Four writers for the price of one blog
“What’d he say?” Jamille asks.
“So he calls us all into the chapel. He just says: I’ve heard enough complaints. Then he launches into this lecture about women and a woman’s proper attire.” She makes air quotes around the word ‘proper’. “That our families sent us to a Christian school because they believed in a Christian education. That a respect for God is a respect for tradition. Then he tells us about the bible, about how tradition is handed down, spoken and written down; and that our dress code symbolizes our respect for tradition.”
“If anybody gave a speech like that at CT—” Jamille’s question trails off as he imagines the consequences. He’s walking behind Kaylee. Kaylee’s taking the shortcut that passes through abandoned lots, overgrown and thick with sumac, locust trees and wild rose. “Fuck that. So he brings in the whole graduating class, like, two weeks before you’re graduating? Like anybody’s gonna’ give a shit what he thinks.”
“Right, so, he’s telling us that we’re going to go out in the world and hey, we can dress like a hoe—”
“Hoe? He said hoe?”
“No, Jamille, it was in the way he was talking.”
“But what was he sayin’?”
“I don’t know. He was talking about the way, you know, women dress in the hood.”
“What the fuck does some vicar at a Catholic School know about the way girls be dressin’ in the hood?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. He just started goin’ on about teens and babies and the way they dress and shit—like every every girl, if she doesn’t dress right, is askin’ for it. Like what you wear—like a uniform—makes anybody a good Catholic.”
“That be the dope.”
“Dope. How does Mr. Tradition get off lecturing you about what you wear? I’ll tell you the fuck what. You know all those so-called ‘hoes’ he be talkin’ about?—the ones got gold rings in their belly buttons, showin’ their shit off and wearin’ some fuckin’ tight-ass top until their tits are gonna’ pop like two little cherries?—I’ll tell you fuckin’ what, that shit ain’t got nothin’ on what they make you wear.” Jamille squeezes his cock as he follows her. “I gotta’ a fuckin’ hard-on just followin’ you.”
“Enjoy it,” she says without turning. “’Cause I fuckin’ hate this uniform.”
“Nah, don’t you even say that. Plaid skirt? And what about that white-as-a virgin top they got you wearin’?” They step over low brick garden wall, then duck under a chain link fence overgrown with wild grape.
“I’m never wearin’em again.”
“I got two weeks of school and I’m fuckin’ done with them.”
“Nah, see, think about it. That vicar be goin’ on about tradition. What do you think he’s really talkin’ about? He wants you all to look like virgins. He’s probably up there imaginin’ what it’d be like to fuck you one by one. He’s imaginin’ calling you into his office. He’s gonna’ tell you—hatin’ on your uniform?—that ain’t respectful. That ain’t proper. Then he’s gonna’ tell you to step up to his desk. He’s gonna’ tell you to bend over the desk. He’s gonna’ tell you to open your legs and reach for the other side. Then he’s gonna’ spank your ass with a paddle ‘cause of your disrespect. He’s gonna’ spank you until you’re cryin’ and beggin’ him to stop. Hell. You’ll do and say anything. Your lifting one foot up and then the other—those pretty little shoes. Pretty soon you’re sayin’ how sorry you are; how you didn’t mean none of it, how you’ll be a good girl, how you’ll be respectful. Then that’s when he steps behind you, he lifts your skirt, and he slides his cock inside you like he was the holy spirit. And you what? God-damn but that feels a lot better than havin’ your ass whooped. Pretty soon he’s got you comin’ on his cock—beggin’ for forgiveness. And when he’s done with you, when he’s left some holy spirit in your pussy, he asks you if you understand what respectin’ tradition means? Oh, yes, Sir. Yes, Sir! He might be tellin’ you that dressin’ like some innocent school-girl is respectful, but what he means is respectful of your place. Know what I mean? A girl’s gotta’ respect her place. That’s what he means by traditional. Now you ask me what’s sexier. Those girls with ass and tits poppin’ out? Or some innocent piece of candy wearin’ a plaid skirt?”
“Gotta’ thing for plaid skirts?”
“Ask me how easy it is to fuck a girl when she’s wearing pants as compared to a skirt?”
“How easy?” she bites her lip.
“Fuck” he says again. Then he’s got a hand in her hair. He’s pressed himself against her, behind her. He’s got two fingers of his other hand moving in and out of her mouth. Her eyes are wide, one knee draws up against the other. “God damn, girl.”
She starts to speak but he moves his fingers over her tongue and to the back of her throat. She coughs and gags. Her fingers fly panicked over his.
“Suck on it,” he says, fast, “Suck on it.”
She does. She tries to, her mouth full of his fingers. She twists under him as if she can’t breathe. When he removes his fingers she inhales. He unbuttons her top. Then pulls her shirt to one side. Her tit pops out and he squeezes it. She inhales. The fingers of his other hand fill her mouth again, pumping as he twists and tugs at her nipple. Her eyes roll and her knees rub as if she had to pee. Both her hands grip his wrist.
“Fuckin’ bend over,” he snarls. He pushes her between the shoulder blades. “Grab your ankles.”
“Jamille!” she cries.
He lifts her skirt, and pushes aside her underwear. Pushing his cock down, aiming, holding her still, opening her and sliding is easy. She cries again, breathes in and out quickly, then stands stock still when the full length touches her uterus. She looks straight head. She tightly grips her ankles.
“You feelin’ traditional?”
“You feelin’ respectful?”
“Yes, Sir! Oh fuck, yes, Sir!”
He fucks her. He won’t let her straighten. He tells her to spread her legs wider. She better not dare let go of her ankles. He tells her to arch her back like she wants a man’s cock from behind. “Don’t stop!” she cries. When she comes, her spasms knot around the thickness of his cock, the length, and the sudden warmth flowing inside her.
“You didn’t!” she suddenly blurts.
He straightens her. He draws her backwards against him. His cock slips out and he slides her white underwear back over her cunt. He tugs down her skirt as if nothing at all had happened. She pushes herself away and turns.
“Did you come in me?”
“God damn! You told me not to stop!”
“Fuck!” But she’s already jumped into a quick kiss that turns into a longer one, an embrace, a pressing of her groin against his. Then she pushes him away. “Fuckin’ idiot!” After that, they hurry home, each to their parents. The upstairs bathroom is locked. She hurries to the downstairs bathroom and tries to piss out the semen in her uterus. She wipes herself off with a soaked washcloth. Her heart races.
That night, before she falls asleep, she prays for the first time since she was ten years old. She makes promises to God if only she doesn’t get pregnant. She puts on the cross necklace she hasn’t worn since she was twelve. She holds the Bible against stomach and falls asleep like that.
The next day she and Jamille hardly look at each other.
The day after that, in the same overgrown lot, she squats in her Catholic School uniform and swallows his come.
The day after that, on Saturday, she tugs him into her bedroom. Her brother’s on the PlayStation downstairs. She puts on her uniform as he watches. When she’s done, she clasps her fingers over her skirt, elbows straight, knees pressed together, leaning against the closet door jamb and glancing at him like she was too innocent to know better. Five minutes later, muffling her cry in his shoulder, she comes on his fingers. Two minutes after that his semen drips down her chin and spots her plaid skirt.
That night she washes and lovingly hangs her skirt from the closet door.
The next morning, Sunday morning, she makes Jamille go to Church where they both pray, where they both make promises to God and where they both go to confession. They are both contrite. Sunday is their day of rest.
The day after that she has her period.
William Crimson | June 24 2017