Prom Night Ch. 01

Thirty minutes later we were heading home.

* * * * *

What remained of the first semester of our senior year was uneventful. There were no more fraternity parties. Instead we hung with classmates, went on a few group dates with the gang, but with college looming in our immediate future safe stable Brooomall had become boring.

The day after finals Daddy asked if I remembered Tim and Tom Oxley. Damn right I remembered them, every girl remembered them. They were gorgeous: clear blue eyes, strong chins, high cheek bones, perfect hair, built, wearing the right clothes in just the right way, and exuding the confidence that comes with a privileged life, wealthy parents, and a lifetime of being told you're Adonis.

There was also this rumor, repeated so often it'd become gold-plated. The Oxleys were good in bed.

Trying to sound nonchalant I said, "Yeah. I went to high school with them. They were seniors my sophomore year. Why do you ask?"

"They called the office, asking if they could interview Robert and I. They're working on a project about friends who form an entrepreneurship and remembered us from high school."

"What did you tell them?"

"I told them sure. They'll be here tomorrow, we'll take them to lunch at the club. They have a flight out that night for Florida."

I called Cherokee.

* * * * *

Dressy, but not too dressy -- leggings, two inch heels, tight but not too tight tops -- we accidentally bumped into our fathers and the Oxleys the next day at the club. They were better looking than I remembered. Being polite, they asked if we'd join them for a cup of coffee. We did. They mentioned their flight to Miami. By a happy coincidence Cherokee and I needed to check on something at the university. We could drop them at the airport, it was on the way.

By the time we reached the airport Cherokee and I had dates for the senior prom.

I told Daddy the next day. Shaking his head he said, "Congratulations angel, those poor boys never had a chance. I have one piece of fatherly wisdom. Pretty packages don't make men."

* * * * *

Okay, that's enough background, let's get back to the story. When we left, it was prom night and the Oxleys, our dates, were late and unaccounted for. Cherokee and I, primped to the point where we could primp no more, were sitting with our fathers, primed for a fatherly, "I told you so."

We didn't get one. Instead, aware of our anxiety, our dads told us we were beautiful desirable irresistible, that our dates would soon arrive, confirmed a few minutes later by a text, and had us laughing at oft-told tales of our childhood. They even employed the ultimate weapon, passing around pieces of my favorite European dark chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better.

A car pulled up outside, doors opened and closed.

We looked at our fathers, started to say, "Be...," but they were a step ahead of us. "Don't worry ladies, we'll be nice."

And they were, gregariously greeting the Oxleys, inviting them inside. Tim and Tom, at their glib charming best, apologized for being late, told us we were beautiful, complimented our fathers and the house. Something, however, wasn't right and when they pinned on our corsages their breath made clear the reason for their glossy eyes and slack jaws. Our dates had been drinking, and not just a couple of beers. Still, they seemed okay. Their gaits were sure and no one was skewered by a corsage pin.

Our dads, of course, noticed and after a few minutes of small talk Mr. Canseco asked, "So how are you boys getting around tonight, rent one of those big party vans?"

Tim, my date, took the opportunity to show off. "No Mr. Canseco, we have a Picklesdorf, nothing but the finest for your daughters. It's waiting outside."

Mr. Picklesdorf, a friend of our fathers, ran the best, most in-demand, limousine service in the county.

Excusing himself to check on something in the kitchen, my Dad left, returning a moment later and nodding to Mr. Canseco. The Oxleys hadn't noticed, but I had. Daddy had confirmed there was a limousine parked in front of our house. Our dates wouldn't be driving. That was good.

Which is when Tom, Cherokee's date, spotted the champagne on the side board.

"You guys drinking the old bubbly tonight?"

Giving Daddy my best, most plaintive, do-not-make-a-scene look, I said, "Yes, our dads proposed a toast earlier in our honor."

Picking up the bottle Tommy said, "Dom Pérignon, I hear this stuff is good. I'd like to propose a toast."

Both Cherokee and I gave our fathers our do-not-make-a-scene look and, after a glance at each other, Mr. Canseco said, "Sure," spreading what remained of the champagne among six glasses.

Tommy held his up. "I propose a toast. To a fun evening with these lovely ladies."

We drained our glasses, cell phones were exchanged, pictures taken, and our fathers escorted the four of us to the door.

* * * * *

Our dates held the limousine's doors open. As Cherokee and I slipped inside I was struck by the odor: cigarettes, ingrained dirt, alcohol. I ran a fingertip on the seat. The fabric was greasy. Looking at Cherokee I raised my eyebrows. She nodded, then shrugged. She was right; there was nothing to do but go along for the ride.

As we pulled away Timmy shouted, "Okay, time to PARTEEE. Jeeves, we just had some rocking good champagne at the girls' house. Brut or something, I forget. Ya got anything like that?"

A disembodied voice from the front sheet: "I have an excellent champagne sir, every bit the equal of Brut, which, to be frank, is overpriced and overpraised. Should I add it to your bill?"

"Fuckin-A yes, four glasses please."

"Coming right up sir,"

The driver leaned to the right. I couldn't make out his features, but he was big. Bottles pinged against each other and our driver, somehow, managed to fill four paper cups and pass them to Timmy as he drove down the road.

I took a sniff, then a sip. It was sweet, but a saccharin lip-puckering yuck sweet. I glanced at Cherokee. She was swallowing, trying to wash the taste from her mouth.

Our dates drained their cups. "Fuckin' A. That was great. How about another round Jeeves? PARTEEEE."

"Of course gentlemen."

Cherokee said, "Nothing for us right now thank you, we're still working on ours. I thought Mr. Picklesdorf had a rule against alcohol in his limousines."

The driver: "The old man? For his best drivers, for special customers on special occasions like tonight, he makes an exception. Rules are made to be broken. The old man would prefer you keep it to yourselves. I can tell him he can depend on you, can't I?"

Maybe I was overreacting, but I thought there was the trace of a threat, a hint of warning, in his voice.

Tommy said, "Hell yeah, you can count on us Jeeves. Our secret. You got any more of this stuff?"

He did, of course.

* * * * *

Cherokee and I had kept our dates a secret; people assumed we were going with each other. So when we stepped from the limousine with the Oxleys there was an intake of breath, followed by a collective hush. The senior girls were rendered dumb by the reappearance of these legendary, gorgeous, unobtainable, universally lusted for guys. Younger girls who didn't know the Oxleys still couldn't take their eyes off these impeccably dressed college-aged hunks.

The Oxleys were at their charismatic best. Confident in their appeal, arms around our waists, they worked their way through the crowd fist bumping, back slapping, exchanging snippets of conversation, feigning recollection of people they didn't remember. It was the entrance Cherokee and I hoped for; we loved the attention. By time we reached the dance floor we were ready to go, charged up, turned on.

We got more aroused. Good dates, the Oxleys complimented our dresses, our hair, our perfume, told us we were beautiful. When girls hit on them the Oxleys handled it with class, polite but uninterested. And most of all, those boys could dance. Dancing turns me on and while Cherokee and I were good, the Oxleys were spectacular. You had to remember not to stop and just watch them. During slow songs, while our classmates clumsily groped and pawed each other, the Oxleys gracefully slipped an arm around our waists, their palms on the flat of our backs, eyes locked on ours or our heads on their shoulders. I imagined that palm holding me in place when hard as steel, he spread the lips of my pussy.

The DJ announced a break. Our dates led us from the dance floor, then offered to get everyone drinks. While alcohol was banned, the prom was awash in it. Throughout the evening flasks emerged from coats, back pockets, people's hips. The Prom Committee's non-alcoholic fruit punch had morphed into a concoction of unknown composition and lethal potency.

I watched our dates -- they had great butts -- stop at the punch bowl and, not for the first time that evening, drain a mug of the stuff in two gulps before filling four glasses and heading our way. I slipped my hand into Cherokee's. "Babe, I'm having fun, but I need to get laid. How do they drink that much and stay functional?"

"I guess it's why everyone says Penn State's a party school, you go there to practice drinking. I'm with you, I'm afraid if we don't get our boys out of here this is going to be a sequel to the flaccid frat boys and I really don't want that. Tell you what. Next slow number get real tight with your guy, nothing crude, but close -- let him feel your nipples -- then lean in and talk dirty, real dirty, filthy dirty. Tell him every lewd thing you've imagined doing to him or anyone else since you were a freshman. And be graphic, don't play good girl on me."

The Oxleys returned, handed us our drinks. I took a sip; it was bitter, flavorless, with an alcohol content in the stratosphere.

The DJ started back up. Placing my drink on a table, I grabbed my date's hand and headed to the dance floor.

* * * * *

I didn't play good girl. My arms around my Oxley's neck, my mouth on his ear, using my best throaty voice, I said, "Timmy I am so hot, so frigging hot for you. My pussy's wet, dripping down my thighs. My pussy lips are soft and swollen, waiting for your dick. My cunt's quivering needing you inside. Oh baby, the prom's great, but I need to be fucked and you're the man to do it."

A few feet away, her fat breasts pressed to her Oxley's chest, Cherokee whispered, "I'm gonna make tonight so worth your time. You like my titties? You want me to squeeze them around your big fat cock while you fuck them? You want to come all over them? They're yours and if you're a good little perv my blonde buddy might just lick the cum off them just for you. I shaved my pussy. No hair, just girl cunt. I can't wait until were sixty-nining and you're feeding on girl juice and your cock is stuffed in my face. And then you can fuck me. How do you want me? On my back, legs spread? You got it. Me on top, shoving my body down, squeezing my cunt muscles on your dick? You got it. On all fours like a bitch dog in heat? You got it. Fuck me baby, anyway you want. I want your cum inside me; I want your cum all over me."

I slipped my right leg between Timmy's legs, moved onto my toes, rocked my thigh on his erection. "By the time I'm through you'll forget how to walk."

When the lights came on the boys, hands on our butts, were giving us a deep sloppy kiss. Timmy retrieved his cell phone from his jacket, texted our driver, and the four of us headed for the door. Our progress was neither as quick -- friends stopped us to say goodnight, frenemies to make catty remarks, and we had to thank the prom committee -- nor as alcohol free -- at each stop our dates shared a last drink or took a nip on their flasks -- as I wanted, but we made it.

The limousine was waiting at the end of the parking lot; our driver leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. Several inches north of six feet tall, he weighed at least 250 pounds and while not chiseled, he was far from fat. There was a lot of strength in his big boned frame. Several long-standing stains were embedded in his white shirt; the jacket pulled over it wasn't much better. His black oily hair was combed straight back and it had been a couple of days since he'd shave. Mr. Picklesdorf had a sterling reputation. Had the labor shortage forced him to lower his standards?

As we approached the driver threw his cigarette on the ground, glanced at the Oxleys, then turned his full focus to Cherokee and me. "Gentlemen, and lovely ladies -- I don't think I got your names -- where to now?" I didn't like the way he looked at me or Cherokee. Oblivious, our dates said, "Back to the hotel, Jeeves," and giggling at their own joke, fell into the car laughing.

I hadn't noticed it in the noise of the prom, but our dates were slurring their words.

We'd barely left the parking lot when our dates started nodding off. Cherokee and I tried to keep them awake: we talked to them, poked and prodded them. I ran my hand on Timmy's crotch. It was a losing battle. A few minutes later Timmy, then Tommy, snored.

Then there was disembodied voice from the front seat: "Hey ladies, have fun tonight? It seems the Bobsey twins sure did."

"Yes, it was fun."

"I remember my high school prom; had a fucking ball."

Deciding to ignore the driver, I checked my phone. People were already sharing pictures of the prom, there were a bunch of the four of us. We did look good. Engrossed, I didn't notice when we'd driven by the first turn downtown until we whizzed by the second. Where was the driver going? That's when it hit me, I didn't know. The Oxleys said they had a suite. It had to be in one of nice downtown hotels -- that's where everybody stayed -- but I didn't know which one.

Trying to sound nonchalant I said, "I'm drawing a blank, what hotel are we in?"

The driver said, "Me too, it's the one.... Fuck, I'm having a brain fart. I should know this. Let me double-check," and started fiddling with his cell phone. As I waited for an answer he kept driving.

Finally, he said, "I got it," and turned left, heading north, away from town, on a two lane asphalt road running north into the country. There were no lights, there were no houses.

"The hotel is the Shady Inn."

I'd never heard of it. "Where is it?"

"Allen Street, in Stratford."

What the fuck, Stratford was thirty miles away.

Cherokee, who'd been listening, activated her cell phone, its dull light could be seen throughout the car, and said in a precise calm voice, "Well, that's not going to work. Why don't you turn this thing around and take us home."

"I'd love to ladies, but I can't. The boys are the boss, they paid the bill and they told me to take everyone to their hotel -- you heard them -- so that's where I've gotta go. I'd lose my license if I didn't. You wouldn't want that, would you ladies? I'm only a poor chauffeur. But don't worry, Stratford's fun. I know a bar near the hotel. If the boys aren't awake when we get there I'll buy you a drink. The way you two look, you'll be welcome. And while the guys who hang out there aren't as cute as your dates, they can hold their liquor."

Cherokee said, "I'm going to call my father, let him know where we are. I wouldn't want him to worry."

The driver, with a laugh, said, "Good idea honey. I gotta warn you, it can be hard to get a signal out here. I've heard it's because of the buried electrical cables."

I looked to Cherokee, who was staring at her phone. I looked at mine. No bars.

I nudged my date, hard, with my elbow. He sputtered, then returned to snoring.

I glanced at Cherokee; at least she looked more possessed than I felt. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm myself. No reason to panic. The driver might be creepy, but it was nothing Cherokee and I couldn't handle. My pulse rate decelerated. We rode in silence for the next several minutes and then, "Damn."

"What is it?"

Guiding the vehicle onto a cleared area on the side of the road the driver said, "The check engine light came on. No reason to panic, the mechanic said it might happen. The part is supposed to come in tomorrow, but right now I'll need to reset the sensor."

Cherokee, doubt in her voice, said, "Which sensor?"

"I don't know, the fucking sensor, the one the mechanic showed me. Looks like I'm gonna need one of you to hold the flashlight. You, what's your name."

"Cherokee."

"You're nominated. I'll get the flashlight and tools out of the trunk."

Reaching under the dashboard the driver popped open the hood and trunk, got out, pocketed the keys, and lit a cigarette. I elbowed my date. Nothing. I did it again, harder. He moaned softly, resumed snoring. The driver laughed. "Blondie, frat boy there ain't gonna be of any use, he's out for the evening. But don't worry. I know we're stranded out here in these scary woods, phones don't work, no one knows where you are, but I'll take real good care of you. You don't need pretty boy."

The driver shambled behind the vehicle and started rooting around in the truck. Cherokee, digging into her small purse, said, "I know it's here, I know it's here, yeah," and handed me the Mini. "If he does anything out there...."

"You're not going out there, are you?

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, because, because we're big girls, we can take care of ourselves, because the car might really be broken, because although he's a pig, he hasn't really done anything yet, because how will it look if we call in the cavalry and it's nothing."

Cherokee's door jerked open. "C'mon honey, I need you to hold the flashlight."

With the door open you could see it, you could smell it. Half the car was sitting in a sea of sulfurous mud. Cherokee said, "Give me a second to pin up my dress, I don't want to ruin it."

The driver, impatient, grabbed Cherokee by the arm, yanked her from the car and dragged her around to the front. "Don't worry honey, no one's going to notice a little mud on you. They'll be too busy looking at those tits,".

Okay Bub, message received. You're a lot stronger than we are and we're scared.

The driver opened the hood. I couldn't see him or Cherokee, he couldn't see me.

I turned on the Mini.

* * * * *

While all dad's worry about their daughter's safety, our dads worry more than most. I think it's because their jobs makes them aware of every threat, no matter how rare, to young women. Before we were allowed to date they made us promise to call them if there was a problem, a threat of a problem, or the hint of a threat of a problem. They also gave us an Iridium inReach Mini. About the size of your thumb, designed for hikers, it sends location information through the satellite system. If something went wrong with our cell phones -- lost, broken, dead battery, towers down, whatever -- all we had to do is turn on the Mini. Our dads would find us.

* * * * *

"No!" It was Cherokee's voice coming from the front of the car.

"You've been showing those things off to frat boys and the rest of the world all night. Yeah, and I've noticed 'em, just like you wanted. But that's enough teasing. It's time to give a guy a look."

"Look mister, let's just get the car fixed.... What are you doing."

"Well bitch, I asked nice. Maybe you'll listen next time."

Forcing down the urge to panic, I scanned my memory: what had Daddy said to do in a situation like this? I could hear his voice in my head and... it came back to me. I set my phone on video, squirmed between the front seats, and wedged it in the corner where the dashboard and windshield end. It would record everything happening in front of the car.

"You embarrassed honey. Don't be, those are some titties. Y'know, you and blondie should be nice to me. After all, two young ladies stuck way out here with no one to protect them but me. Who knows what could happen? You girls need me, you need to be nice to me, you need to be real nice to me right now. Now bring those babies over here. I'm asking nice, this last time."