Misadventures of a College Youth

Victoria arrived in Chicago about two weeks ago and is only now settling into her dorm on campus. Coming from a small town in Iowa, she is shocked at the vastness of the big city. Though shy, in the first couple of weeks of classes she manages to make a small group of girlfriends. It is this group of three other girls, two of them native Chicagoans, that Victoria accompanies out tonight.

The Swollen Susie, a cramped, cheap punk club that admits 18andups but still serves alcohol is where the quartet of giggling girls heads. Crammed in Sylvia’s 1990 Honda, the girls drive out into the chilly night air, leaving the safety of the dorms and their studies behind. On the way to the club they all laugh and sing to bad music blaring from the radio while nitpicking over one another’s makeup and adding last minute accessories.

“The Sooz is NOT a great place to pick up guys, Vickie, BUT the bartender is a pushover. If you just flash him a little peak at your tits, he forgets to ask for ID. Or, at least, he did last semester” chums Sylvia as she checks the rearview mirror before changing lanes. Vickie returns the girl’s smile and feels the nervousness of going out on the town flitter in her stomach. She hasn’t eaten anything today because she only escaped her chemistry lab at 4PM and was desperate to get herself fully ready for the excursion.

Without any compunction about it at all, Claudia leans over toward Victoria and checks out her breasts before announcing: “You’re not going to get a beer at that rate, Iowa. Pull that sweater thing off…I’ve got a ripped up t-shirt that’ll be better for the Sooz anyway—then you can change back later.”

Self-consciously Victoria slips out of her cashmere sweater and folds it in her lap before receiving the wrinkled and tattered Misfits shirt from Claudia. After pulling it down over her head and plentiful breasts, Victoria realizes this is not much of a shirt at all—Claudia has made large cuts into it, and the front is cut deep into the Misfits leering skull logo. The tops of her creamy breasts are plainly on display, as is much of the satin material of her bra. Uncertain, she looks to Claudia: “Are you sure I can where this in there?” Claudia and Sylvia laugh together before recounting the story of the goth chicks that they saw at Swollen Susie last term—one had a painted on latex top and the other just a couple of pieces of black electrical tape covering up her nipples.

Once in one of the sandlots peopled in the late hours by those seeking the amusements of the club districts, the girls pile out of the car, shifting to pull down their tight mini skirts and straighten their stockings. Samantha’s nearly translucent-from-overuse wife beater is rolled up on her stomach, showing off her tanned, washboard abs. Of the four girls the native Californian is both the most masculine in demeanor and dress and the best tanned—her parents had a beachfront house that she had only relinquished two weeks ago with the start of fall semester. Claudia throws her long trenchcoat on over the tight corset she blew her summer job money on after buying books for the fall—it cinches her waist to a seemingly impossible width while assisting her modest B-cup breasts to look like fully respectable Cs beneath their light coating of lavender glitter. Sylvia removes herself from the driver’s seat, joking about how no drunk jerk better damage her paintjob. Rust sifts down from the driver side rocker panel when she slams the door shut before adjusting the neckline of her dress a little lower and smirking wryly at her compatriots.

The walk to the club is fortunately quite short for the girls—Victoria especially—since she didn’t need a coat with her previous wardrobe, but is now freezing beneath the ripped and torn fabric of the faded black t-shirt Claudia has loaned her. She can feel her nipples stiffen against the fabric of her bra as they walk, and so is not overly surprised—though still perturbed by—the lingering stare the bald doorman with the snake tattoo that wraps around his head gives her chest instead of checking her ID.

Inside Victoria is pleased with the change in her attire—it’s warm and people are pressed up against one another at the bar, calling out orders, shouting over the raucous house band that is destroying its instruments on stage while the “singer” screams about anarchy and fucking. The dance floor is a tangle of bodies that the girls—drinks in hand—thankfully do not have to fight their way across in order to find seats. They luck out and get a small circular booth in the corner across from the bar. Claudia and Sylvia smoosh Victoria into the middle and Sam sits at the edge of the booth, drumming her fingers on the tabletop as she sips her beer, nodding her head to the rhythmic cacophony of the band on stage—Lecherous Taint. They’re a great deal better than the thrashier band that had been up when they first came in. Giddy with the excitement and press of the club, Victoria takes a sip of her beer, smiling at the other girls.

Before long Sam’s drumming fingers prompt her to wade into the sea of churning bodies on the dance floor—taller and more well-muscled than the other three girls—she is the only one of the quartet ballsy enough to try standing up against burly pit punks. She disappears into the swell of the bodies just as a fraternity boy approaches the table, smiling at Sylvia in her low-cut dress. He smiles, sits down at the table, and leans into Sylvia, whispering something into her ear that makes Sylvia smile viciously and lean across Victoria to talk to Claudia. “This guy’s got some X, wanna?” Claudia eagerly nods her head, and the two turn to Victoria, telling her to save the booth and that they’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Nervous, Victoria nonetheless forces a small, shy smile to indicate she will be okay alone.


Sylvia and Claudia are gone for maybe five minutes before Victoria begins to feel awkward taking up a whole booth by herself. Looking about anxiously, she palms her beer, and kneels up on the booth’s circular seat, her back to the bar and the club entrance, so she can peer out at the dance floor, hoping to make eye contact with Sam.

“Well, well, well, … it looks like we’ve got a little intruder in our booth, boys,” Victoria hears intoned menacingly behind her back. Having kneeled up in the booth to look out for Sam, she did not notice the group of four older men approaching the booth. As she turns, she sees the leader of this ragtag pack standing closest to her. He is tall, well-muscled, and scowling beneath a messy Mohawk of rusty brown hair. Victoria leans back against the booth to steady herself, the beer suddenly getting to her head, as she tries to step from the booth with a mumbled apology. This guy looks like nothing she wants to mess with—he smells of road grit, sweat, and testosterone. The men leering at her from behind him, one terribly good-looking but rather swaggering and the others non-committal but looking quite capable of violence also make her acutely aware of the danger of her situation—alone in a city she doesn’t know well without her friends, largely drunk off three-quarters of a beer, and in a shirt that reveals far too much of her barely legal breasts.

Tyrus, as the leader is called, has no patience for Victoria’s attempted escape. “Oh no love, you’ll stay where you’re at” he says as he pushes her back into the booth, knocking her off balance into the arms of one of the other men who has moved into the booth from the other side. Tyrus maneuvers himself around to the middle of the table with Victoria sat next to him and sandwiched in on the other side by one of the gruffer of his companions. Confused, Victoria tries to explain that she was just waiting for some friends and that they didn’t know this booth belonged to anyone and that she would go, but Tyrus’s friend grips her shoulders tightly while he inhales the scent of her clean, shampooed hair—filling his nostrils with the floral, feminine scent of her locks. “She smells good, Tyrus,” the man says in a husky voice that panics Victoria all the more. Tyrus leans in to her, saying, “Don’t worry girl, no harm. You’ll just be my date tonight, that’ll settle the score. I promise you’ll have fun. Relax on the poor girl’s shoulders there, Brick—she’s not going anywhere.” At the word of the more dominant male, Brick’s large, powerful hands release Victoria’s shoulders, and she immediately runs her fingers over the places he was holding her while Tyrus sends one of his boys to the bar for drinks.

“Finish your beer sweetheart, I’ve ordered another for you,” says Tyrus. “I’m okay thanks,” Victoria stammers, not wanting to make eye contact with the hulking form giving her orders.

“It’s rude not to accept a man’s offer to buy you a drink, love. You don’t want to be rude, do you? What’s your name?”

Her silence is met by a gruff hand grasping her chin and lifting it until her eyes make contact with the steely grey eyes of her mohawked interrogator. She realizes for the second time how much bigger than her he is, and for the first that he has a number of scars littering his torso and neck which are left exposed by the open shirt he wears beneath a battered leather jacket. That torso is also dusted with a fine smattering of hair that narrows and descends beneath the barrier of the dirty jeans that block the rest of her view. Smirking at her gaze, Tyrus squeezes her cheeks together a bit roughly and says, “Answer me and maybe I’ll take them off for you. You’d like to see it wouldn’t you?” He pushes her back against Brick with a rough shove of her face and a chuckle before saying, “Well, speak up, what’s your name?” Startled and close to tears, Victoria stutters her name as she reaches in her purse for a tissue, again refusing to look at the men surrounding her or the new beer on the table.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, and that’s a right pretty name, Miss Vickie,” says Tyrus. “Ain’t as pretty as her tits,” quips the leering Brick—prompting laughter from the other men around the table. Tyrus though, is not amused. Apparently he is the one to insult Victoria, not anyone else, and Brick’s unwise joke is rewarded with a quick and savage punch delivered across Victoria’s lap. Pushing back against the booth, she prays silently both that this will be a fight that will get the men thrown out and that it somehow won’t get her hurt even though she is seated between the two combatants. This is until she realizes that Brick is not about to challenge Tyrus, who with a still quite angry gleam in his eye turns his attention to her.

“Give us a kiss” he whispers rather harshly through clenched teeth as he seizes Victoria by the waist with one hand and yanks her toward him by the hair with the other. In a great deal of pain from his grip on her waist and unable to pull away from his oral caress because of the tightness of his grip on her long, silken black hair, she is stuck and forced to submit. As he presses his face against her delicate skin she feels the roughness of his stubbled cheeks scratching the soft flesh of her face and the firmness of his mouth, seizing her lips, sucking on them like they were fresh fruit. Still, she keeps her teeth clenched shut, refusing his tongue entrance into her mouth until slowly she realizes that Brick, from behind her, has worked his hand around inside the front of her shirt and is pressing into the large globe of her left breast so as not to be openly in view to the rest of the club. The temerity of this forced feeling up provokes her to action, not just resistance, and she opens her mouth to yell “No!” but is instead greeted with the muscular thrust of Tyrus’s tongue lunging into her mouth. Once he has gained admittance to her mouth, he refuses to relinquish that access, probing her mouth deeply with his tongue with long, slow thrusts and more delicate, quick flicks that send shudders down Victoria’s spine despite her active distaste for these older men—one tongue-fucking her mouth, the other kneading her breast, trying to pinch the nipple he has made erect and swollen beneath the layered fabric of her bra. As Tyrus’s tongue plunges into her mouth repeatedly, Victoria realizes that despite his disheveled appearance, he does not taste bad. There is a hint of beer on his breath, but that is not unpleasant and the rhythmic movements of his tongue slowly begin a process of her unconscious yielding of her mouth to him so that his tongue can dart in whatever corner of it he desires to probe.

Finally his hands and mouth release her, leaving her panting, confused—excited and aroused but also quite scared and aswim in the scent of his masculine musk. None of the boys she has ever kissed before have kissed her like that, and she has certainly never had any kind of contact with a guy as old as Tyrus, who she guesses must be somewhere in his late twenties at the youngest. Brick, not realizing his privileges are timed with his better’s, receives another smack for his continued massage of Victoria’s breast. Victoria can do little but lean back, feeling with great embarrassment the wetness that is slowly seeping into her panties from her damp little pussy. Cleanly shaven, because that’s what the coterie of girls decided they should all do late one night in the dorm bathroom, her delicate little pink lips are plump and aroused, her clitoris quite erect and throbbing in time with the memory of Brick’s manipulation of her nipple. A deep shame and blush crawl across Victoria’s visage as she sees Sylvia and Claudia approaching from the back of the club—their makeup looking a bit smeared, their clothes a bit disheveled. As they approach, they look a bit concerned, but nonetheless walk up to the table with the fraternity boy from before in tow—a second lagging slightly behind and wearing the same smirk of satisfaction as his ‘brother.’ Before Sylvia can even get a word out, Tyrus’s boys—the handsome one and the other brute—have pounced, shoving Sylvia back into her X dealers.