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I started ANOTHER story. Yeah, duh, obviously. And I know I shouldn't've started since I have two other stories that are like, cry cry we need updating bitch! But...here's the start of another one. Because I suck.
Enjoy :D If you can, that is.
DETAILS
Chapter One: Duckie Boxers
I am the proud, new owner of the world’s sexiest pair of bondage pants.
Details: Plaid and sexy.
That’s all you need to know. They’re sexy. And they’re mine. So hands off.
It’s autumn.
Details: Leaves falling. Naked trees. Cool breezes. Dead…birds.
I squat down to inspect the rigid carcass of a dead crow.
Details: Its beak is semi open and its feathers are all ruffled. It has ants crawling over it and its eyes are all glassy and dull.
Like the glassy studs in my pants. My lovely, sexy bondage pants. With lovely, glassy crow eye studs. Yum.
A shoe plants itself on my backside.
“Hey douche,” says Shea, my loserface of a best friend.
Details: Shea is the epitome of horny-straight-girls-wet-dream, but his below, below average intelligence level definitely detracts from his appeal. Last week he asked me whether Paris was a city in America. The week before that he asked me how many members were in the boy band, Five. The week before that he asked me what animal Sonic the Hedgehog was.
Smart? Not very.
But he’s hot, and the people he dates usually can’t see past his wavy chocolate brown hair, straight nose and stupid, glass green eyes.
“What do you want cunt?” I reply, glaring at him over my shoulder. My butt stings from his kick and if he’s somehow dirtied my lovely, sexy bondage pants…
“Nothing,” says Shea, shrugging, “I just saw your ass sticking out and felt like kicking it.”
I snort and stand up to dust off my bum. No dirt. Good. No point hanging around and talking to loserface best friend so I walk away.
Shea hurries up next to me. I ignore him.
“Nice pants,” he says sarcastically. I take this as a compliment because, despite his lack of common sense and common smarts, Shea’s brilliant at art and textiles. Which is sort of scary. He’s still trying to work out how to open a safety pin without pinning his fingers in the process.
Me? I suck at art. Give me a paintbrush and I’ll probably try brushing my teeth with it.
“Nice shirt,” I scoff.
“You’re wearing the same one,” says Shea, plucking the material at my chest, “You do notice you’re wearing the school uniform right?”
“Whatever, I have sexy bondage pants with mine. Unlike you, who’s wearing gay school slacks. So that makes me cooler than you.”
Details: We attend a funky private Catholic school where at least eighty percent of the students aren’t Catholic. The boys’ uniform consists of black lace-ups, grey socks, grey slacks, grey shirt, red and grey tie and striped red and grey blazer. The girls’ wear the same shirt and tie. Only they get a red and grey plaid skirt and grey, knee high socks. We’re so grey that we look like a herd of elephants with red shot wounds.
“Nah, I’m coolest,” comes Shea’s delayed response. It must have hurt his brain to think of such a witty comeback.
“I’m coolestest,” I say equally as wittily as we turn into the school gates.
Details: Mount Saint Alphonse Academy has big, old, buildings. Its maxim is Sisters of the Good Samaritan. It used to be an all-girls school. Now it accepts boys. That’s all you need to know to survive.
“Can I borrow them sometime?” asks Shea.
“What?” I say, pulling hangnails off my fingers. I have no idea what he’s on about.
“Your pants. Can I borrow them?” I pull off a particularly stubborn hangnail and stare at him long and hard. He wants my lovely, sexy bondage pants? He wants my lovely, sexy, bondage pants?
“Hell no!” I bark, putting my hands protectively over my hips.
“But they look crap on you,” Shea whines, giving me sad, puppy eyes. He insults me and then tries to win me back by giving me eyes? I am not that weak. I will not fall to his pathetic, wet, pleading…adorably sexy…puppy eyes. Shut up.
“They’ll look crapper on you. You have fat legs,” I say, mentally slapping myself for being shallow and nearly giving in. Must. not. give. in. to. shallow. hotness.
“My legs aren’t fat,” Shea pouts, looking indignant.
“Oh yeah, they’re just ‘muscular’,” I say, making bunny fingers around the word ‘muscular’.
“But they are!” Shea bleats, “Anyway, they look all airy on you cos your legs are too skinny and your butt caves in.”
“My butt doesn’t cave in,” I say angrily, but I check anyway.
“Yeah it does,” says Shea, “I bet when you fart, your pants ripple cos there’s so much room.”
“Well, I bet when you fart, the gas goes back up your hole cos there’s not enough room.”
“Anorexic,” Shea growls.
“Obese,” I snap back.
Yes, I know we’re seventeen and toilet insults should be beyond us, but it’s not like we can snigger at the word “vagina” when we’re twenty nine or anything. So, carpe diem or whatever. Seize the day. Live the life of a ten year old for as long as time allows.
Some kids start filtering into the school. A lot of them wave at Shea and scream loud Hi’s. Shea’s such a social mix-up.
Details: He’s built like a jock, has the mentality of a jock, plays football like a jock and goes out with female sluts like a jock. But he’s also arty farty like a fag, cries easily in romances like a fag, cares about his skin and hair like a fag and goes out with pretty, dumb twinks like a fag.
He also hangs out with me. But that just makes him a superstar.
“Love the pants faggot!” some kid yells. I wave and slap my palm against my butt cheek.
Shea decides to join in.
“Don’t touch my ass!” I screech at him as he lifts his hand to crack it against my backside.
“You were touching it. Why can’t I?” he asks, so innocently I have to take a second to figure out whether he was joking or not.
“Just don’t,” I mumble. Does he want to give me wood or something? Slapping my ass like that…It’s not like I’m attracted to my best friend or anything, I’m just…
Fine! I am. But just shallowly. I am only attracted to him sexually because he is visually appealing. I mean, come on. I’m seventeen. I’m gay. I’m horny. I have a hot friend. Cut me some slack.
Shea shrugs and slaps my butt anyway.
“Can I borrow your pants now?” he asks.
“I said no before and the answer remains. No.”
“You’re such a stingy bitch.” He glares at his laces and kicks an ice-cream wrapper.
“And you’re such a pussy whiner,” I say back and stretch. I wonder why we’re here so early in the morning. Oh right, we’re prefects. How hilarious.
Details: Shea and I are prefects. Being a prefect is basically a popularity thing. And since Shea is popular, I, apparently am too. One of our prefect duties includes coming to school early and raising the flag before assembly.
“Can I borrow your p- ?”
“No.”
The last thing I hear is Shea’s defeated sigh, as a heavy force slams into the middle of my back. I barely have time to cry out before my face is pressed into the pavement and said heavy force is crushing me from above.
Tug, tug. My shoes come off.
Zip, Whup! And the wind hits my naked legs and brief-clad bottom.
The force lifts. It scarpers. I cough.
“Dude…” says Shea staring, slack-jawed between me and the fleeing heavy force.
Details: I’m lying in the middle of the driveway, wearing only my school shirt and undies. One of my socks is hanging off my foot and my shoes are lying abandoned. Some kids snigger. A distant dot marks another student running away.
I think I just got my pants stolen.
Details: We’re sitting in the waiting room, near the secretary’s desk, waiting for Madame Barbeau (our Headmistress) to crucify us. Or me, more specifically. For not wearing pants.
“Sorry, Cass,” he says shrugging, “It happened so fast. I couldn’t really do nothing.”
“You could’ve like, run after him or something! You know, tackled him! Like, run, run, run, TACKLE! Har, har, har, sort of thing!” I become very articulate when I’m angry.
“Yeah…I guess…” says Shea slowly, contemplating. I throw up my hands and make a noise half-way between frustration and disgust.
The old, fugly secretary leans out of her desk.
“Boys, Madame Barbeau would like to see you now,” she croaks.
We stand up and I continue to glare at Shea. He looks uncomfortable and I want him to feel it. Feel my wrath.
“And cover yourself, young man,” the old, fugly secretary says to me. I attempt to tug my shirt lower. Shea takes off his blazer and hands it to me in a physical apology. He looks so ashamed. Like he’s let me down. Wait…he has! I tie the arms of his blazer around my waist, with the knot at the back, like some huge loincloth thing and enter Madame Barbeau’s office.
“Sit down,” Madame Barbeau instructs, indicating some hard, wood chairs. We do.
Details: Madame Barbeau is around fifty or so with awful died blond hair that’s shoddily curled. Her grey suits and dresses fit our grey uniforms. Which is pretty much in school spirit, I must say. Oh yeah, and she’s sort of anal.
“Now, have you any idea why you’re in here?” She interlaces her fingers and I spot a few hangnails.
“It wasn’t his fault!” Shea cries, immediately going into the defensive, “some dude just ripped it off!” I look at him and he smiles back at me. He sure is trying hard to get back into my good books.
“Mister Hainsworth -,” Madame Barbeau starts, but gets cut off by Shea.
“It was so quick! Like, SHA-ZAM and his pants were gone! I know I should’ve done something, but it was seriously so quick and it’s not like you see stuff like that everyday, you know and –,”
“Mister Hainsworth!” Madame Barbeau barks. Shea blanches and tries to mould with his seat.
“What are you doing in here Mister Hainsworth?” Madame Barbeau asks, looking a sternly muddled.
“Um…cos Cass isn’t wearing pants?” he offers weakly.
“Cassidy Sorensen is the one without pants, Mister Hainsworth. Not you. I did clearly state over the intercom that I wanted Mister Sorensen only.”
Shea looks confused. “No, you actually said my name too…”
Details: Madame Barbeau is sort of senile.
“Mister Hainsworth, you may go,” Madame Bitchface says to Shea, completely ignoring him. Shea shrugs and gives me an apologetic look as he leaves.
“Mister Sorensen, why have you no pants?” she asks, steepling her fingers and glowering at me.
“Some retard stole them,” I say truthfully.
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
I nod and she sighs, “It’s very disgraceful for a prefect to be parading in only their underwear. It sets a bad example for the younger students and definitely tarnishes our school image.” She looks disappointedly at me, “I thought you’d matured since the last incident, Cassidy.”
“That was an accident, m’am,” I say. Seriously, I didn’t intend for all the fire sprinklers to go off. I was just celebrating Shea’s birthday…under a smoke alarm.
“If you say so,” Madame Barbeau says, obviously not believing me, “You give me no choice but to take away your prefect privileges for two weeks. You may not leave school early, nor may you use the prefect common room.”
“B-b-b-but I need the grill in the common room to heat up my lunch!” I say, devastated. Cold food is gross! I hate her. Madame Bitchface. I’ll give her the silent treatment.
“Tough luck. Go buy your lunch from now on. Now, here’s a spare pair of pants from lost property. I expect you to wear them.”
I stare at a pair of floppy greyness.
Details: It’s grey. It’s floppy. I have no idea where it’s been. Who’s worn it. Whose dick it has been pressed against.
“Hell no!” I yell, cringing away from it like a little girl in face of slugs, “Ew, ew, ew! No way! I don’t know where that’s been.”
“Language!” Madame Bitchface barks. She tosses the floppy, thing at me. “Wear it. Now!”
I bite back some bile as I slide it onto my legs. So gross. So gross.
“Also, do something about your hair,” Madame Bitchface adds.
Details: My hair is platinum blond. It’s straight and thin and I cut it myself so it’s terribly uneven. It constantly looks like I’ve run a blunt lawnmower over it and yes, it’s not my real hair colour. Screw you! Like anything is real these days.
“Good. You may leave,” Madam Bitchface says contently as I zip up the fly. She’s such an old pervert. Watching me put grotty pants on.
I scoot out of there in a whirlwind and hope Shea has waited for me.
He hasn’t. Bastard.
I sigh and attempt to walk in way that allows minimal contact with the material surrounding my legs.
Details: I look like someone with cerebral palsy.
The quadrangle is empty as I gingerly walk across it. It seems that the bell has gone and everyone is in class. I get shudders every time I take a step and feel the greyness brush across my skin. So disgusting. Oh god, I’m going to puke. I feel the bubbling of stomach acids. Yes. I’m going to puke.
I rush into the greenery surrounding the quad and have a simultaneous heart attack with some random hiding there too.
“Holy sh – ,”
I freeze.
Details: Some boy, whose face I can’t see clearly is standing next to a tree and holding his chest. But that’s not important. What’s important is that he’s wearing my pants. My lovely, sexy bondage pants.
“Shit,” the pant-thief breathes and darts off
“Hey! Heyheyheyhey! Come back here!” I roar as I race after him. He’s a fast runner, but I’m faster. I hold a record for the hundred metre sprint. Naïve fool, thinking he can out-run me.
With a feral growl, I pounce and tackle the pant-thief to the ground. We roll and bump around a bit, scuffling in the dirt, but I get control over him as I pin his waist to the ground with my knees.
“I’ve got you now, pantycreep!” I bellow triumphantly. I think I just called him a pantycreep.
He slaps me. GOD THAT STINGS!
He slaps me again and I punch him in the face. He whimpers and crumples under me as I grimace, shaking my hand back to health. I never knew punching someone could hurt so much.
I tug off his shoes, undo his…my pants and rip them off his legs. I stand up, holding my pants victoriously. He crawls away, nursing his cheek and looking fearfully at me. My heart skips a beat.
Details: The pant-thief may have been a god in his past life. Even though his cheek has started to bruise and he’s screwing up his face from trying not to cry, the pant-thief is gorgeous. Black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, pink lips, shapely legs…
But I can’t let that cloud my judgement! He stole my pants!
I kick off my shoes and unzip my grey slacks with great relief and purpose. Finally! I am rid of its suffocating grossness.
“No…Please…” the pant-thief moans, staring horrified at my underpants. Okay, I might not have worn my best pair of undies today, but they’re not that disgusting. At least they don’t smell like corn chips yet. The pant thief starts to slightly hyperventilate.
I frown and step out of the pool of grey material and walk slowly towards the pant-thief. He gives an airy squeak and starts to cry, his naked legs jostling fretfully against the leafy grass. He’s wearing boxers with duckies on them.
“Don’t…Please…Don’t…” he chokes out as his body shakes with sobs. I’m more than a little confused here.
“Hey,” I say softly, crouching down to his level. He looks like he’s about to vomit. He’s face isn’t so pretty anymore with tears and snot and dirt and swelling and stuff.
“No…Please…” he begs as I peer into his personal space.
“Hey,” I say again, touching his shoulder lightly. He jerks away from me and cries harder.
“No…No…No…” he blubbers. This is pissing me off.
I backhand him lightly across his face.
OKAY! I know I shouldn’t have done that! I know! I just hate it when people cry. It makes me nervous.
Well, it made him stop crying.
Instead he’s looking at me with the most petrified expression ever. God I didn’t mean to! It was just reflex. Ugh, I feel like a wife basher.
I feel something warm touch me. His hands are on my waist. What!?
Details: the pant-thief is holding the edges of my briefs with tears rolling silently down his cheeks. He looks like he’s going to faint. He…h-h-he’s pulling down my undies! Excuuuse me!
“What fuck are you doing you freak?!” I shout, scrambling away from him.
He gives me this deer-caught-in-the-headlights thing.
“I-I-I…Oh my god,” he stutters. And bolts. Just…vamooses out of the greenery, legs flying and boxers flapping.
Look at how my jaw hits the ground. Jaw. Drop.
I stare absently into the bushes. He thought. He thought. He thought I wanted…sexual services or something. Oh my freaking lord.
Do I seriously look that perverted?
I shake my head furiously, tug on my lovely, sexy bondage pants and run out of the greenery, trying to force myself into my shoes. He’s going to get socially maimed if anyone sees those duckie boxers.
“Hey!” I yell after him when I get my shoes on. Why can’t anyone hear us? Seriously. Damn high-class schools and their high quality, sound-proof walls.
He dashes out of the school gates. I sprint after him hollering and waving the pair of spare school slacks.
“You forgot your pants and shooooesssss!” I shout and skid onto the pavement, looking around for any sign of him. But he’s gone. Like magic. He must be Harry Potter or something equally as quirky as that. Like a Hobbit. Maybe he’s a magical Hobbit.
I fold the pants neatly over my arm and walk back into the school. I’m confused.
Details: My lovely, sexy bondage pants are dirty. But for some reason, I’m thinking about duckie boxers instead.
Don’t know how I feel about this one. Has the potential to become angsty maybe. I really like reading about angst. And fluff. Angsty fluff. Harhar. That's delicious. Angsty fluff.
Oh yeah, and Cass’s voice probably sounds a lot like Adelaide’s. SIGH. Oh well, I’ll try give it more originality. I hope I can. It’s hard to change how I speak…In my head.
Anyway, I hope you liked it hehe. Don’t know if I’ll find the motivation to continue. Maybe this will end up deleted from the face of the earth too…
Review? Thanks honeybums :)
