Olivia's Strange Week

Back to School

It is strange to be in Carlotta Bridge during a weekend. The outside of the school has none of the energy I know it for, none of the girls swarming the place in their haste to leave, or enter. Instead of the indistinct buzz formed by the students' chatter mixing in the air, there is only silence.

Once we enter, though, the image is completely different. Girls going this way and that, sitting on the stairs as they talk about their day. Like everything is normal, like they weren't brought here by Belinda's orders.

Everything changes, though, after we take a few more steps in. Every girl roaming the hallways and the inner patio of the school turns towards us, towards me. It is right out of a horror movie, to say I feel observed is a huge understatement. A breeze passes under my skirt, between my thighs, and I'm reminded of my nudity, of my nipples poking through this thin shirt.

"The mistress is on the auditorium," the black girl tells me, before leaving to chat with some students.

I sigh. The auditorium is on the second floor. To get there, I'll have to pass through all these students that observe me. Of course, that is Belinda's plan. She wants me to suffer, to be humiliated, and every step I take is fabricated with that in mind.

As I approach the stairs, fear builds up like pressure inside my chest. A horde of girls walk casually, like it is all part of their routine, and stop themselves in front of the stairs, blocking me. They wear casual clothes, jeans, short skirts, small shirts, all revealing in their own way, none as revealing as mine.

"Uhm," I say, unsure. What am I supposed to tell them? To let me through? These are Belinda's slaves, if they are here, is because they have a purpose, because their 'mistress' told them to.

Like a pack of wolves hunting their prey, the girls surround me, circling around so I can't focus on any of them for more than a second.

"Look at what we have here," a voice says from behind me. I have no time to turn around before a hand squeezes my butt cheek.

"Ah!" I flinch forward, but an arm around my neck pulls me back.

The girl keeps talking, keeps squishing me, "Such a soft, big ass. How do you expect to sit on a chair with this thing?"

"Please," I say, my voice shaky, "Let me go, I need to talk to Belinda."

"We've still got time," she says, before her warm tongue slides up my neck. I look over my shoulder and see her face. Brown hair cut short on the sides, left long on top. Skin like bronze, strong arms and shoulders which suggest large muscles on the rest of her. "Don't pretend you don't like it, slut," she tells me, rubbing the entire surface of my butt cheek, "or you're telling me you left your underwear at home?"

The circle of girls laugh at her joke. Not because it's funny, not because the way she told her was funny, not because they like her and will laugh at anything she says. No. The real reason is that they know it will make me feel bad, that insulting me will drag my morale through the ground more than it already has been. And damnit, it's working. Here I feel defenseless, afraid. I can't resist without risking Belinda retaliating with my mom's photos, or these girls retaliating physically.

Calm down, Olivia. I tell myself. There is no way this lasts for long, Belinda wants you with her, so she doesn't want these girls stalling you too much.

That's what I tell myself as the torment continues.

The muscular girl pushes me forward. Her strength is such that I stumble, my lower body trying to catch up with the speed of my upper body. I end up crashing into the edge of the circle of people. For a second, I harbor the hope that the impulse will be enough, that I'll pass through and manage to escape.