Page 42 of SummerTime Madness
What the fuck is happening?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I stumble away from the sink, legs weak and breath ragged. My shorts stick to me, soaked and disgusting, but I can’t move.
Not really.
Because I can still hear them.
Chase’s grunts.
Cordelia’s soft moans.
The sound of skin slapping… the sounds of her insides being arranged by Chase’s cock, I'm sure.
The rhythm of it–wet and unrelenting–echoing in my head and down the hall like a fucking chant. From somewhere outside, I hear the DJ greet the partygoers just as the base drops.
What fucking time is it?
I step out the bathroom, shuffling towards the sound of their moans–her scent, that fucking overwhelming earthy blend of sex and spores. Pressing my hand to my temple as I walk, my hair sticks to my skin.
When they come into view, Cordelia is on her knees, ropes of cum adorning her neck and face like a beautiful pearl necklace. With a smile, she licks the tip of Chase’s cock before looking my way. “We should head out, it’s almost three o’clock.”
My eyes follow her naked form as she grabs Chase–who just follows her without acknowledging me.
My body burns from the heat as we walk towardsthe main stage.
The island is alive.
“Believe me” by Navos blasts from the speakers, bass thumping hard enough to rattle bones. People jump, sway, grind–skin slick, mouths open, clothes drenched in sweat.
Some dance.
Some stand in place while others make out to the music.
Everything in sync, like something’s moving them, or maybe it’s just the drugs.
Gotta be the drugs.
Then there’s people like Chase–already faded. Eyes glassy underneath his aviator shades, no shirt, and tie dye shorts as he hands out beaded bracelets like they are sacred offerings. Which is how we ended here with a group of strangers that feels more like a cult of friendship bracelets and drugs the longer I stand among them.
There's a blonde–short and curvy–named Chelsea. She’s in a yellow crochet bikini top with matching high-cut bottoms, and a sheer glitter skirt that clings to her hips like static. Glitter dusts her large tits, her cheeks are painted with tiny daisies and stick on jewels, and her pupils are way too wide along with her smile… Home girl isn’t even blinking.
Next to her is the redhead wearing a metallic silver thong with a mesh halter–nipples out. Proud and unbothered as she keeps licking her own arms like it’s dipped in sugar, and laughing to herself as faint pinkish tendrils curl beneath her skin.
But just as soon as I blink, they’re gone. I’m really losing it.
Then there’s Mike–the tattooed juice head, straight out of Jersey Shore, wearing nothing but denim shorts and combat boots. His oiled chest glistens under the afternoon sun, and his jaw clenches and relaxes like he’s grinding his teeth in rhythm. The leash wrapped around his knuckles pulls closer a girl with a blue pixie cut dressed in nothing but a fishnet bodysuit, latex tape in the shape of an X, and leather booty shorts.
Neon paint streaks her thighs–except that shit is moving, crawling up her legs like liquid bio luminescence as she grinds on him. Moaning with every beat drop, her split tongue twitching as if she’s tasting the air..
Yep… the drugs.
And then there’s Shaggy.
Not his real name, but might as well be. Brown hair down to his collarbone, wearing a faded green shirt with the sleeves ripped off and watermelon–print swim trunks, smelling like straight weed.The worst part is the fact that he keeps offering me peanut butter sandwiches with a smile, but I can’t stop focusing on the way his gums bleed when he grins.
So I take the necklace instead.
