Page 63 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Thunder rumbles overhead, deep and resonant and mighty. And then follows an onslaught of rain. It falls around us in a gentle pitter-patter, spreading ripples across the loch, before landing on us in sheets.

I glance up, sensing electricity in the air, the crackle of power and unknowable things.

It feels important, like there’s a message behind the shift in weather. Like maybe I should pay attention to it.

But I’m dazed and distracted and coated in cum. It slides down my front and pulses down my backside. It clings to me, too thick for the water to wash away, and I find I don’t entirely mind. I swirl my finger in Rory’s seed, marveling at its texture. Rory kisses me, Finlay kisses me. I feel like I’m floating on air instead of water, that I’m too dizzy to function, my throat hoarse from screaming so much.

Rory swipes a finger beneath my right eye, brushing it softly beneath my lashes. “You’re crying.”

Am I? It’s no surprise. Catharsis looms over me like a hug, something that sayseverything will be okay. All this pent-up tension, these hormones and frustrations… It’s almost too much for me. Idly, I wipe my eyes with the damp blade of my shoulder. I can’t explain how suddenly overwhelmed I am by emotion. Rory must still think I’m a weak idiot girl. But he doesn’t look at me like that.

He doesn’t look at me like that at all.

He gives me a gentle smile and strokes my cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says after a while, two words that I’d never in a million years have suspected would fall from his mouth. It’s almost as much as a shock as the cum dripping down my body. “I should have treated you better, not messed you around so much. We could have had this before now, and I… I was too arrogant to see it.”

I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. But no. Rory kisses me softly, planting his lips on mine and then scattering butterfly kisses across my face. When he reaches the curve of my eye socket, he laps away my tears with his tongue.

Finlay kisses me, too. He’s whispering things in his rough Scottish accent, almost too quiet for me to hear, but the wordloveis there. It’s there a lot.

For a long moment, there’s stillness. Serenity. We do nothing but hug in the water, in the falling rain. I stand, shakily, between the two of them, safe and cherished and thoroughly enveloped. My hands lazily explore Rory’s taut stomach, my fingers trace his darkened nipples. A strange magic crystallizes this moment. It feels like it’s one of those scenes that will always be etched in my memory; there’s something about the vast pallid moon and sharp wet sparkle of skin that I’ll always carry with me through life.

Finlay kisses my shoulder softly. “We should head back.”

I don’t want to. I never want to leave the loch. This experience has changed me, shaped me in ways that maybe I’ll never fully understand. I’ve lost my virginity and I’ve gained closeness, intimacy, to two boys I assumed could be anything but.

Reluctantly, I pull away from them to take one last moment for myself. I swim beneath the surface. Water wraps around me, skimming every inch of my body. It twines with my hair, pulling like soft fingers. I see stones and pebbles beneath the surface. I also see firm legs and proud cocks, and I grind my thighs together to imitate the fullness of having another person inside me.

I emerge, cooled down, my hair hanging straight and heavy beside my face. Finlay and Rory watch me hungrily, but when I pointedly aim for our piles of discarded clothes, they follow me ashore, and Finlay releases a longing sigh.

The three of us dry off in silence, huddled beneath the canopy of trees. We use every scrap of material in the vicinity to rub ourselves down, and the rain does its best to undo our work. Finlay hands me his shirt, which I accept gratefully, feeling barbaric as I use its expensive softness as a mere towel. I throw on my denim dress, thankful it’s easy to wear and not clingy. Rory and Finlay barely bother to dress themselves. They pull on their boxers and keep warm by draping shirts and sweaters over their shoulders like capes.

Walking back to the manor is a shorter, more silent journey than getting here. Each of us is wrapped up in our own thoughts. When the manor appears into sight, it dominates the landscape in a way I’d forgotten since first arriving. It feels obscene, each of us with wet hair dripping down our backs, Rory and Finlay not even remotely dressed, and all of us about to step inside this bubble of intimidating ultra-luxury.

There’s a subdued glow of light from the manor. Each chocolate-box window is cast in darkness save for one small rectangle positioned at the far end. And inside it is the last thing I expect to see.

From the most secret section of the house, the elegant, lordly profile of Oscar Munro looks down on us from the Death Room.

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