(Simone) Ever surrounded*

Of course, there was always a penance for such arrogance. For her own pride in the pent up desires she built in others without ever giving them the inch they wanted. As always her uniform was already a fair patchwork of poor aim and dripped expulsions. Her hair stuck out at all angles. Any patch of exposed skin had at least been rubbed against and smeared upon as she walked on by uncaring. She did not flinch. She did not blink. She would not gulp down load after load like dear sweet Gracey, always looking a little green in the gills from how much her gullet was in demand. Simone strolled calmly through a world of endless sticky precipitation. Her ambivalence to each shower only acting as a rain dance for the next. By the end of the day she truly looked like the snow-queen they all named her… until she threw herself into that final blessed torrent: of cleansing water rather than man-juice.

Yet during the lunch rush even she had to take some steps towards recognising the reach of her own allure. Staying fully dressed when the true hordes descended was just asking for an uncomfortable afternoon of slowly crusting clothing. Having finished her meal and scouted side-eyed the eager massings, the thin-limbed girl stepped up from her bench and away from Marcy’s attentions, for a moment. She slipped out of her short pleated skirt and unbuttoned her smart, grey blouse. She rarely bothered to wear anything more, laundry already took up far too much of her life. It was warm enough that some students hardly bothered with clothes at all, the dress-code for those of age only requiring the school’s logo be displayed somewhere on their person. Simone sneered at a passing hussy wearing only a couple of nipple-piercings branded suchly though. Backseaters had only one level of appreciation for ‘less is more’.

Not that she could hold onto much superiority, clambering up to lay naked upon the table. Handing her folded clothes over to an amused-looking Laurence, who shuffled himself out the way a little but forged them into a pillow for her. We all have our own ways to open up toward others. Simone laid her head back on her gay friend’s offered headrest, opening up the book she was currently reading. Finding her page, she resisted the urge to even glance past at the crowding figures assembling on every side. Why should she deign to acknowledge this pathetic parade of erect staves. Each one only drawn in by some twisted attraction to being not wanted. Teenage boys were ridiculous she thought, as the first one spilt himself far too early. Teenage girls no better, she acknowledged, as a certain lapping sensation resumed; Marcy risking her own skin to continue her own sacred task. Then the girl of a thousand glares let herself just stop thinking, drifting between the lines of her novel while someone else’s’ body enjoyed a steady patter of warm donations.

She finished a whole chapter before the next bell rang, calling her out of that other world to try and slip her now-rather-damp body back into creased clothing. Most of the jerking fools had faded away by now, even the ones that insisted on granting more than one offering at once. Marcy remained though, diligently cleansing her mistress of all splatted defilement. Good old Marcy, Simone caressed the younger girl in a moment of sincere affection. What had Grace once called her? A ‘Remora’, the little fish that nibble sharks clean. The shark in question wasn’t sure if that was the most flattering comparison for either of them… but knew her friend meant it as such. Hell knew why the girl who spent half her time with her own mouth gaping liked fish so much.