Front door

You rush out the front door and crash right into the head cheerleader who so recently sat in front of you in psych class. You both go crashing to the ground, sending all your stuff flying.

She is surprised and apparently a little upset. She would probably be telling you off, but she's trying to get adjusted to the new reality of suddenly finding herself flat on her back, with you on top, and her legs wrapped around you.

Granted, ever since you saw this beauty stroking the football player's cock the other day, you have tried to imagine what this would be like, but in your dreams you were located somewhere other than the sidewalk.

"Watch where you're going, you clutz!" The cheerleader glares at you with undisguised contempt.

You feel your shyness and awkwardness abruptly evaporate under the pressure of all that has just happened to you. Rather than bite your tongue and try to melt into the shadows, you return her glare. Before even thinking about it, you hear yourself say something you’ve never said to anyone before.

“Why don’t you just blow me, bitch?”

No sooner are the words out of your mouth than you regret it. You half expect your mother to show up out of nowhere, smack you across the face, and then lead you off by your earlobe to a sink where she will wash your mouth out with soap and water. You slap your hand over your mouth and scramble to your feet, prepared to apologize for your outburst.

To your astonishment, the cheerleader does not climb to her feet as well. Instead, she positions herself on her knees and looks up at you with an entranced expression. The contemptuous expression is gone, as is the hateful tone of her voice. Instead, in an almost robotic monotone, she says, “Whatever you wish. Do you desire me to blow you right here and now?”

Astonished, you stare down at her, wondering if she is yanking your chain or if the bizarre incident in the laboratory has just repeated itself.