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Reminder: This story, as well as all characters in it, are real. However, all names including my own have been changed for privacy. Also, ALL characters within this story are now above 18 years old and have been for a few years.
Another school day over, another practice about to start. Me and Brent are heading back to our trucks along with Devin, one of the O-liners on the football team and another member of my group of friends for more than eight years: he’d had to stay after class yesterday to get a bit of math tutoring. Another cold day, although the weather report stated that it would get unseasonably warm for winter-time Georgia starting Thursday and continuing until sometime next week. Awesome.
“So, did Coach say why practice was cancelled for Friday?” Devin drawls. I shrug and reply, “He never says anything about why over text messages. He’ll probably tell us today at the start or end of practice.” It’s highly unusual for practice to get called off, even if a bad storm comes in; the soccer coach will just move us into the gym unless a tornado was confirmed to be inbound. This would probably be the only time this season that we get an unexpected day off.
“At least you get to the party Friday. I forgot it yesterday, but me and the family are going to visit family out on the coast for a birthday party, so I can’t go,” Brent says.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding along. “I’m taking Heather over to it.”
“Oh really?” Brent asks, surprised, while Devin says, “My boy!” and thumps me on the back. Knew they’d react like that.
Brent continues after we put our stuff up in our trucks. “So that’s what yesterday was about. She seemed awfully secretive for something as. . . innocent. . . as going to that particular party.” He and Devin exchange looks.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to tell them about what really happened between me and Heather. Most guys would’ve been bragging up and down the school halls about tearing into a conquest such as her. I’m not like most guys, though, so I decided to keep my mouth shut. Earlier, before and after weight lifting, I had kept myself facing them and the rest of the guys in the locker room while dressing out and in. That way, no one saw the deep scratch marks that clawed up from right above my ass to about halfway up my back, courtesy of Heather.
Another reason for my silence on it was I still hadn’t quite figured out why she offered herself in the first place. I knew Heather for several years now. Yes, she can be impulsive as hell, and I now knew just how much she enjoyed sex; if the school rumor mill is telling the truth, I’m most likely number eight or nine on her body count. Even though instinct told me it was possible given her impulsivity, I doubted very much that she went for it just as an off-the-top of her head way to help me deal with being rejected by her cheer teammate Madison. She had made a remark about moving me into the “fuckbuddy zone.” Then there’s the fact that she had broken up with one of the baseball players, Brock, right before school started back after the New Year, so I might just be the rebound fuck for the next few weeks before choosing her next boyfriend.
I lie to the guys, “Well, she didn’t mention anything about either one of us bringing condoms, so I think we can rule one activity out. We’ll probably just dance until she’s completely wasted and I have to take her home. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve chauffeured her away from that farm, as you full and well know, Brent.”
“Aw, poor Scott,” Devin says, a slight smirk crossing his face. He looks back to the high school, and me and Brent do the same. Here comes Heather and Kat again, both in their blue hoodies that just happen to match Heather’s eyes. Already I feel myself getting a little aroused at the sight of her, and remembering how toned her naked body is. I try to think of something else.
Once they reach us, it’s hugs all around as usual. Heather hugs me last and doesn’t pull away, so that I’m leaning up against my F-150 with her still in my arms. Brent and Devin notice, and share politely confused looks (even Heather, known for indiscriminate physical affection, doesn’t stay attached to me this long). Kat, who’s accepting a prolonged butt-grabbing hug from Brent, grins at me and winks. She knows, then. Of course she does.
Brent saw her wink. After looking back and forth between me and my first lover, then at Kat again, he suddenly snorts. Dammit, he caught on quick. Thankfully, with the parking lot set up the way it is, and where we just happen to park, anyone eavesdropping on the discussion that follows would have to be right there with us in order to hear; the school and the rest of the lot is on the other side of my truck from where we’re at, the tennis courts to the east of us are in a depression a good football field’s distance away and no one there could see us, and on this side of the truck the woods begin barely twenty yards from us. No need to worry about being overheard.
“I see,” he says, and nods at Heather. She beams back at him in return. “So, just how was it, you two?” Devin, who’s mental cogs had still been visibly churning up till now, raises bahis firmaları his eyebrows and grins as he also realizes what the discussion just has to be about.
“Uh,” I start, glancing over at the practice field. No one’s over there. That means no escaping.
Heather brings me back to the conversation by kissing me on the cheek, then answers Brent. “Oh my God, he’s good.” She pats me on the chest, right over my heart, and goes on: “He lasted longer than the rest of the guys I’ve been with, AND he’s on the big side.”
I smack her hard on the ass, a little irritated that she’d be so forthcoming. At the same time, though, I hold her closer to hide the half-erection I’ve got turning slowly into a full hard on. Just hearing her talk about our hump-fest is both annoying and a turn on.
Of course, this is Heather, so she just laughs at the ass smack, glances knowingly down towards my crotch, and keeps talking, dropping her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. “He also made me cum three times.”
At this, Brent and Devin say “No way!” disbelievingly, and Kat, who I’d have thought would know ALL the details already, looks shocked. Even I felt a bit surprised. As with any teenage boy, I knew about the female orgasm, and I had already figured out last night that she came at the same time that I did, but I hadn’t realized the other two for what they were.
It was hard to not feel a little smug looking at the stunned reactions the guys were having, so I decided it wasn’t so bad that they all knew, so long as they didn’t go spreading the word.
Kat shakes her head like she’s trying to ward off a fly. “THREE times?” she demanded from Heather. “I know you cum super easy” (this REALLY catches the attention of all three guys, including me) “but he made you cum THREE times?”
“Did I stutter?” Heather laughs. The other three just ogle at me like I’m famous or whatnot. I’m still trying to remember the first two orgasms I put her through.
Finally Heather changes the subject to the party on Friday. Brent tells her about the birthday bash he has to go to, and Kat looks disappointed at this bit of news. Devin, who’s even less of a party goer than I am, says that he isn’t going. No surprise there. He especially doesn’t like how crowded the one we’ll be at tends to get.
At this point I take another look and see most of the team is at the practice field, a quick glance around my truck towards the school and I notice Coach about to cross the road to get over there.
“Shit, gotta run,” I say, holding Heather even tighter for a second before I let her go. We all say our goodbyes for the time being. The other guys slouch off to their trucks, the girls head over to their cars, while I hightail it over to the field.
Practice proved to be pretty grueling, thanks to the timed round-the-field sprints and the nearly hour-long Indian run we did early on. Finally night fell and Coach told us to warm down in a big circle around him.
“You guys have probably been wondering why I cancelled practice for Friday,” he says, walking around in the circle much like a military drill instructor would. A few of the guys exchange looks behind his back while we stretch our calf muscles. “My great-grandmother has passed away, her funeral service is scheduled for practice time Friday. So for once I have to let you guys and the girls’ team off.”
Of course, we all were happy that we got a day off, but we still felt sorry for Coach. While he’s burying a loved one, some of us would be taking advantage of that to go and be party animals.
Later that night, after I got home, Heather texted me. *(I changed it from normal texting grammar to proper, the way people text is annoying to me)*.
“I asked Kat if she wanted you to pick her up for Friday, too.”
I didn’t reply for a second, thinking. Heather might have more than just one meaning behind this text. Obviously there’s the up front meaning, the one designed to be “safe” just in case it’s sensitive information that could be seen by an snoopy parent: after picking up Heather, I’d go and do the same for Kat and take both of them to the party.
Then there’s the hidden meaning that requires you to know Heather for years on end: She’s asked Kat if she wants to have sex with me as well. Now THAT gets me to thinking: I could be having a threesome this weekend. . .
“And?” I reply to her. She doesn’t respond for a few minutes, probably still negotiating with her bff.
“She said she’ll drive by herself and just lay it easy on the drinks.”
Okay, so that answers the first possible meaning with a definitive “no.” Now I’m wondering if I was getting ahead of myself thinking I could land another cheerleader in less than a week. Despite also having a surprising amount of experience, Kat’s more selective than Heather about who gets to fuck her, anyways. I couldn’t possibly meet all the criteria. Additionally, she seemed intent on going with Brent to the party, having asked him yesterday to take her and looking down when hearing he couldn’t go.
Friday at long last arrives, nothing really noteworthy happening after Tuesday. There is a slight sense of kaçak iddaa excitement in the air all day long, and everyone’s just waiting for the moon to rise so they can go crazy. It eventually does show itself- a full moon, no less- and I get ready: it’s nothing near a formal get-together, but I still put on my nicest polo shirt, a neat sky-blue one, partially because I want to look nice for Heather, partially as we’re crashing one of the more prestigious party throwing homes in the area and everyone tends to show off there. I drive the 5 miles or so of back roads from my house to the northeast, where Heather lives. In what has to be one of the few times this has ever happened in the history of man, I show up, park, and get up to the door right as Haley steps out. We both stop and check each other out.
“Hey, handsome,” she says, looking me up and down. She approves apparently; I see her bite the corner of her lip a bit before smiling at me again.
“Hey, beautiful,” I reply, which makes her smile widen. Indeed she is beautiful; she’s kept her hair straight but it’s really sleek and shiny now, and she’s applied red lip stick. As for how she’s dressed, I kinda expected she’d be wearing some dress like the ones she’ll put on sometimes for school: tight and form-fitting, but long enough so the administrators can’t bring down the dress code hammer on her. Instead, she’s in a small top- small enough that I first thought she was just wearing a bra, leaving her midriff a little exposed- with some black and white geometric design I can’t really describe on it, and white shorts, the type that when worn the belt area is up level with her belly button and it ends less than an inch under her ass, displaying those incredibly toned and smooth legs.
“So you ready?” I ask her, and she nods. I take her by the hand as we walk to my truck, and I open the door for her before driving off. The party’s in the county straight to the east of ours, and we got to go through our town to get there.
After getting in, Heather puts the cup holder part in the middle front seat up and slides over to sit right next to me. We make small talk about school, how our families are doing, and a bit about the soccer season that starts next Tuesday. She seems pleased to hear I’ll actually get to be a starter this year, having been a bench warmer the past two seasons. Just as we pass through town, she puts my arm around her and leans in closer. It’s getting harder to concentrate on the road with this dime next to me, looking so beautiful, the smell of her flowery perfume, and the knowledge that we’ll be repeating Monday night towards the end of the party. Aaaaand that lack of concentration nearly costs us.
“Dammit, Scott, watch the road,” she says out of nowhere as we near the county line. I’d nearly performed the PIT maneuver that cops use on the car ahead and to the right of us without knowing it. I barely get my arm off Heather in time to correct.
“Sorry,” I manage to get out after the driver of the car blares their horn and sticks a finger out at me.
“It’s okay. Now,” she says, bringing my arm back around her, then holding onto me a little harder. Crap, I really scared her.
Right after crossing the line, I get off the highway and onto a wide, winding dirt road bearing north and follow it for the better part of ten minutes, thick woods and the occasional bare cotton field on each side. Eventually the woods on our left break to reveal an enormous fenced off field, with a driveway carving a path straight through it to a large three-story plantation house- the “big house” as it was once called before the war- nearly a mile off in the distance, the Southern equivalent to the Gatsby mansion. Dotted here and there on the edge of the woods on each side of the house are several buildings used as offices for overseers and break rooms for the farm hands as well as garages for the equipment. A couple hundred yards northwest of the big house, down a slope, is a large pond, with a couple of streams flowing into it from the far side woods and a river that lets water escape to the northeast; there’s also a lakehouse kind of building at the pond’s edge, with a boat that’s normally docked next to the little pier that juts away from the building.
We’re here just a few minutes late (it’s supposed to start at 9) and see that we actually are late. Scores of cars and trucks are already parked in a line on each side of the long. We can see the lights on in every building, and the boat’s out in the middle of the pond. Here and there small groups of people, teenagers as young as 14 all the way up to college age adults, are either heading to the big house, or carefully picking their way through the fields on their way to one of the buildings. Music blares on loudspeakers from every building- the party thrower has it all set up to play in sync with each other, although there’s only one place where the DJ would be at.
Every last inch of this plantation is involved in the party. One can roam anywhere they want around the property and find an area to go crazy. And all the young people in the five or six surrounding counties know this, explaining why there’s easily a good three kaçak bahis or four hundred who are already here. Last time I was here, there had to be double that.
The guy who hosts these hell-raisers is a guy called Jackson: if you’ve ever seen a TV show called “Falling Skies,” he looks somewhat similar to the dude who plays as the Hal Mason character. He’s a senior this year, blond haired, barrel chested, taller than me by probably two inches. Plays quarterback for the private school in this county and was a three year starter until he had a yet another concussion on his senior night (of ALL nights for it to happen) which ended his career. Damn shame, he’d been receiving offers from all throughout the SEC and ACC, even Oregon took notice. His super-rich parents are out of town, and they don’t care that he’s throwing parties when they are gone- even with the incredible amounts of drinking, drug use, and sex that take place. He’s not how you’d think, being a rich kid; he does this stuff just for fun, not to show off, and he goes out of his way to welcome and learn about as many people who show up as he possibly can.
I can’t help but wonder how he gets this stuff set up; such a big party spread across a large portion of property like this has to require quite a lot of logistical planning.
I finally manage to find some room to park halfway down the driveway and do so. I go around and hold Heather’s door open for her. She seems to have recovered from the scare a few minutes ago: she’s smiling in anticipation as I put my arm around her and we walk to the big house. We see my teammates, Dwayne and Jason, as we walk through the front door and into the entrance hall, but they’re already busy chatting up a couple smoking hot Mexican girls who just happen to play for this county’s high school soccer team, so it’s only a quick wave to say hey before we go past them and into the kitchen to get drinks.
Ugh. This is why I’m not much of a party guy. Every fucking inch of space in this house is crowded with people. It takes a while just to get to the “punch,” then we fight our way back out of the kitchen and into the enormous living room (I swear, this one room is bigger than my own house!) where, as you’d expect, the DJ and all his equipment is at and a throng of people are dancing away. Already at least a third of them are inebriated.
Heather downs most of her drink in one go as we find a spot near the front windows that’s not so crowded; I’m making sure not to drink too much so that I can still perform for her later. We set our cups down on a nearby coffee table, and just then someone calls Heather’s name. We look around.
It’s Kat, with Jackson right behind her. Seems like he was just giving her an ass-grabbing hug of his own, just like Brent loves to. The girls hug, I shake hands with Jackson; he remembers me from the other two times I showed up back last summer, when I had to carry Heather and even Brent out of here at the end on both occasions. I turn to Kat to drink the sight of her in.
I notice she’s got her make-up on a little heavy, her cheeks are too red to be natural. But she still looks amazing, with her hair curled and wearing a form fitting hot-pink dress that ends just above the knee, and matching lip stick. This is one of those few times she’s not wearing her glasses, either, which really suits her, but then again she barely tolerates contacts, except for special events.
“Y’all just got here?” she asks, we say yes. “I showed up probably a quarter hour early.” She’s drawling just a little bit too much for it to just be her Southern belle accent.
Heather notes dryly that she can tell, as the first thing Kat likes to do at parties is to “get her drank on” before anything else.
Kat then says, “Y’all know there’s gonna be one of them honor fights later on, right?” Up until now Jackson’s been next to her leaning against the wall, a relaxed smile playing across his face, eyeing Heather’s long legs. His features shift to a slight frown and he slowly stands back up straight again as I’m shaking my head and Heather says “no.”
“Yeah. . . ” he starts, clearly no longer at ease. “One of my friends, Devin, is taking part. Something about some girl.”
So that’s why he’s not looking happy. I don’t know about the rest of the nation, or even the rest of Georgia itself, but in this area teenagers who have constant issues with each other will sometimes have these brutal bouts, usually it gets called for once the insults start to get really harsh. Think of it as a very slightly more. . . “civilized” . . . version of duels that used to take place before the Civil War, mixed with an in real life version of the “ONE V ONE ME BRO!” challenge you’ll hear on multiplayer shooter games. These things typically take weeks to set up, as the authorities know all about them and come down even harder on participants than for usual fights, and no one wants cops spoiling the spectacle. Only rules are: no weapons, and no hitting your opponent after he gets knocked out cold, which is why no one who might break the fight up is allowed to find out, otherwise it could end prematurely. It’s a bare knuckled brawl in which any part of your opponent’s body is fair game to hit. Needless to say, even the winners tend to walk (more like hobble) away with broken bones, concussions, even the possibility they might not be able to have kids down the road.
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