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“No one touches that leper,” I growl. “Not if you want to stay friends with me.”
“Easy, Nico,” Dom says, raising his hands in surrender. “What, you thinking about fucking her?” he teases.
While Anya was certainly appealing at a glance, I wouldn’t stoop to that level and fuck a girl that’s probably one late rent payment from ending up on the street. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s stripping to pay her way through school. I’ve heard some of the dancers have to do that if they don’t have parents to pay their way.
“Fuck no,” I scoff, making light of his suggestion. “You couldn’t pay me enough to fuck that klutz. But someone at her level of poverty probably has lice… or fleas. I don’t want you bringing around whatever disease she’s caught from sleeping in the gutter.”
Jay chuckles, combing his fingers through his short blond hair. “That’s cold, man. We could probably give her a good deep clean and make her suitable for a one-and-done kind of deal.”
I scowl at him.
“Not that I’m going to,” he adds when he sees my face. “She’s probably not worth the trouble. I’m just saying, even a germ-ridden dumpster diver like her might be doable with enough elbow grease.”
I chuckle at the image that comes to mind of watching my maids go to work scrubbing a naked Anya with soap and scrub brushes until the girl’s skin is glowing pink. My rebellious cock twitches in my pants at the thought of Anya naked, and I silently chastise it for having as low of standards as my dumbass friends.
But I have to appreciate Jay’s sense of humor. He and Dom are about the only two people that have made my college experience bearable. Them and the endless opportunities it opens up to meeting new girls I can toy with and fuck. I find it rather ridiculous that I have to put on the farce of getting a degree simply because my family funds so much of the arts program here at Rosehill College. And since I’m being forced to perform in this dog and pony show, I will damn well wring some pleasure out of it.
The blonde glances back at me over her shoulder, her lips pressing forward into a pouty smile that’s become the popular seductive face girls give me. I raise an eyebrow suggestively, hinting at my interest. The girl is beautiful enough to be a model, her hair perfectly coiffed so it falls over her shoulders in bleach-blonde curls. Her ruby lips seem to beckon me, silently suggesting how good they would look wrapped around my cock.And yet, why won’t my cock respond to the thought of fucking her like it just did thinking about the new girl?
Again, thinking about Anya makes me start to swell, and I grind my teeth in annoyance. I need to find myself some proper pussy and fast. Plowing a couple of runway girls will do the trick, I’m sure. I probably just like the thought of the resistance Anya might put up now that I’ve thoroughly mocked her for spilling her lunch all over me.
Anya might be beautiful, but she’s clearly of a lower class than me, so I shouldn’t be wasting my time on her. The only thing she’ll be good for is tormenting. My lips curl into a smile as I think about all the ways I can make her life hell. Dancers can be particularly fun to fuck with because they’re all so vain. I’ll have her thinking she’s fat in no time. Or better yet, convince her she’s just too thin for anyone to ever want her.
And when she’s putty in my hands, maybe then I’ll show her just how depraved a man would have to be to fuck her. I might make her finger herself while I watch because that’s the only way she’s ever going to feel pleasure since I know no one will ever want to touch her. And by the time I’m screwing with her head, I might just grace her with a mercy fuck. But I’ll tell her she’ll only get my cock if she wears a bag over her head.
My cock throbs against the zipper of my jeans, and I suddenly realize that my thoughts of torturing Anya have turned sexual. I need to get my head out of the gutter and find some high-end pussy fast. Anya’s not good enough for me, and I shouldn’t even be humoring thoughts of fucking her.
4
ANYA
My next afternoon class is another one that will actually take place in a classroom, and I’m starting to feel the exhaustion seeping into my body now that my tension over enduring Nicolo’s bullying has dissipated.
But I’m actually quite excited about dance theory. This will teach me more about the concept behind different dance styles and their movements, something I’ve never known much about because ballet is much more traditional and focused on execution rather than the premise of the body as art.
I find a seat near the back of the room. Not that I think someone like Nicolo would have anything to do with dance theory, but better safe than sorry. Tucking my bag beneath my chair, I settle in and watch as other students start to fill the classroom.
This lecture hall is much smaller than the one for my history class, capable of holding closer to sixty students rather than a hundred. The desks are, in fact, a long connected table in each tiered row.
As I watch people trickle in, I’m once again made aware of how alone I am, seeing as each student is talking happily with at least one other as they enter. I recognize quite a few of the students from my previous dance classes, and I’m starting to feel more comfortable with who they are as people.
The freckle-faced boy from my first class is definitely a senior, his confident swagger matching his general know-how of school. He and the guy who looks to be of Asian descent that he was talking to in my first class make their way to the back of the room as they chat animatedly.
“Excuse me,” the freckle-faced guy says, pausing beside my chair to indicate he would like to pass.
“Oh, sorry.” I scoot my chair forward as far as I can to allow him access.
“Thanks,” his friend adds as he sidles past as well.
Then they promptly go back to ignoring me. Trying not to take it personally, I watch them out of the corner of my eye as I consider whether or not I should bother introducing myself since I have multiple classes with them.
“Is this seat taken?”
I turn at the sound of a girl’s voice and tilt my head to look up at the tall, dark-haired girl from my choreography class. Her wispy pixie cut frames her face, making her appear both dangerous and beautiful all at once. My eyes drop to the hand she has resting on the back of the chair next to me.
“Oh. No. You’re welcome to it,” I say, realizing she’s asking if someone will be joining me.
“Good.” The girl plops down into her seat with an appreciative groan.
