minoris.

I might be trapped. The thoughts emerging from endless sex had something like panic to them. Woven together with her. I’m lost and wandering inside a maze made of Scarlet’s skin and teeth and mouth and orifices, and there’s no red thread to guide me back out.

And Scarlett was the frat. Being trapped with her meant being trapped with them. And that dream now seemed poisonous.

Scarlett twisted her gymnast-thick legs around him, looping her ankles across his back in an X.

Gasping as he pummeled her, she yanked him down, squeezing him all the way down inside her body. Hot quivering walls of flesh enveloped him. Their eyes met—there was a tigerish, predatory heat radiating out from her, as she controlled and steered and manipulated his body. She was an undertaker, and the bed was a coffin with a few sides missing.

Nate felt sweat dribble down his body, then realized he hadn’t drawn in breath in over half a minute. Hadn’t felt the need to. He’d left breath behind. Two corpses. Rotting in euphoria, but rotting nevertheless.

Scarlett’s face contorted with lust, her mouth open and drooling. Her fat lips pouting and whining, her ass clapping monstrously against itself as it flew like a mechanical bull. He squeezed her fat white tits together, engraving fingerprints in the sweaty flesh surfaces as he pulled them apart and clapped them together, pistoning in and out of her.

He humped deep, motorboating her chest. The mounds of boobflesh rose up around his head, colliding in a single gigantic breast that almost covered him.

Her pussy made lewd, loud shlicking and slurping nosies as he sped up, feeling his orgasm stalk closer.

His dick blindly thrusted, glistening fuck-slop gushed frothily from her cunt, and his swinging balls clapped against her perineum.

Scarlett arched her back and howled loudly as her pussy spasmed, juices sprayed out of her.

And then Nate orgasmed too, for what was possibly the sixteenth or seventeenth time in two days.

His withered, chafed cock jerked, his abused balls releasd a pathetic dribble of seed inside her, and then he immediately went soft.

He slid off her body, tumbling into unconsciousness.

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t even pass out. He just fell away from everything, like a medieval adventure plunging off the world’s edge, fingers scabbling, then just accepting that here there was no more.

* * *

Chapter 6: Flight



Scarlett sat up in the dark, shaking her head free of stars. Her bedraggled blonde hair flew in a salty-sweaty spray. She gazed in shock at the room.

Not shame. Just shock.

They’d destroyed it. The carpet was ruined with female ejaculate. Strands of cum was plastered in gelid loops over the bathroom mirror, like party streamers. The wardrobe door was torn off its hinges when Nate had tried fucking her upright against it—it had taken his hammering until it hadn’t. Empty takeout boxes and cans of energy drink—supplied by members of the Mu Sigma Phi frat—were strewn over the floor, converted into fuel for sex.

Once, they’d have pledged Nate into an early grave for letting the room get messy.

Now, he was the one who got to make the messes. Lucky him. What was the time?

She jumped out of bed, thighs glinting a muted flash. Her athletic gymnast legs straightened, and then she was up and moving.

With her large sweaty breasts wobbling as she walked, she crossed the room to the duffel bag at the doorway, and retrieved her phone.

Dead battery. She plugged it in to Nate’s laptop, letting current ebb across. As she waited, she hummed a Tom Waits song. The same one she’d done with David Bowie.

“This hotel room’s a goner…” Sounded like Gawwner, in her New York.

Thinking of Nate again, she glanced back at the college kid she’d promoted into the frat via her cunt. He lay motionless on the bed; dead to the world and maybe just dead. The early morning sun was probing the slits between blind slats, bleeding through, trying to get inside. She watched a glowing slant of light rake an almost invisibly slow sweep over his sweaty, sex-fogged face. He had hickeys all over his neck. One was actually bleeding. Damn, what psycho did that to him? Oh, wait.

She slapped her head, trying to wake herself up, and started chugging cold water from a Camelbak. Maybe she’d been too rough on him. Thanks to the compassionate fratties of Mu Sigma Phi, he had rougher rides coming.

I’ve done all I can, Nathan. She shook her head, remorse bubbling up. You’re in now. And may God in all Her mercy help you when you decide you’d rather be out.

Her phone had sucked enough voltage from the laptop to wake. Messages and voicemails and oh fuck, such a mess. She tapped through them, wincing at how many of them were from people she couldn’t ignore. Such as, for example, the line manager for Paramount.

> Scar, we need you on set at eight for chemistry reads with Javier Bardem. Please respond NOW.

“Shit.” She closed the phone, found a bra and some clothes, and hastily fixed her makeup in the piss-smelling bathroom.

One of the fratties was in her blind spot.

“Everything good?” He shamelessly stared at her jiggling cleavage and big fat ass.

“I’m hitting the road. Gotta make LA in five hours.” She pursed cracked lips, and made them crime-scene red.

“But LA is six hours away.”

“Yes, you appreciate my problem. Give my farewells to the boys. I’ll send a self-addressed envelope so you can mail my clothes and other effects. Take care of Nate. Remember, he’s one of you now.”

“We’re gonna miss you, Scar.” A small smile crossed the kid’s face at that. “It’s been great having you”

She used the fresh coat of lipstick to smile. “Aw, hell, it’s been great to be had.”

His tone became hopeful. “How ’bout a goodbye blowjob?”

He got a goodbye middle-finger. “I wouldn’t dream of putting your sister out of a job, Tyrus.”

Then Scarlett Johansson picked up her handbag, and walked past him, walked down the hall, and walked out of the party mansion where she’d lived for the past two semesters. Her thick ass zigzagged as she strutted.

Then she sped away in her McLaren 570S, plumes of dust rising in an arrow, the tip aimed at Hollywood’s heart.

* * *

Nate slept for twenty hours and woke in a different world.

One where nobody bossed him around or hazed him. One where girls didn’t cold-shoulder him on his third stammered word, where even the profs seemed to treat him differently. A world where his dad paid him grudging compliments—though always with the reminder that Steven Copelander had gotten into the frat in his freshman year.

The frat invited him to parties. Not to buy alcohol, or to card geeds and fatsos at the door. They actually invited him.

It was wonderful. He hated it in two days.

Nothing seemed fun. He got trashed, then recovered, then got trashed again, and recovered, and then realized that he never wanted to drink again. He smooth-talked a chick into giving him a blowjob, and got tooth-marks all over his dick and a borderline stalker blowing up his phone.

Two weeks into the semester, he was thoroughly disillusioned by Greek life.

I was treated like a dog for this? He thought, heading to yet another party filled with moronic dudes, and idiot party girls who just wanted to fuck a fratty, alive or dead. Vacant hours, arrayed like soldiers on all sides. He was dreading the braindead conversations. The stupid rituals and rules to remember. The dues to pay.

There had to be more than this thing he’d spent months striving for.

He felt like he’d unwrapped a present on Christmas morning, and found an empty box inside.

* * *

Scarlett was gone from his life. Gone without a goodbye. That was what mattered.

He hadn’t realized what an emotional rock she’d been to him.

And that final party…hard to enjoy any day when you’re just coming off the best three a teenage boy has ever had in history. No wonder the future seemed so gray and barren.

No goodbye. Strangely, that thought actually encouraged him. If there was no goodbye, then she hasn’t actually left. She must be planning on coming back some day. Coming back for me. At first, the idea was something he looked forward to. Soon, it was the only thing he looked forward to.

The idea of Scarlet pulling up at the frat was keeping him tethered to sanity.

He sent her texts. Probing. Prodding. Shaking a tree and hoping something fell.

>Hi SJ, how are you? >When will I see you again? >Scarlett…when the movie is done…what happens then?

No reply. Never a reply.

He sighed, putting his phone away one day. She must be really busy.

He thought of Scarlett making a movie, constructing fantasies of what she might be doing.

She’s on set right now. Probably has a doublewide trailer parked out back of some film lot. Full of shy smiles, treasuring my texts, fumbling line reads because I’m in her head instead of the script. Willem DaFoe notices her crack. His Grand Canyon-etched face twists in a smile-shape. Saying wassamatter, Scar? You used to be a pro. And she laughs it off. Oh, just stage rust. Only the mediocre are always at their best. And she smiles, because of her phone, because of her secret. Because she has me. The college kid she fell for.

He replayed those fantasies until they seemed etched in his mind, racing on parallel track with actual memories. Maybe they’d eventially seem like memories. Even if they didn’t, they were better than real life at the frat.

* * *

The miserable semester meandered on and on.

Then Nate had a realization about Scarlett.

She’s not coming back because she wants me to go to her. Of course. This is a test of my love.

The thought hit him in the middle of his next chair meeting. Out of all his new obligatory social events, it ranked near the bottom. Guys wargaming and strategizing their next boring-ass party like it was the D-Day landing. Holy fuck, get a grip.

But suddenly, his mind was full of electricity. This solved everything. Yes, She ran away to see if I would follow. It all makes sense. What mountains will I climb to be with her? What obstacles will I cross? She’s seeing how much I’m willing to lose.

He felt happy; for the first time in quite a while. The animal trapped in him had just seen a way to escape.

Around him, fratties were bitching and complaining and laying blame about failed parties and socials and calendar events. Nobody seemed to be having fun anymore. He wasn’t the only one who was pining for the frat mom. It was like a load-bearing pillar underpinning MSZ ha been yanked away. The strict discipline she’d enforced collapsed. Meals weren’t prepared on time. Carpets were rapidly overrun by a fast-spreading kudzu of dirty boxers. Trash cans overflowed with empty Miller Lites. It didn’t help that with Nate Copelander unexpectedly joining them as brothers, there were no pledges to clean up the mess.

“…Okay,” Scott said, from his position of head chair. “So the tailgate party’s on the 5th. Like usual. Nate, you’re on alc duty.”

Nate bristled. “Buying beer is a pledge’s job.”

“Right. we keep forgetting.” Kyle smirked at Brad. “You’re still a pledge in our hearts, bro.”

“Ha, ha.” Nate’s sullen laugh was just as real as his smile. “You guys are a riot.”

“Alright, I’ll see if I can trick some dumb frosh into buying beer,” Scott, shooting him an offside you okay bro? glance. “Now, we’ll need pens and nametags.”

“Why?” Chad said.

“They’re useful,dude. You can play a million drinking games with them, but nobody ever brings any. So if we can—”

“You’re all pieces of shit.”

Nate spat out the words. The room plunged into silence.

“You’re still hazing me,” Nate said softly. “Even after I’m in the frat. What a joke.”

“Take a joke, man,” Kyle said, holding up hands in a peacemaker’s gesture.

Nate didn’t accept it. His eyes flared. “You know what the joke is? You lost. You all wanted Scarlett for yourselves. But in the end, she chose me. The geed.”

This anime villain spiel ended in a way Nate hadn’t anticipated.

With deafening laughter.

Roars and guffaws swept across the circle. Everyone seemed to think this was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Nate’s eyes came dizzily unfocused as they laughed and laughed. Muscles tensed beneath his jaw.

“Jesus,” Chad leaned forward in his seat. “You seriously think you rizzed up Scarlett Johansson so good she just had to fuck you? Ha. Just ha. That’s comedy.”

“She fucked you as a charity case, dude,” Kyle said. “That’s all. She felt bad for you,, and wanted to help you get into the frat. Don’t make it more than it is.”

“You’re wrong.” Nate snarled. “It’s not like that at all. She…she loves me. When we were in bed together…we had a connection.”

“So where’s she now?” Chad Grandstaff asked sharply. “Why did she leave?”

“She has work, dumbfuck!” Nate said, face purpling with rage. “She was staying at the frat to research a movie, remember?”

“And now her ‘research’ is over,” Scott said. “She got what she needed, and she’s not coming back.”

“Bullshit.”

“Trust me, I hate it as much as you do—almost—but we’ve seen the last of Scarlett Johansson.”

Nate spluttered but had no answer.

“It’s a waste of time talking to you guys. You don’t understand. She loves me. SHE LOVES ME!”

“She told you all this?” Brad asked. “That she’s in love and she’s coming back?”

“Well, uh, not exactly…”

Brad nodded. I rest my case. “You were a fling at best. She’s moved on. Do the same.”

Kyle’s voice dripped contempt. “Seriously, how high are you that you think you’re in Scarlett Johansson’s league? Look at yourself. You’re an eighteen year old college sophomore. Can you imagine the media scandal if she was seen dating you? Assuming she even wanted to?”

Nate swept his head across the circle, mouth opening and closing, trying to find words to put to feelings. How could he explain? How could he communicate what he’d seen in her eyes, and felt in his heart? How to make them understand the strength of it, the realness of it. His head was still full of the looks she’d given him. Each of them glowed in the back of his mind like some preciously guarded jewel. There had been something there. Something out of reach, something not yet his, something he might have to fight and bleed for, but something.

“Why bother explaining,” Nate said. “What would you idiots know about love? About anything?”

Scott, sensing that there would be a fistfight soon, took Nate by the shoulder, and escorted him outside.

“Take ten deep breaths, Nate.” He said, once they were bathed in the ambience of tiki torches and buzzing cicadas.

Nate breathed. He drew in air, held it, and let it out. His anger did not disappear with the breath, but seemed to tunnel further inside him. Deeper.

Scott clapped a hand on Nate’s shoulder.

“I’ll give you some advice. Relax. Stop reacting to everything. Just be a chill guy who lets stuff slide off you. That’s how you make friends.”

“Who says I want friends?” Nate snarled, throwing his hand away. “Especially those friends. Buch of losers.”

And then the friendliness fell from Scott’s face.

“I will say this once more: calm down. I know you got hazed, and maybe you’re sore about that. But that’s the process. It happened to me. It happened to your dad, assuming he was ever in the frat at all.”

“What do you mean ‘assuming’?” Nate said. “My dad was the biggest big man on campus. ΜΣΦ ’88-92. He mentions it every chance he gets.”

Scott shrugged. “My dad was an alum from around that time, and he says he doesn’t remember a Steven Copelander in the frat.”

“So you’re calling my dad a liar?” Shadows turned Nate’s scowl to something diabolical.

“I’m not calling anyone anything. But you need to think about how you react. Half the reason people razz you is that you always respond in a funny way. That Scarlett-loves-me shit just earned you a good two weeks of ribbing. Just forget about her and live in the present.”

The request seemed absurd. Impossible.

Just forget that Scarlett Johansson had sex with you. Just stop breathing. Just slit your own throat. Just fuck off, Scott Mikkelson.

And the last frayed mooring cable connecting him to the fraternity snapped. He stepped away from Scott, toward the dark throat of the night.

“I hate you,” Nate snarled. “I hate all of you. None of you are worth shit. Wondering why she left? Maybe it’s because she’s a better, sweeter, kinder person than everyone in this frat combined.”

“That’s enough.” Scott said firmly.

“You’re right. It is.”

Nate stepped back, until just his eyes were visible in twilight. Two icy points, catching light. Then he turned, and trudged away.

The hot darkness took him in its teeth, and then even the sound of his footsteps disappeared.

* * *

Nate Copelander did not attend the next frat meeting, nor the one after.

When the actives texted him—yo, where are you, cheesedick? married scarlett yet?— he did not reply. He stopped going to classes. His dorm room was let out to a Comp-Sci transfer from Tsinghua University.

Where’s Nate?, everyone asked. He seemed to have vanished off the earth.

If he’d been popular, people would have been concerned. There would have been wellness checks. Someone would have told his father. But because he was not popular but rather the weird kid that Scarlett had bonked into the frat, none of this happened.

When people spoke about his disappearance, it was in tones of relief. Thank God he’s gone. Hopefully he’s okay. But still…that kid was like a bad smell at every party he went to.

“He scared the hoes.” Brad said sagely at their next rager, and nobody disagreed. Nate had been certifiably alarming to the hoes.

None of them hated Nate. But that did not mean they missed him.

* * *



Chapter 7: Night of the Hunter

Interstate. Driving ten above the speed limit. A purpose inchoate and desperate hurling him forward like a human dumbfire missile.

The arrow doesn’t question where it’s going. Loosed from the archer’s bow, it just flies.

Nate Copelander drove and drove, chasing the infinite horizon, staring with narrowed eyes at the blurriest, dustiest part of it.

The highway sizzled with sunlight, stinging his sleepless red eyes. The cracked blacktop surface leaped and jittered, heat convection coruscating it into an undulant snake shedding its skin under the sun’s terminal blank glare.

Every few minutes, his phone blipped at his side. He did not respond to them.

Many were messages from his dad.

> so, the newest copelander alum! i got a question for you… > did you take the p22 from my gun vault? went to re-register it the other day, and it’s gone. > if you took it, i get it. some pledging thing. ha. did they do william tell on you? but you gotta return it now.

Nate took a hand off the wheel, and dragged the messages to a folder called FUCK OFF.

The hand reached over even further, stroking dad’s Walther P22 on the passenger seat. When he went over potholes, it bounced, leaping like a salmon that flashed in the sun. Dangerous. If a cop drove past and spotted the coppery glint, he would be pulled over and then experience huge problems. But he couldn’t not have it there. It was talismanic.

Other messages were from the frat he’d abandoned.

> where are you at, softcock. you’ve missed THREE MEETINGS now. > dont you check your phone, jerkwad > what’s the point of joining the frat when you don’t want to participate in greek life at all?

These joined his father in the FUCK OFF folder.

Pressure.

Caught between a rock and an Ed Hardy place.

He giggled, feeling his dry lips crack. I don’t want any of this. Strange how small and how shit this mountain looked now he’d climbed it. Now that he’d seen something he actually wanted.

He closed his eyes against the thundering sun refracting in painful splinters through the windshield. His mind circled restlessly on her face. Her image.

Scarlett…you’re mine…

Scarlett had fucked him—an act that had simultaneously gotten him into the frat and destroyed any last desire to be in the frat. The funniest joke he couldn’t laugh at. To hell with Mu Sigma Phi and following in his father’s footsteps. He simply wanted her. Her and nothing else.

She was all he thought about now, night and day. Scarlett pirouetted in his head, Scarlett sang in his blood. She seemed the pigment that colored the world. As the rising sun bled a pastel-wash of light over the chipped bitumen, he imagined it was long blonde hair, coming unribboned as she pulled out a hairpin like a sacrificial knife. As the sky drained to sangria, he saw her eyes. He was just a dust particle before her floating gaze. The hills became her breasts and hips and buttocks. The car made a volptuary hajj across them. This little road trip was like erotic exploration.

The only things that weren’t her were his, and these were all bad things. His dry mouth, his pounding head, his want and need and inadequacy. His ragged and horrified nerves, which seemed to scream from each attachment point strung on his pre-death carcass.

He was running away. Running toward. Didn’t matter. He was running.

And Scarlet was the center, the everything. The delta to which all rivers bleed.

The only other place to go was away from her, into the dark. Or deeper into himself. But that was the same place.

* * *

Hours later, his truck GPS led him to the front of an apartment, not far from Hollywood. Fired brick walls, glittering with flecks of mica. Sunlight made the windows glow..

He knocked on the door.

Then he waited, his heart pounding staccato under his skin.

He heard footsteps inside the building, coming to the door. Feminine footsteps. Something nervous and fragile seemed to beat behind his heart.

Just as the door swung open, he closed his eyes.

“Scarlett…I love you…” His pre-written speech sounded ludicrous, but he stumbled through it anyway. “The time I spent with you…I’m still there. Inside it. Like it never ended. I want to be with you….forever.”

“…do I know y’all?” a female voice said.

West Texan accent. Fuck.

His eyes fell open in horror. His jaw followed.

The woman couldn’t have been much older than twenty. She had aquamarine blue hair, a heart-shaped face, hard fake tits and a shirt was scissored back to expose a tattoo’d midriff. She had the bearing of a stripper, of a model, of a high-priced call girl. A women for whom everything was on sale, though you might not like the price.

“I came here for Scarlett.” He said.

“Good for y’all.” Blue gum snapped in her mouth, nearly the same shade as her hair.

“…Is she here?”

The most awful silence of his life stretched out. But the girl did not say no.

Your name, spazz. Tell her your name!

“Um, I’m Nate Copelander, by the way. From Mu Sigma Phi. She…um…she told me to come visit her.” Scarlett had said no such thing. But he strongly felt that it was not a lie. Some things were so fundamentally true that they did not even need to be spoken.

The girl chewed gum, eyes flickering, gears turning in her head. She seemed to be weighing options with this gangly stranger. Slam the door. Call the cops. Finally, she reached a decision.

“Kid, I hope I don’t regret this.” She flipped her pretty head in the direction of a stairway, and yelled.

“Um, Scar….! There’s this boy here to see you!”

* * *

More footsteps.

“Hey! Um…Nate! Wow, this is a surprise! What brings you here?”

Then they stood in front of each other.

It was not the reunion Nate had expected.

Scarlett Johansson did not kiss him, or hug him, or drag him into her arms. Her bearing was detached. Distant. She seemed puzzled that he was here—deeply puzzled.

She’d changed. Almost like she was an animal that had shed its winter coat. She was fresh out of the shower, her hair a wet glossy sheet that darkened at the tips. Her makeup was fast, efficient. She seemed almost like a different person to the commanding turboslutty frat mom persona she’d evinced at the mansion.

“I missed you,” Nate whispered.

Scarlett laughed uneasily, and shot a glance at the blue-haired girl that Nate, to the extent he could decipher it, did not like. “How did you find me?”

He shuffled, trading one foot for the other. “The chapter mailed out your clothes and stuff. I got the post office to give me your address.”

Speaking it out loud made it seem like a far bigger violation of her privacy than it had seemed at the time, and the blue-haired west Texan chick laid a hand protectively across Scarlett’s shoulder. “Scar, is everything okay with this kid?” the blue-haired girl asked. She stared suspiciously at Nate. Want me to call the cops? hung in shadow over the words..

“Everything’s fine, Lex.” Scarlett brushed the girl away, and then turned back to Nate. “That’s Alexis, by the way. My girlfriend.”

“Oh.” *Girlfriend.“*”So…you live here togeher?"

“No, this is a temporary situation,” she said. “Principal photography starts tomorrow. And then I’ll be on set.”

“And then where can I find you?” He quivered with excitement. His whole life seemed to hang on the answer.

Scarlett shrugged. Either a don’t know shrug or a not telling or I don’t want you to find me shrug. He hoped for the first, but heart was sinking. Sinking fast. Oh hell, something’s wrong, this isn’t how it’s meant to go.

“Come inside.” Scarlett said.

He stepped throught the door. He’d gotten in, but Scarlett’s eyes and voice were no warmer than before.

* * *

She swung open the fridge. He watched her ass swing out explosively, and began to get hard.

“How are things at the frat?” Scarlett asked. She pulled the ring cap on a coke, and thrust it into his palm.

Soft drink fizzing over his hand, Nate tried to stammer out an answer. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t form one. Her phone rang, cutting off his words.

Scarlett took a call, and walked from the room with a phone in her ear and a finger twirling her hair in a ringlet. Going mmm and yeah and cool, while he just stood there. She hung up, sighed, and returned. “That was Jules. My boyfriend.”

Things went smash in his mind. She has a boyfriend too. That was worse than Alexis.

“Nate,” Scarlett said, sounding confused. “Seriously, I’ll ask you again: why are you here? You got what you wanted. Frat membership.”

“I don’t want the frat.”

“So what do you want?”

Isn’t obvious? How can’t she know? How can I tell her?

“You.” He couldn’t tell if he was whispering or shouting. It didn’t matter. She heard…and her face didn’t change.

The fundamental differences between him and her crashed down on Nate then. She lived a life overflowing with love; his was lonely and empty. She was a vase erupting with peonies and racemes. He was a rattling tin cup, echoing as it blew down the highway.

His lip trembled. He tried not to cry. Fought so hard to hold tears back. Continued fighting even after he’d lost, even after tears were streaming in tracks down his face, like an army digging foxholes deeper even after the general has flown a white flag.

She took the crying teenager to her bedroom, cooing and murmuring.

* * *

“Nate, do you want to know what your problem is?”

Scarlett sat on her bed, crosslegged and opposed to him. She was barefoot, and painting her toenails like a sixteen year old girl. He watched stripes of red glaze her toes as they spoke.

“You want things that aren’t real.” She dipped the brush in the pot, and laid a stripe of red over a toenail.

“I don’t get it. What’s not real?”

“You’ve never desired anything that actually exists. You wanted your dad’s approval. But now that you have it, you see it means nothing—in a few months he’ll treat you the way he did before, because your dad’s a prick who can’t live without someone to step on every morning. You wanted to be a cool frat guy. And now you’re there, you see that you’re chasing a cliche from a movie, and you hate the reality. What would make you happy, Nate? Everything you set your heart turns to ash as soon as you get to it.”

Thoughts splayed and dissected analytically. It was as though she was cutting a surgeon’s scalpel through his mind.

Yet he did not understand.

“But Scarlett, I want you. Aren’t you real?”

She held his eyes with hers. Something bright and piercing seemed to cleave through him, drawing a shocked rush of blood. He saw the truth.

“No.” Said softly and simply. “I’m not.”

“What…?”

She clasped his hands in hers.

“I mean, hello? Of course I’m not real. I’m an actress. The chick you met at the frat mansion was just another role I was playing. I would never have earned the respect of those party animals if I’d been soft and sensitive. I had to pretend. Had to be fake. I became a tougher, meaner, more confident version of myself. Is that the woman you fell in love with? Sorry, Nate. She’s as fictional as the Black Widow.”

The weeping had stopped. The tears seemed to settle in his shoulders, which quivered in rubbery spasms.

“Scarlett,” he gulped. It felt like a cinderblock was blocking his throat. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe so you can understand yourself. And then change yourself. Right now, you’re setting yourself up to fail. You’re like someone who goes to the zoo and is surprised that there aren’t any unicorns, dragons, and gryphons. You have to learn to appreciate real animals, too.”

“So what should I do differently? How should I change?”

She smiled. “Learn to enjoy reality. Enjoy your day at the zoo. Life can be pretty fun even if there are no unicorns.”

Then Scarlett undressed. She pulled the sundress over her head. She wore no bra, and her big jiggly tits wobbled as fabric slid over them. Her heavy, curvy ass exploded out of her panties, with the upper crack getting forced up into her lower back. She stretched, arching her back into a recurved bow of bone and muscle, thrusting her ass forward as she lay prone on the bed. Then she pulled the panties off.

Her bare legs split apart, and his mouth became a dry arroyo floor.

His eyes followed their shaven hemispheres into the darkness of her crotch. Voices seemed to call from inside her cleft.

“For example,” Scarlett seemed very naked and yet very distant from that nakedness. “You could forget the fantasy of us being together, and enjoy the reality of the next five minutes. Undress.”

Fumbling with his belt, he heard small and soft feet on the carept at his back. As his clothes hit the floor, he sensed a woman’s breath behind him. He glanced at his feet, and saw a feminine shadow overlapping his own.

Scarlett pranced along the carpet in front of him, big fat butt wiggling and jiggling. She spun on the heel of one foot like a dancer, twisting in a flash of milky flesh and refulgent hair. The hefty slabs of meat comprising her body jiggled and sprang back like elastic.

He saw her asshole wink into existence between the shifting mass of her buttcheeks.

Seeing this flung him over a cliff to orgasm. Blind and lust-stricken and out of control, he buried himself into her yielding moist flesh. They crashed, colliding, and then he forced her onto the bed.

“I love you…” he whined, slamming into her. He felt like he was dying of thirst, and here was a woman made of water. He was trying to drink her. Consume her.

They fucked. Rough and hard and fast. Time seemed to be running quickly through his fingers at double time.

Her cunt was squirming like a living thing, convulsed greedily on his cleaving erection. Her legs split wider still, affording him deeper access, her cunt grinding up to swallow the phallic intruder. She wound her legs around his back, pulling him down. Their groins pressed together. She let out a grunt. He let out a louder one.

They humped, twisting and tearing the bedsheets loose in sprays of Egyptian cotton. He watched a vein squirm in her neck.

“I’m gonna cum,” she whispered, her face darkening as she flushed with blood. The air hummed with her rough breathing. For the next few minutes, they rutted like animals, grunting and moaning, sweat beading on their bodies. Her swinging tits flung sweat onto the sheets, and onto his bare chest.

Nate gripped her shoulders, and began to plow Scarlett’s sloppy vagina in earnest. The room was filled with the sound of their bodies coupling on the sheets.

“OOHHH FUUUUUCKKK!” the actress wailed, her cunt collapsing.

Nate gasped, feeling her pussy clenching and jerking on his penis until his own prostate blew up with pleasure. Thick sperm began to gush and spray from his prick like bolts of liquid light. He pounded his hips into her slack cunt, wrecking her depths, flooding her with sperm.

Twenty seconds later, they came back to earth, lying panting and tangled. Scarlet glowed like a fire under him.

She turned her head, and spoke to someone over his shoulder.

“Lex? Come in. I need you.”

And a Texan accent came from behind them.

“Do ya now…”

How long has she been in the room? Nate wondered, as his cock softened in her pussy. Did she just watch us bang?

“This kid needs something from you. That thing we did before, with Jules”

Alexis giggled. A sound like bright jade.

And then Nate felt hot and cold breath on his ass and balls, which were still embedded on Scarlett’s splayed crotch. He felt fingernails explore his ass, digging into his skin and tenting his sensitive flesh.

He shivered, feeling a girl sliding up behind him on the bed.

He could not see her. He lay on top of Scarlett. He perceived Alexis as heat, as ten delicious points of pain pincered onto his skin. Her breath traced the ring of his anus, causing it to convulse.

He tried to turn around to look at the girl. But then Scarlet clasped his head in her hands, and stared intently at him. Her eyes, and the intensity of the stare behind him, set spotfires flashing up in his mind.

“Don’t look back.” She murmured. “Only forward.”

He nodded. Only forward.

He filled his mind with Scarlett’s pretty face—the embodiment of forward—sweat-flushed yet still so composed and beautiful, as something very unbeautiful happened behind him.

His ass cheeks were pulled apart, as her nails dented skin in ten places, five per ass cheek, and pulled them apart like taffy. Then Scarlet forced him to hear her words, while her friend anilinged them into his brain forever.

“I will give you a lesson now.”

He moaned, as a tongue as rough as a cat seemed to cleave lines of radiant pleasure through his core. Spearing through his asshole like a moist glowing pylon. The girl ate out his ass like she was getting paid per shiver.

Scarlett began talking as he was eviscerated by the knife of this woman’s tongue.

“A monk had a beautiful, delicate tea cup. His student asked him about the cup. And to the student’s surprise he replied that the cup is already broken. ‘What do you mean?’ the student asked.”

A sticky disease of lustful pleasure began to roll out in slow surges along his prostate, charting ley lines of forbidden desire through the continent of his body.

Blood swelled into his cock as she spoke, re-erecting inside Scarlett.

"The monk said ‘To me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it. I drink from it. It holds my water admirably. When I tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put it on the shelf and the winds blows it over or I knock it off the table and it shatters on the ground then I say - of course. When I understand the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.’:

Slowly, timing his strokes around the driving plunges of Alexis’s neck, he began rocking forward into her.

“MMPH!! MMRRRRPH!! MMMMMMMMUNFFFFFF!!!”

"And in this is a life mindfully lived. This is the way to view everything in the phenomenal world—our possessions, our loved ones, and, above all, our own lives. This is the difficult art of loving nonattachment. How can we love others and engage in our lives wholeheartedly without clinging and without fear? In the end, the cup is already broken. The end is certain. So certain that you should live as though it has already happened. Here and gone, in one breath. And this is what makes life so dear: that it is not vouchsafed to anyone who experiences it.

Alexis’s tongue was sending shockwaves of pleasure through him as she huffed and licked his sphincter. Her tongue invaded his ass, plunging deep inside the dark. Nate felt his willpower disappear as he finally released the floodgates.

“GRAAAHH~!! CUMMIIIIIING~!!!” He belted out as loud as he could.

Alexis’s head seemingly drove itself all the way up his rectal chute.

He bottomed out in Scarlett. Stars whirled in a forlorn galaxy. He clenched and spasmed. Silver spurts of cum pulsed from his balls into her core, jets of semen punctuated by his raw-voiced cries. They hit the room like the fracture of a cup breaking. Then he collapsed on her breasts, sinking into a delicious buzz of dying stars.

* * *

When Nate recovered, he was back in his car. A headache pounded a hammer inside his skull.

He had vague memories of being dragged outside, into the cold, by a woman. Or perhaps it had been a man. Or a couple of men.

Was I drugged? He remembered the pill Scarlett had given him once, and wondered what other pills she might have in her handbag. Downers as well as uppers, maybe. He’d never had an experience like that before. The world seemed like blown-apart shards that his mind was struggling to gather. Oh God, it felt like that woman’s tongue was six feet inside my body!

But he’d found Scarlett. That was what mattered.

He’d found his true love, and would never let her go again.

You want things that aren’t real, she’d said.

But that was madness. Insanity. Of course he wanted something real! Nothing was more real than her!

He got out of the car, and knocked on the door.

Scarlett didn’t answer, and nor did Alexis.

There was no answer at all.

He tried to turn the handle, and found it locked.

And then he noticed an envelope, wedged into the crack of the doorframe.

It had his name on it, written in Scarlett’s squiggly handwriting.

He opened the envelope in the car. Inside was a card for the mental health division of the university he was still theoretically attending. I’m not crazy, he thought, the suggestion making his blood boil. I don’t need help. Who does she think she is?

Then he started on the letter.

To Nathan, Who Is Strong

I do not love you in the way that you want. We cannot be together. You know that is the truth….

And that was all he could read.

Pain twisted a knife through him. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t. She doesn’t. Those grinning hooting frat boys who’d made his life hell…they were right. She doesn’t love me. Oh, God, how delusional am I?

He laughed. The laugh sharpened, became brittle, then broke apart and became a scream.

In the backseat of his car, he tore the letter to pieces.

The pistol was still in the glovebox, where he’d hidden it.

He sucked the barrel. Sucked and sucked it like it was a nipple. Pull the trigger. Shoot. But he couldn’t. A wall seemed to lie between his finger and the trigger. Why can’t you do it? Maybe because it’s dad’s gun…

Eventually, he lowered the gun. Continued life was not a relief. But he simply couldn’t bear to lose it. Not yet, anyway.

He flung the shreds of Scarlett’s letter to pieces underneath the car, where he wouldn’t ever be tempted to read them.

And then he drove away. Far, far away.

He did not cry.

* * *



Chapter 8: The Cup is Already Broken

Months later, an indie arthouse film called OD/DC screened at Cannes Film Festival.

It acquired distribution, appeared on a few thousand screens, then disappeared into a genteel afterlife on streaming.

In the film, Scarlett Johansson played the longsuffering girlfriend of a dissolute fraterity chair. Superficially tough, but secretly naive and far-too-kind, she was ultimately a tragic figure: a damned young woman, consigned to smiling and cleaning and tidying other peoples’ messes, trying to redeem places and people who werent worth saving. For eternity. A coat-check girl to hell.

An intimate character drama, shot on a small budget, OD/DC was one of the small personal projects ScarJo filled her schedule with, between $300m Marvel toy commercials. Every actor at a certain level works like this. One for the Hollywood machine, then one for me. It had a strange Lynchian tone, and no clear climax. It asked questions; had no answers. It sketched the beginning of interesting pictures of humanity, and then seemingly had no interest in completing them.

OD/DC received middling reviews. Scarlett’s performance was a point of divisive critical commentary, both positive and negative.

Many critics just found it implausible that her character could not just exist but thrive in an environment of testosterone and masculinity. They didn’t believe she could bring a frat under her control using sheer force of will. They found it unbelievable.

No woman like her could survive in any frat, they said. The guys would eat her alive.

Like Nate, like the frat, like many others, they thought they knew her.

Misunderstood masterpiece or otherwise, OD/DC was too niche, weird, and outre to reach a mass audience. But it obtained at least one small one: fraternity brothers. One frat—Mu Sigma Phi—booked out theaters around the country, and bussed out the brothers to watch it. They sat in silence. It wasn’t a comedy and there were no tits in it.

In a sense, it was the anti-frat movie. Everything they disliked. Gay artsy theater kid shit.

But one part in the movie made them cheer. In the ending credits, a line flashed up on the darkness of the screen.

Ms Johansson would like to thank the Mu Sigma Phi fraternity for assisting her research

All across the country, roars from the actives nearly brought the roof down.

* * *

Spring became summer. The wheel turns. People who cling to the past don’t regain the past, they just lose the future.

But sometimes, the past pays a visit.

A McLaren 570S pulled up in front of the Mu Sigma Phi frat shack. A woman got out, and walked to the door, heels clicking.

Scott had told Nate that Scarlett would never be back.

He was wrong.

* * *

A newly-recruited pledge answered the knock on the door.

He was dumbfounded by who was standing there.

Scarlett Johansson filled the doorway, smiling. She wore a mid-length red chiffon, matching her hair, with the flared silhouette falling just below the knee. Her asymmetrical, one-shouldered neckline fell beautifully into a draped bodice. A necklace of pearl wove a bolus around her neck.

Her smile had a restrained, guarded charm: like she had the power of the sun in her gaze, and she was letting him see just a sliver of it. Her inner filter was set to max.

“Holy fuck…” he said, astonishment making a blank map of his face. “Are you…?”

Yes, he’d seen OD/DC—and heard rumors about the unusual research method its star had employed. But seeing her in the flesh…Some things simply seem impossible, even after they’ve already happened.

“Your frat’s former house mom. Yes.” Scarlett smiled, crossing her arms. Demure and businesslike, like a 1950s Avon saleslady. “I used to live here. I was just stopping by, to say hello to some old friends. Can I come in?”

Inside, a lot and a little had changed. Some boys had graduated. One or two had flunked out. It remained a place of sin and debauchery. A place for young men to misbehave.

Immediately, Scarlett was thronged by friends old and new. Smiling, her eyes flashed among them. Chad. Brad. Kyle. Scott…

But one boy wasn’t there who should have been. Scarlett’s smile faded, but her eyes kept roving, hunting…

“Where’s Nathan Copelander?”

“Nobody’s seen him in half a year,” Jay Weltzer said.

Scarlett looked concerned.

“He’s blackballed from the frat,” Jay said flatly. “Nothing personal. He wasn’t paying his membership fees or even showing up at college, as far as we could tell, so we rescinded his membership…”

“Honestly,” Brad said, “it was probably the wrong place for him. I know his dad was really lighting a fire under that kid’s ass to get in.”

Scott shrugged. “Which is ironic, because his dad wasn’t ever in.”

Scarlett’s face was incredulous. “Wasn’t he?”

“The night he ran away, we had an argument,” Scott said. “I told him that my alum dad didn’t remember his dad, and he got offended by that. Naturally, I cracked open the books. Steven Copelander never wore the ΜΣΦ letters in his life. He was enrolled, but only as a student. I pestered my dad, who vaguely remembered some kid who might have been Nate’s dad. He wasn’t bidded, though. Just another no-hoper geed.”

Scarlett chewed her lip, ruminating on this. She shifted from one foot to another. “So his dad was bullshitting the whole time? Making his son live up to a standard he couldn’t achieve?”

“Seems like it.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised. But that’s just ancient history.”

Then she walked forward, into the center of the room. Dozens of eyes tracked her..

“Let’s talk about right now…I pushed the studio to credit you guys in the movie, but I’d like to offer a more tangible reward.”

Scarlett had lied. She hadn’t come to say hello to old friends.

She began undressing before them. The chiffon slid from her shoulder, whispering its way down her body then piling on the floor. Her skin had a blinding pearlescent lustre. Mouths dried up and cocks hardened before her.

“I was your frat mom,” she said, unhooking her bra. “And in that capacity, there were certain professional lines that I could not cross.”

Some boys shared eye contact. She definitely stepped tight to the edge of some of them. They remembered the secret blowjobs and handjobs and titfucks.

She turned her head left, then right. Her gaze whipped across them like a slicing blade.

“But now, I’m just Scarlett Johansson. I’ve finished making the movie. All of those boundaries mean jack shit.”

She held out her arms, giving them a view of her breasts, her navel, her shaven cunt. She flared out a hip.

“You boys were an important part of getting the tone and feel right. You won’t be credited. You won’t get a SAG card. But you deserve to be rewarded.”

She turned back and looked at him as she wiggled her big ass, her butthole and slit beckoning to them. She shimmied her shoulders and her big boobs shook from side to side. They looked like swinging pendulums. Already, some boys were stripping.

“Remember what you wanted to do to me? The thing that I stopped you from doing? Now’s your chance. Have at it, boys.”

* * *

Anarchy reigned.

They threw her on the couch, and took turns with her hungry, slurping pussy. One boy finished, and another boy took his place.

Scarlett’s gigantic milkers flattened against his chest, crushed out in two huge luscious orbs of fuck-flesh.

Scott came last. In multiple senses. With a rage-guttering snarl, he thrust into her gripping twat and exploded. He ejaculated huge fertile jets of cum into Scarlett, causing her pussy to overflow with his load.

“Holy shit!” one of the boys said, as they surrounded her. They groped her. Her breasts wobbled like bowls of jell-o. She raised her arms above her head, and pulled her body through a delightful sequence of cheesecake poses.

“I’m your sex doll for the day,” Scarlett smiled as they grasped handfuls of her body. “You’re going to fuck over and over until none of you can walk”

In their haste to fuck Scarlett, the boys fought each other, knocking each other out of the way. Scarlett ended up catching a stray shot and landing on her back, her legs splayed apart, exposing her hairless cunt to the air. The sight of it was like catnip to the horny boys. They went for her like starving wolves, fighting to be the first inside her snatch. Several latecomers stood at the outskirts and masturbated.

The first one mounted her, plunging his dick inside her. He orgasmed instantly, on his second or third stroke. There was a high-pitched SPLURT-SPLURT-SPLURT sound as he dumped his balls into Scarlett.

He found himself pushed out of the way by another boy, who rammed his dick into her cum-filled snatch. He lasted only slightly longer the first. His testicles clenched and he blasted a huge stream into her cunt, followed by eight or nine more.

A third boy slammed his cock into her and began humping. Her crotch was a mass of frothy sperm by the time he climaxed. He was thrown out of the way by a fourth.

Scarlett’s grunts and moans were stifled by the moist shaft being rammed down her throat by another boy. A pair of large, heavy testicles bounced and jumped as the college kid pounded her throat. He brutally humped her face until he orgasmed. Spurts of cum filled her mouth, flooding down her chin. This was followed by two or three boys ejaculating in turn, jerking off and spraying a criss-cross of cum ropes over her body.

Scarlett gagged on the viscous release of cum pouring into her stomach. It almost clogged her throat. The boy gasped for air and continued to wring out shot after shot onto Scarlett’s face. His toes curled in pleasure, and his knees buckled. As the last of his spunk flowed out over Scarlett’s face and boobs, he fell back against her desk and stood gasping for air, along with a half-dozen other kids.

Anarchic gang-sex consumed the house like a disease. Boy after boy after boy after boy blew his nuts into Scarlett Johansson, using and abusing and misusing her. Two semesters of restrained lust, released in one brutal climactic afternoon.

* * *

Scarlett was not the only one who had put the date of the frat’s party in her calendar

Someone else had, too.

Late afternoon saw a beat-to-shit truck climb into view atop the hilltop, overlooking the frat mansion. The sides were dented. Its slowly revolving wheels were caked with dirt. A crack twisted through the windshield like a scar.

Behind the scar, Nate Copelander’s haunted face was broken in two like a plate. Like a cup.

Cheeks unshaven; eyes sleepless; he stared down at the frat mansion. Stared and stared.

His eyes smoldered with hate.

He braked. The truck jolted to a stop. The gleaming arsenal of weaponry in the truck went clank.

A Bushmaster XM-15 semi-auto racked in a socket mount. A Savage 67H pump-action shotgun side-clipped to the interior surface via an aircraft-grade crossmount. Four hundred rounds of centerfire .223 ammunition—the last six hours of his journey had been spent listening to their dry metallic rattle-rattle; an army of undervoiced choristers longing for war. His dad’s Walther P22 pistol was on the passenger seat—his touches and caresses had grown increasingly frequent, increasingly fervent, as he’d gotten closer to mansion, and to his destiny.

The day had arrived.

He was going to kill everyone in the frat.

He’d spent months off the grid. Hiding. Planning. Biding his time. Laying plans. Setting irons in fires and tending them. He’d found in himself a desperate genius for pulling off plans with short notice and limited resources. A shame to discover this talent so late. In earlier, saner times, he could have been a soldier. A good one.

Not now.

Not unless they needed another Lt. William L. Calley.

He stared ahead, above the curves of the wheel. His knuckles quivered on those curves like spiders. His face was gaunt. He’d lost a lot of weight. The eyes inside the slack hollows of his face were alert, attentive, but far from well.

His revenge would be glorious.

* * *

He’d line the truck up with the mansion. That came first. The angle. Getting it right. Then he’d step out of the cabin, ratchet the stick to the letter D in the gearbox, and drop a brick on the gas pedal.

The shockwave of the truck hitting the building would trigger a piezoelectric pressure sensor, detonating the kilo of Semtex 1A in the trunk.

The frat house would go up like a Roman candle. As survivors streamed through the blazing doors and windows, he’d be on the hill with the AR-15, picking them off. Shooting the boys who’d made his life hell. He hoped the screams would carry up the hill.

Then a clock would start ticking. He didn’t know how long the police would need to catch him. He suspected not long.

He might have enough time to drive to his dad’s house before the net drew tight. Hey pops, remember me? Remember the gun? I brought it back. Or maybe it would be crueler to leave Steven Copelander alive. He’d figure out the details later.

Either way, he would save the last bullet for himself.

There was only one thing to live for now, and in an hour, there would be nothing at all.

* * *

Lights strobed from the party mansion, washing over the cracked windshield. Bassy music pulsed through the ground.

Once or twice, he thought he heard Scarlett Johansson’s husky-edged voice weaving through the chaos—screams and moans—but he couldn’t be sure. He heard her voice everywhere now. In his sleep, in his moments of idle reverie, as he attended to some wrinkle in his war plan.

Nate didn’t care if Scarlett was here. Bad luck if she was. She’d die like all the rest

Bitch.

Hatred for the world burned under Nate’s skin. Hatred for everyone. He was going to fucking slaughter them like hogs. Alright, soldier. Time to do it. Execute. Pardon the pun.

He got out of the truck, stepped back around, and lifted the brick from its place off the flooring.

Beneath it was a fragment of paper.

It was part of Scarlett’s note, in much the same place he’d thrown it months ago.

* * *

Maybe he was just trying to delay the end.

But with party music pounding, he reassembled Scarlett’s note like a treasure map and read it. This time, in full.

To Nathan, Who Is Strong

I do not love you in the way that you want. We cannot be together. You know that is the truth.

Certain things are not possible between us, and were never possible. I want you to treasure what happened, and let it change you for the better. You will have that forever. That is what’s possible.

I know you’re suffering. In acting school, I had to work hard. I suffered too. I broke arches in my feet from dance training. I rehearsed until my voice was gone. I had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t.

My teacher gave me some advice that helped: remember that the day always ends. No matter how tough it gets, a shitty day or a shitty week or a shitty month will eventually be gone from your life. The idea got me through difficult moments. Nothing lasts forever. You’re in the infinite depths of hell…and then suddenly you walk out of the other sde.

But only if you’re willing to let the past go, and not carry it with you. If you don’t, you stay in hell forever.

I know you feel hatred, Nathan. Resentment. Jealousy. It’s in your eyes. Pain. But you feel pain because you’re deep. You think there’s not much to you, but I believe—I know—you’re deep and wide. Things that make ripples in some hearts will create tsunamis in yours. This is a mark of your strength.

Your father will not be around forever. I will not be around forever. The boys of Mu Sigma Phi will not be around forever. The question is…what will you be when they’re gone?

Who are you, Nathan? Are you the ghosts of all the wounds you’ve ever suffered? Or are you someone in your own right?

Don’t live a life of resentment. That’s stopping the bad day from ending. Don’t. Let it go. Take yourself to bed, and have a sleep, and wake up. Then let the dawn wash over you. Let something new and wonderful come to replace the old.

I told you that you don’t know me. Here’s what I didn’t tell you: I don’t know myself either.

Scarlett Johansson doesn’t exist because I’m still writing her. It’s a day to day process. Another lesson from acting school: I can become anyone. And so can you, Nate.

You don’t know who you are. Not yet. You want to fill the hollow space inside with the approval of peers and the adulation of parental figures. But these are not substances. They’re smoke. They will flow into you and then flow out. You need to have some ideal or dream or thing of substance to fall back on when they’re gone. Visualize the person you could be. But it has to be someone who makes you happy, not a mould etched by another—And then be it. You can be someone large of your own design, or be someone small of another person’s.

I love you. But I love many things. I love them and I let them go—rather than cling to them, until they wither and die. That is the way of it. The cup is already broken.

I wish you the best, and I hope you remember me fondly, as I do you.

* * *

Rage burned and burned. But increasingly, it burned on nothing. A fire with no fuel beneath it, subsisting on air.

It could not sustain itself. Not when the thing underneath it—his own heart—seemed so conspiciously not there.

She’s right.

There was no firewood in him to support it. He shuddered, sighed, and started crying.

Anger. So much anger. The desire for revenge scoured lines of lightning over his heart. But anger over what? Revenge for what? Nothing. Small slights, in the grand scheme of things. And doing what he’d planned wouldn’t break any chains. It would wrap more over him.

If I kill them, I’m still in their power. They’ll have won and I’ll have lost.

It was the final and worst act of pledging—but now, he was pledging himself. Continuing their role in his life. He stared around at the car, saw the weapons, saw the ammunition, saw everything he’d planned to do laid out before him. Saw the past wrapping around him like chains.

Oh God, what have I become.

Not me. Not me. Not me.

This isn’t me! I won’t let it be!

He let out a breath, bit the inside of his lip, and used pain as an access point for truth.

He let truth wash over him. Let it pierce him. Let it remake him and reforge him. I can’t be with her. And I never wanted her, except as a way to fill the hole inside. Like any celebrity, she was shaped like my hunger. Time to fill it with other things.

I will never see her again. But she’s in me still…so long as I live.

He hunted until he found the card for the university’s mental health services. Then he dialed the number.

“H…hello? My name’s Nathan Copelander. I…I…almost did a terrible thing. I need help.”

THE END