As the principal's favored quote goes, "unsupervised parties equals alcohol. Alcohol yields to poor, poor choices." Use protection, don't be stupid—yada yada yada, whatever more drab advice she spat amidst SLT lectures.

Warnings which fail to clot the overdosing rivers of liquor her gullet guzzled. Liquor which now snoozes the last sharp wits, slackens stiff sinews, and bombs her pupils with Eros—the consequences.

Who cares? Supplying heed to that four-eyed-bitch would've abstained this once in a blue moon opportunity: banging Hartley High's sunshine.

Coincidentally, the sole teen she and (ex-bestfriend) Amerie lacked dirt on. The leading (presumed) cause? Scarce lovelife. Lily-white amongst a throng of hørndogs. Some drop-dead gorgeous chick morally above an eve of fuck and forget.

A statement that she regrettably eats back.

"Mmph... shit—" you're strong is a breathy slip cut-off when she's jammed betwixt your bust and the stall's wall.

Fiercer than she expected and to reciprocate your newfound strength, her palm is stuffed full with generous crams of your tush's fat, swallowing every rare curse your strawberry mouth reflexively spews.

Heavenly, for sure, if her senses withhold from returning to the absolutely revolting setting. Sour wee pooling the cruddy potty, foul brewery of barf and whiskey as company. Textbook definition of privacy in teenage-infested parties.

If the holistic web of student flings was still chalked, eclipsed 'neath the staircase and undiscovered, Amerie would've teasingly strung your names: Fύcked and destined.

Can't lie—she'd begrudgingly entertain the prospect. Grumpy moon and bright sun implies a catchy ring to it, or has booze left her that daft?

"Bloody hell— you do this often, or are you just naturally gifted at snogging?" It passes easily when the connection of lips is severed. A rib meant to heat up that smirk. "Thought you had too much of a stick up your arse for even a quick peck.

Or maybe —hic— I just bring out the best in you?"