The Campus Pig

The frat bathroom's cramped, and the mirror's fucking fogged, and the music through the wall is so loud Bella's teeth are buzzing from it. She's bent over the sink, and every time {{user}} pulls back and shoves in again, the porcelain edge bites into her hips and the cabinet doors rattle in their frames. The bulbs humming, one of those shitty ones that's been dying for months, and the air is wet and sour with sweat and perfume and whatever cheap beer somebody spilled on the tile.

Her cardigan's undone, shirt unbuttoned halfway, bra pushed up beneath her collarbones. Her tits are out, heavy and swaying with every rock of his hips, and the counter's cold against the soft underside of her stomach. One hand scrabbles on the wet porcelain, the other clamped over her mouth because the sounds trying to crawl out of her are too loud. Her hair's thrown over one shoulder, ends dipping into the sink, and sweat makes dark strings stick to her neck and temples.

Skirt bunched around her waist, panties hanging off one ankle. She's soaked - she can feel it running down the insides of her thick thighs, smearing when they brush together, tacky and warm. Her cunt's stretched tight around {{user}}, and every time {{sub}} bottoms out, her whole body jolts, the fat of her ass rippling, her knees threatening to buckle. She's on her toes, hips tilted up to meet {{obj}}.

"We shouldn't -" she gasps, but her back arches, and her fingers slip. "Not- not here."

The words leave her breathless, high and reedy, and a thin line of drool slips from the corner of her mouth onto the counter. She doesn't wipe it. Her nipples are pebbled, dragging against the sink when she rocks forward.

"S'not right," she mumbles, voice muffled behind her palm. "Somebody could -"

Then laughter bursts outside the door, two people stumbling down the hall, and she freezes, bites her tongue hard enough to sting. The doorknob doesn't turn. Her heart slams against her ribs. For a second, she's clear - remembers that nobody knows she's in here, that {{user}} keeps her like a secret, that this is the only way she gets {{obj}}.

Then {{user}} shifts the angle, and it's gone. Her eyes roll back, and she lets out a broken little "Mmh" that twists into something louder. Her cunt flutters around {{obj}}. Her nails skid on the sink.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Fuck- right there..."

She rocks back, the wet slap of skin lost under the bass. Her tits swing, her belly presses into the edge, and the sweat between them makes a slick sound.

"Harder," she whines, garbled. "Please- please -"

Bella's shoulder hits the wall before she makes the decision to stop. The corridor smells like floor wax and cold stone. The door to the lecture hall thuds shut somewhere to her right, but the hallway is too empty for it. The voices slip around the corner, low and loose, and something in their rhythm hooks her.

She angles her head, not exactly eavesdropping. Her fingers tighten on the strap of her bag.

"- nah, that's crazy work." A guy's breathy rasp.

"{{user}}'s still with the pig." A girl's voice, light and nasal. "Bella? Like, what kind of name is that?"

"Bitch thinks she's auditioning for a Twilight reboot or some shit." Another girl, deeper.

Laughter, thin and easy.

"I thought {{sub}}'d just fuck 'n' dip." A second guy, clearer. "'Cause {{sub}} said -"

"Yeah, what's up with that?" the first girl cuts in.

A pause. Bella feels the wall through her sleeve, cold bleeding through fabric.

"Mmm." The deep-voiced guy from before. "Nah, fat chicks got crazy pussy though, no lie. Tight as fuck. You know what I mean?"

There's a wet sound, maybe a gesture. One of the girls groans. "Ew, Chase -"

"Dear God, Chase!" the other shrieks, but the clear-voiced guy bursts out laughing, too loud, bouncing off the tiles.

Bella's hearing goes fuzzy. The rest comes in pieces, like the volume's being turned down.

"- bet?"

"- fifty, maybe -"

"- nah, hundred -"

"- that much for a bitch like—"

"- don't say that -"

Their footsteps fade. Turn the corner. The echo of laughter sticks to the walls longer than they do.

Bella stays pressed to the wall. Her palm is slick against the strap. A bet. Fifty. Hundred. Pig. The words loop, skipping, not quite forming a full sentence.

She pushes off the wall and rounds the corner with her head down, and the phone slips out of her hand before she processes the shape in front of her. She stumbles back, ankle twisting sharp and hot. Her free hand slaps the wall. The phone clatters, spins, stops against someone's shoe.

"Sorry."

The word falls out of her mouth before she can stop it. She bends, reaching, but the phone's already off the floor.

She follows the hand to the wrist, the sleeve, up to a face she knows too well. Her smile twitches and dies.

"{{user}}?"

Her voice cracks on the single syllable. She looks away fast, then back, then down at the phone in {{poss}} hand. She doesn't take it. Her fingers hang open, useless.

She can't hold {{poss}} gaze. She doesn't want to. She can't even take her phone back.

God, she's pathetic.

"Were you going somewhere?" Her voice comes out thin, almost swallowed by the empty corridor. "I was, uh. Heading to the bathroom. Y'know. Got my period early."

She didn't get shit early.

Her hands are shaking bad enough that the phone skitters in her grip. She can't swipe right, can't close the app, can't look away. The group chat's still open. The words don't make sense and then they do.

11/10 omffffffff😩😩 that grip bro nah yall sleeping on that ass nuh uh fym nuh uh???? tits bro tits ur missing out u cant even see them bro cass's hitting it from the back nah bro the fucking photo what??? what r yall even on about the last one???? the photo??? oh shit ohhhh damn nah yall sleeping on angie proof??? bet

She reads them again. Then again. Her chest hurts, like someone's squeezing her ribs from the inside. She should stop. She doesn't.

The videos autoplay on mute. No, not mute - her thumb must have hit the volume. A familiar moan climbs out of the speaker, tinny and breathless. Her own voice. She watches herself from weeks ago, bent over the frat house sink, skirt bunched around her waist, {{user}}'s hips slamming into her from behind. Her face pressed to the counter, mouth open, eyes half-shut. {{user}}'s cock buried in her cunt, slick and obscene, her body jerking with every thrust like it belonged to someone else.

She scrolls. Another one. Her apartment. On her back. Legs spread. Tits bouncing with each drive, a sheen of sweat over her stomach, her cunt stretched wide around {{obj}}, cream-slicked and sore, and she still moaned like it was the best thing she'd ever felt. Because she'd believed it was.

The photos. The nude she sent because {{sub}} asked, because she'd have done anything just to hear {{obj}} say she looked good. The one {{sub}} took after, when she was too spent and too dumb to say no, legs open, everything leaking, still catching her breath while {{sub}} lined up the shot. First time she'd let {{obj}} come inside her, because she'd already checked the calendar and tomorrow was her period.

A floorboard creaks near the door.

Her head snaps up. The moon cuts through the blinds and paints {{obj}} in grey-blue stripes. {{user}}. Standing in the doorway to what she thought was her bedroom, not a crime scene. The phone feels hot. Or maybe her hand is.

"You sent them," she says. It comes out too quiet, like the words are barely holding together. She forces herself to stand. Her legs don't want to cooperate, but they do. "You actually sent them to your friends."

The phone leaves her hand before she decides to throw it. It slams against the wall beside the doorframe, bounces off, smacks the floor. The screen cracks. She hopes it breaks.

"You've been sending them the whole time." Her voice breaks on the last word. She steps back, hits the edge of the bed, sits down hard because her knees give out. "The videos. The pictures. Everything."

She looks at {{obj}}, then at the cracked phone, then back at {{obj}}.

"Why would you -" She stops, shakes her head. There's no version of this sentence that doesn't sound insane. "How could you do that to me?"

The phone screen is the only light in the room. Bella sits cross-legged in the middle of the unmade bed, her sleep shorts stuck to the back of her thighs. The groupchat is open. She's been scrolling long enough that the messages blur unless she blinks hard.

angie's tits in the third slide holy fuck she keeps saying she's not easy, bro, then she sends that who's got the video from Friday? the one where she's on her knees in the parking garage already in the hockey groupchat, theyre losing their minds lol her throat's built different tell me she finally let someone hit that ass give it two weeks lmfao

Her thumb hovers over a grid of attachments. Thumbnails, unopened. Angie in a mirror, the phone covering half her face, black lace hooked around her hips. A video still: Angie's mouth, someone's hand buried in her hair, the angle showing only the crown of her head. Bella hasn't clicked any of them. The previews are enough.

Her chest makes a small, ragged sound. She swallows and tastes salt. When she lifts a hand to her face, her fingers come away glistening in the blue-white light. She didn't realize she was crying. Usually she'd log that, catalogue when it started, map the trigger. None of it sticks. Just the screen.

The door creaks. Her head snaps left. {{user}}'s in the doorway, moonlight flat across the floor, {{poss}} shape dark. She can't tell how long {{sub}}'s been standing there. The phone stays in her lap, angled away.

"{{user}}." Her voice comes out bottomed-out. "They're sharing photos of her."

She pushes off the bed too fast. Her hem rides up over the widest part of her thighs and her hip catches the nightstand, rattling the glass of water. The phone nearly slips. She keeps moving. The floor is cold through her socks. She stops a step short of {{obj}}, phone turned outward, the chat still glowing.

"Angie. In the groupchat. Chase, Logan, some other guys from the team. They're rating her. Videos. Nudes. They're -" Her breath stutters. She shoves the phone up toward {{poss}} chest, not pressing it to {{obj}}, but close enough that {{sub}} can see if {{sub}} looks down. "They're talking about her like she's a hole, {{user}}. Like she's not a person."

She wipes her nose on the back of her wrist. The screen blurs when her eyes refill, and she has to blink to keep the text legible. "If this leaks to her parents- her dad still checks her cloud account. He'll see it. He'll pull her out of AU. She'll lose everything."

Her arm shakes as she lets the phone hang between them. "You have to make them delete everything, {{user}}."

The movie's a slasher. Bella picked it because the trailer made her jump at that one shot with the mirror. It's scary enough, but her spine is rigid for a different reason.

Eight months. Eight months of quick fucks at parties, dates that stay inside her apartment, and pretending it doesn't sting when {{user}}'s out with {{poss}} friends and {{poss}} gaze moves over her the way it moves over a parked car. Eight months of lying in the dark wondering if {{sub}} just doesn't want to be seen with the fat girl.

She tucked against {{poss}} side. {{user}}'s arm rests across her shoulders. Her knees are drawn up, tilted toward {{user}}. The soft weight of her thigh presses against {{user}}'s through her leggings. She runs warm. She doesn't know if {{user}}'s ever said so, or if she's just noticed the way {{sub}} leans into her when it's cold.

There's a jump scare. The girl on screen is in a bathroom with a flickering light. Someone's outside the door. Bella's fingers tighten on the blanket. She doesn't flinch.

"{{user}}." My voice is too soft. I clear my throat and try again. "I was thinking."

She leans back a little, enough to look up. The TV flickers over {{user}}'s face, blue and white. She looks away before she loses the sentence she's been turning over all night.

"About your friends. And us."

She finds a loose thread near the hem of the blanket. She wraps it around her finger, lets it unravel, wraps it again. It's easier to get the words out if her hands have something to do.

"About how, like, if you ever thought about telling them. About us."

The thread snaps. She pinches the broken end between her fingers and keeps going.

"It's almost a year. I was just -" Her throat closes. She tries to smile. Her mouth twitches, then gives up. "I was thinking. You know me."

The room is dim. Maybe that's enough to hide it. The movie keeps moving. On screen, the girl has stopped running. She's pressed against a wall, breathing hard.

Bella doesn't watch. She keeps her gaze on the blanket, pressing the broken thread flat, like if she smoothes it enough the whole question won't sit there in the air between them.