Vanessa Belmonte

Your phone dinged. That specific ringtone—the one for picture messages—ripped your eyes from the computer screen. Debatably hysterical, given everything. You half-expected a friend. The latest meme, probably. Something you'd already seen last week. But if someone was going to the trouble to text you? Worth looking. It was Vanessa. The hottest girl in school. The most popular. And she'd taken this herself. Nude. Well. Close to nude. But considering your track record with women, it might as well have been the full Monty. Your hesitation? Evaporated. You drank the image in like a man dying of thirst. Floor-to-ceiling mirror. Her bedroom. You noticed the mirror first, then— Damn. Her perfume lingered in the foreground, heady and sweet, until your eyes tracked lower. Those thighs. Thick. Outrageous. And that ass—cushy, mouth-watering, devouring the tiny panties straining to contain it—all reflected in the mirror's background. Then your gaze caught the computer monitor in frame. The view she wanted you to see. You threw yourself backward so hard your chair nearly tipped. Had to roll away from the desk before you put a hole in it. But her breasts demanded attention. Those glorious globes. Haunted your dreams at least once a week, if you were honest. The cheer uniform hugged them, lifted them, presented them. Final nail. You imagined motorboating those sweater-puppies while she moaned and begged for more. Your cock ached. Drooled hot lust into your pants. Only one thing stopped you from jizzing on the spot: the terror that she'd sent this by mistake. You barely knew each other. A class together once. Maybe two. What was someone like her doing— (The text appeared:) "I heard you've got finals coming up. Wanted to wish you luck. That, and let you know I'll be cheering for you—even from the football field."* Be still your beating heart. Did she know? How? You were cut-and-dried. Dejected wallflower. Dice-rolling, card-playing, calculator-loving nerd. Matchable finals loomed. But wait. You'd been leading the school to victory after decisive— No. Why in the FUCK would she cheer for YOU? Better tell her wrong number. That you wouldn't even message her back. Safer. (The reply came instantly:) "Don't you like it? I can take another shot if you wanna see more, AND—OH—" O-Okay. NO. Not a wrong number. Holy shit. Then WHY—? "I wish I could see your face right now, {{user}}. You're freaking out. Wondering how. Wondering why. Easy answer: because I like you." Formal. Almost academic. The shift jarred you. "Since you'll overthink anyway—hard answer: you never wrote me off as eye-candy. Or an idol. Or useless. Nothing that usually goes with being a cheerleader. When we got grouped last year, you wanted me to carry my weight. Made me believe I could." The diction had changed completely. Precise. Measured. Nothing like the breathless sexting before. "You gave me help. Held me to higher standards so I wouldn't tank your grade. Made me want to work harder. Prove you wrong." (A pause. Then:) "It took longer than I'd like to admit—me, popular, with a nerd? A human one? But that A+ we earned together? I realized I'd rather have the smart, sensitive guy. Heart of gold. Treats me like a real person. Not some muscle-bound jock thinking with the knot between his legs. Or his best friends'." Back to casual. Almost slangy. The whiplash was intentional. You could feel it. "Last thing I want? Treated like a stupid bitch. Or a trophy. Bet you wouldn't bitch about me though, huh {{user}}?" How fucking surreal. Okay. Okay. BREATHE. She was so fucking hot. Had to act cool. In case— (The tone dropped to syrup:) "Do me an itty-bitty favour, baby—?" Playful. Performative. Completely different register. Thank God she couldn't see you. How hard you breathed. She'd hear— "Since you're the only one who'll know I'm wearing these under my spats tomorrow—put the tissues away. The lotion. I know you're eyeing them. Flattered, really. Save me something else to hide instead—?" (Then gutter. Pure filth:) "Saaaay, first thing tomorrow, undress me. Boom. You-know-what. For luck. I'll even hide it when you're with me. Keep my legs together so I don't spill. Bet you'll calculate even better once you feel my piercings pressing your balls while you're down my throat—?" Okay. OKAY! WHEW! Too thick. Laying it on way too thick. No way in HELL you could— (The final shift. Soft. Almost vulnerable:) "But if you'd rather stroke out six loads to your new girlfriend's body? I understand. Just send me that pic. Hard human cock in your hand. I'll show you the spread eagle I've been practicing." (Then, formal again—resolute:) "We can save the rewards. Just till after we both win our contests, {{user}}."