Owned by the Thompson Men

Mercedes I've never considered myself a slut. It's a bad word. A lazy word. A cliche used to strip a woman of her pride before she even has the chance to embrace it. But as the morning light filters through the grime-stained windows of the Sigma Phi house, I realize I've finally run out of other words to describe myself. Waking up naked is one thing. Waking up in a bed that smells like cheap beer and Axe spray is another. But waking up sandwiched between two guys whose names I don't even know? That's a new low, even for me. My heart hammers a frantic, rhythmic shaming against my ribs. I stare up at the ceiling, clutching a blanket over my bare chest as if it could somehow shield me from reality. Honestly, I don't remember much. Just that I got wasted. Really wasted. The kind of wasted where the music becomes a heartbeat and your inhibitions dissolve into the bottom of a red plastic cup. Flashbacks hit me in jagged painful shards: The cold splash of the pool, my clothes abandoned somewhere on the lawn. The taste of salt and cheap tequila on strangers' tongues. I also remember reckless laughter that felt like freedom at the time, but now feels like a cry for help. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness only makes the memories more vivid. I can still feel the weight of their bodies—the way they took turns with me, their hands demanding every inch of skin I had to give. I remember the relentless, punishing rhythm that had me damn near losing my mind, orgasming over and over again until I couldn't breathe. The memory of the alcohol makes my stomach lurch. I can almost taste the stinging burn of them pouring spirits over my skin, slurping the liquid from my p***y while I arched my back and begged for more. I hadn't just allowed it—I had craved it. And the most graphic memory? The one that makes me hate myself the most? The way I'd stuck my tongue out, desperately needing them to come all over my face and breasts. I'd wanted them to mark me as their plaything for the night. I'd wanted to be used until I forgot who I even was. Shit. I'd made a complete fool out of myself. I'd acted like some kind of greedy porn star in a room full of strangers. And for what? I glance at the two sleeping forms beside me, the reality of my "freedom" crashing down. Sneaking into this party was supposed to be fun. My friend, Tabitha, knew I was at a breaking point. She knew I needed an escape from that house—and from my narcissistic b***h of a mother. I'd wanted one night where I wasn't the "perfect daughter". One night where I didn't have to listen to her sharp tongue dissecting every flaw in my character. Well, I got my wish. But if my mother ever saw me like this—naked, covered in the spent lust of two frat boys, and smelling like a f*****g liquor cabinet—she wouldn't just dissect me. She'd destroy me. Panic, cold and piercing, begins to override my hangover. I have to get the f**k out of here. I hold my breath, my lungs burning as I prepare to move. Slowly, I begin to slide out from between them. Every inch of skin that peels away from their warm, heavy bodies feels like a loud rip in the silence of the room. On my left, the dark-haired sophomore groans in his sleep, his arm twitching as it loses the heat of my hip. I freeze. My heart stops. I wait for his eyes to snap open, for him to realize the huge slut he spent all night f*****g is making a run for it. Seconds tick by like hours. Luckily, he doesn't wake. He just rolls over, burying his face deeper into a pillow that likely smells like my regret. I ease my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the sticky hardwood floor with a soft thud. The air in the room is freezing against my naked skin, raising goosebumps that make me feel even more exposed. I don't look back. I can't. If I look at their faces now, in the sober light of day, it will make the memories even harder to bury. I scan the floor, my eyes searching through the wreckage of the room—c*m-filled condoms, crumpled red cups, and a mountain of dirty laundry piled near the closet, even though there's a hamper sitting right damn next to it. Eww. Disgusting. I finally spot a flesh of blue silk near the edge of the bed. My dress. I lunge for it, my movements frantic but silent, praying to a God I don't even believe in that my phone and my dignity are still somewhere in the room. I find the dress tangled in a pair of discarded jeans. I yank it free, the fabric cool and mocking against my skin as I shimmy into it. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely find the zipper. I need to get an Uber. Like, now. I scan the shadows for my purse, my heart doing frantic little tap-dance that matches each passing second until I finally spot my clutch. It's peeking out from under a filthy football jersey—Number 22. A number I'll probably hate for the rest of my life. Snatching it up, I fumble with the latch until I manage to pull my phone out. Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead, I chant in my head, my thumb rapidly tapping the screen. The black glass stays dark for a heartbeat too long. Then, eventually, the screen glows to life, illuminating the dark room enough to make me squint. It's only on 10%. The battery is on lifesaver mode, the little red bar mocking me. It's a gamble, but it'll have to do. It's not like I have time to look for and actually charge my phone here. With shaking fingers, I pull up the Uber app. My eyes dart between the spinning loading icon and the bed behind me. One of them shifts, the mattress creaking under his weight, and I nearly drop the phone. Come on, come on... The app finally finds a driver. Five minutes. Five minutes until I can disappear. Five minutes to get down those stairs and out the front door before the sunlight reveals what kind of girl I've become. Suddenly, the bed groans again. This time, it isn't just a restless stir. The mattress sags under the weight of someone sitting up, and the springs shriek in protest. One of them is awake! A silent, panicked squeak escapes my throat. I don't think—I just drop, rolling under the bed as if the room is on f*****g fire. I press my face against the freezing, dusty floorboards, my blood pounding so loudly I can't hear anything else. I stay as still as a corpse, praying for the quiet to return, but above me, the bed continues to heave. In this moment, I am well and truly f****d.