Misha & Misty I
The frat house smells of a mix of cheap cologne and a keg that's been tapped one too many times.
Misha and I are perched on the edge of a sagging couch in the corner of the living room, our plastic cups of warm, flat beer untouched between us.
Around us, the party rages—guys in letterman jackets high-fiving over beer pong wins, girls in tiny dresses giggling as they're spun into drunken dances, and the bass of some generic pop song vibrating through the floorboards.
No one's paying us any attention. Not that I expected them to. We're the kind of girls who blend into the wallpaper—me, the quiet psychology nerd with her nose buried in textbooks, and me, the sharp-tongued chess prodigy who intimidates guys just by existing.
I take a sip of my beer and immediately regret it. It tastes like someone filtered it through a gym sock. Beside me, Misha twirls a strand of her red hair around her finger, her green eyes scanning the room with the same intensity she'd use to study an opponent's move in chess.
"This is pathetic," she mutters, her voice just loud enough to cut through the noise. "We've been here for an hour, and the only thing anyone's offered us is a lukewarm beer and a side-eye."
I shrug, picking at the label on my cup.
"Maybe we're just not frat party material."
Misha snorts, her lips curling into that smirk that always means trouble.
"Or maybe we're just not trying hard enough."
She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. "You know what the problem is? We're too nice. Good girls don't get noticed. Good girls don't get anything."
I raise an eyebrow. "And what do tramps get?"
Her grin widens, sharp and dangerous.
"Attention. Fun. Stories to tell when we're old and boring."
She grabs my hand, her fingers threading through mine.
"Come on, Misty. Let's make a pact. Tonight, we're not good girls. Tonight, we're tramps."
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, half nervous, half exhilarated.
"A pact? Like, pinky promise?"
Misha's eyes gleam. "Pinky promise."
She extends her little finger, hooking it around mine.
"No regrets. No backing out. And when this is over, we get matching tattoos to commemorate our fall from grace."
I should say no. I should remind her that we're both virgins, that we have no idea what we're doing, that this is a terrible idea. But the beer—terrible as it is—has loosened something in me, and the way Misha's looking at me, like I'm the only person in the room who matters, makes my stomach flip.
"Fine," I say, sealing the deal with a squeeze of her finger.
"But if we end up in jail or with an STD, I'm blaming you."
Misha throws her head back and laughs, the sound bright and wild.
"Deal." She stands up in one fluid motion, tugging me to my feet. "Now, let's go find some trouble."
Trouble, as it turns out, comes in the form of two football players—big, broad-shouldered guys with the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing your biceps could probably bench press a small car.
Misha zeroes in on them like a predator spotting prey. One of them, a blond with a sharp jawline, is leaning against the wall, nursing a solo cup. The other, dark-haired and smirking, is in the middle of telling a story that has his friends howling with laughter.
Misha doesn't hesitate. She saunters up to them, her hips swaying just a little more than usual, and taps the blond on the shoulder.
"Hey," she purrs, her voice dripping with a confidence I didn't even know she had. "I'm Misha. This is my sister, Misty. You guys look like you know how to show a girl a good time."
The blonde's eyes flick between us, his gaze lingering a little too long on Misha's chest.
"Yeah, baby, we can show you a real good time," he says, his voice thick with the kind of arrogance that only comes from never being told no. "I'm Brad. This is Jake."
Jake, the dark-haired one, grins at me, his eyes raking over my body in a way that makes my skin prickle.
"You girls new around here?"
I open my mouth to answer, but Misha beats me to it.
"New enough," she says, stepping closer to Brad, her hand resting on his arm.
"We were thinking you could show us around. Somewhere… private."
Brad's grin turns predatory. "Private, huh? I know just the place."
He jerks his chin toward the hallway.
"Bathrooms free. Plenty of room for all of us."
My stomach clenches. The bathroom? That's where this is happening? In a grimy frat house bathroom with God knows how many layers of questionable history? But Misha's already linking her arm through Brad's, dragging me along with her.
"Lead the way, big guy," she says, her voice all sugar and venom.
Jake falls into step beside me, his hand brushing against mine.
"You nervous, sweetheart?" he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
I swallow hard. "Terrified."
He chuckles, low and dark. "Good. Means you're doing it right."
The bathroom is exactly as disgusting as I imagined. The sink is littered with empty cups and what looks like the remnants of a failed attempt at a beer bong. The mirror is fogged up, and the floor is sticky under my sneakers. A used condom in the bin.
Brad flicks the lock on the door and turns to face us, his eyes already half-lidded with drunk lust.
"Alright, ladies. What'd you have in mind?"
Misha doesn't skip a beat. She steps forward, pressing Brad against the sink, her hands sliding up his chest.
"How about you let us show you?"
Brad's laugh is a deep, rumbling sound. "Fuck yeah."
Jake moves behind me, his hands settling on my hips, pulling me back against him. I can feel the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans, pressing against my ass.
"You ever done this before, Misty?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.
I shake my head, my pulse hammering in my throat.
"Good," he growls. "I like breaking in the new ones."
Misha's already on her knees in front of Brad, her fingers working at the button of his jeans.
"You're gonna love this," she says, her voice husky. "Aren't you, Misty?"
I don't answer. I can't. My mouth is dry, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. Jake's hands slide up my stomach, cupping my breasts through my sweater.
"You're shaking," he observes, his thumbs brushing over my nipples.
"You like that, don't you? Being told what to do."
I do. God help me, I do.
Brad's jeans are undone now, his cock springing free, thick and veiny, the head waving at me.
Misha wraps her hand around the base, her tongue darting out to lick a slow stripe up the underside.
"Fuck," Brad groans, his head falling back against the mirror. "Just like that, baby."
Jake's hands are under my sweater now, his fingers pinching my nipples hard enough to make me gasp.
"On your knees, Misty," he commands, his voice rough. "Show me how bad you wanna be a slut."
I sink to the floor, my knees pressing into the cold tile. Misha glances at me, her lips curled into a wicked smile, her green eyes dark with something I've never seen in her before—pure, unadulterated lust. "Watch and learn, sis," she murmurs, before taking Brad's cock into her mouth.
I do watch. I watch the way her lips stretch around his girth; the way her throat works as she takes him deeper. I watch the way Brad's hands tangle in her hair, his hips jerking forward, chasing her mouth. And then Jake's cock is in front of me, thick and heavy, the scent of him musky and intoxicating.
"Open up," he orders, his voice a dark growl.
I do.
The first taste of him is salty and bitter, the weight of him on my tongue foreign and overwhelming. I don't know what I'm doing—I've never done this before—but my body seems to know. My lips seal around him, my tongue swirling over the sensitive underside of his cockhead. Jake groans, his fingers tangling in my hair, guiding me.
"Fuck yeah, just like that. Take more."
I gag when he hits the back of my throat, my eyes watering, but I don't stop.
A gurgle, a gag, a gurgle, a gagging gag!
Beside me, Misha is moaning around Brad's cock, the sound wet and obscene.
"You like that, don't you?" Brad pants. "You little sluts love sucking cock."
Jake's hips jerk, his cock sliding deeper into my mouth. "Yeah, Misty. Take it all. Show me how bad you want it."
I do. I take him as deep as I can, my throat convulsing around him, tears streaming down my cheeks. It's messy and raw and nothing like I imagined, but I can't stop. I don't want to stop. The way Jake's breathing hitches, the way Misha's fingers dig into Brad's thighs—it's intoxicating. I'm not just Misty anymore. I'm not the quiet girl in the corner. I'm someone else. Someone bold. Someone wanted.
Jake's grip tightens in my hair, his cock swelling against my tongue.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans. "You ready for it, baby?"
I don't answer. I can't. But I don't pull away.
Misha's hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with mine as Brad's cock twitches between her lips.
We're in this together. Two tramps. Two steppies. No regrets.
And then Jake is coming, his cum hitting the back of my throat in hot, thick spurts. I swallow around him, my body trembling, my mind blank with nothing but the taste of him, the weight of him, the sheer filth of what we're doing.
Beside me, Misha pulls back with a wet, popping slop, her lips swollen, her chin glistening. Brad's cock is still hard, still leaking, as she grins up at him. "Told you you'd love it."
Brad laughs, breathless, his fingers tracing her jaw.
"Fuck, you two are dangerous."
Jake pulls out of my mouth, his cock glistening with my saliva, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
"Yeah," he agrees, tucking himself back into his jeans. "Dangerous."
Misha stands, pulling me up with her. Her lips find mine in a kiss that's all heat and hunger, her tongue sweeping into my mouth. I can taste Brad on her, salty and bitter, and it sends a jolt of something electric through me. When she pulls back, her smile is triumphant.
"So," she says, her voice husky. "Still think we're boring?"
I laugh, breathless, my body humming with something I don't have a name for.
"Not even close."
Outside the bathroom, the party rages on. But in here, in this grimy, sticky, cum-scented space, something has shifted.
We're not just stepsisters anymore. We're not just good girls.
We're tramps.
And I've never felt more alive.