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Chapter Nineteen: Darkroom Encounters & Non-Booty Calls (part 1)

Rory's POV, 9:00pm

Have you ever had one of those days you just never wanted to end? That you went into thinking as you got up from bed that it was going to be gloomy and grey, and that you'd spend most of it brooding and grumpy, but it became wonderful because of some kind of event occurred?

Usually, that never happened at Stars Hollow High. If there was one thing that took us out of the classroom, it was assembly. Or as I think of it, an hour of silent torture while most of the teachers hung out at the corner, smoking and venting about their students while a skeleton staff hoped whoever was on stage kept us occupied enough.

Let me say something right now. Assemblies in Stars Hollow might be the lamest things ever. You'd think they'd be fun. But they never were. Tortuous puppet shows about stranger danger, theater company rejects warning us about cocaine, corporate video presentations that make me dread the day I have to enter a newspaper's auditorium and watch the Up with People-like sexual harassment videos. And then the speakers...the freakin' speakers! My principal had horrible taste in speakers and picked out people who mumbled their words, robotically went through the topic like they had with every high school in the Valley, and just did not light any kind of fire under my ass.

I hated assemblies in Stars Hollow. At least at Chilton, we get the high-ticket assemblies with people who actually give a damn, knowing if they suck, the students of Chilton will boo them off the stage instead of snooze through them. We're paying big bucks to be in this school, and you better have a damned good reason to put our asses in those seats.

OK, I'm not making the assembly point because say, Derek Jeter came to our school and spoke about something. There was no assembly today at all. But I love fun things. Fun and surprising things that you would never expect to occur. Especially when they turn a dull day into a bright day.

Wait, did I just admit I have a crush on Derek Jeter? Oh boy, I guess he has a cute butt. But if I ever told Paris that, she would certainly disown me, her family having held Fenway season tickets since the 20's. Luke wouldn't mind, being the Yankees fan that he is.

What, I may be a lesbian, but I still have plenty of fun things to say about guys. I just don't want them sexually, that's all. Hey, if Par can still proclaim her somewhat secret want for that Canadian guy on Whose Line?, I can still crush on a boy.

Great, everything was going well until I admitted that. I am so dead now.

Although if Paris were to have killed me tonight, I think it would've been more from overwhelming desire than anything else. I mean, oh my God, I woke up, and it was just Tuesday. That's it. Nothing more than that. Three days after I became the lucky recipient of that lovely blonde's v-card, I was feeling the let down from the euphoria of that night. I had a heavy homework load last night, I got an invitation from the Springsteens for a second dinner that I had to beg myself out of, and to top it all off, I nicked my left leg pretty badly trying to shave it in the shower pretty badly.

Remind me when Paris has to do her spa day next week. I will come with her and hopefully she'll treat for leg waxing.

She was also quiet on the way up to Hartford on the ride north. Eerily quiet. I thought at the time she was also in a grumpy mood.

I forget how sneaky Paris is. Instead of having one of those odd and cold days...well, let's just say she made me feel very warmed and loved. Oh, this is going to be fun to tell, and certainly it tops any boring old assembly I've ever had.

I also now have a new appreciation for closed in spaces. Along with slinky lingerie and how fucking wet she makes me when she gets pissed.

It's too bad there's only twenty-four hours in a day. I wish this one could be much longer. Maybe like, 240 hours long.

Then again, that might be too much of a good thing. But good things come to those who wait.

And I've waited a long time to have a very wonderful night like this.

* * * * *

You'd think she'd be timid and cautious around me, a hair trigger trying not to go off as she just looks at me from afar, trying to hold back her thoughts and remain innocent.

But what was a slow tide to begin with, rolling gradually towards the shore, seems to have become a tsunami since the Formal. The subtle touches from her are more drawn out, the insinuations peering over my shoulder much broader, less hidden. The confidence that built up last week is finally manifesting within her, and the shy academic of old is still there, but she's becoming a bit more open about where she wants to stand in this relationship.

At lunch, she's actually taken to stealing a bit of my salad and even the carrot cake that comes as dessert. She'll distract me with a leg brush or some kind of question, reach over with her fork and stab a bit of cherry tomato and lettuce onto it, then just eat it as if she had permission already. It's blatant and wrong of her to assume, but what can I really do? Her hand is beneath my skirt and I can't object to that!

That, and dressing on her lip...very distracting. She licks it off blatantly, no blotting it with her napkin or anything, just running her tongue along the ridge of her lip. I get warm just thinking about that.

So many little things are getting to me with her: when she bends down to push up her sock, or a strand of hair falls out from behind her ear, even her style of debate within a classroom. I had to hold myself back as she argued vehemently about Dostoyevsky's style of prose to Mr. Mercurio in class Wednesday morning. Her eyes bulged out a bit as the teacher tried to shoot her down, and she stood there, arms crossed and tossing her hair back as if she was offended he was fighting back.

"I'm trying to challenge myself, but I fail to see how this author's experience is relevant to my generation, sir," she argued. Heads turned towards her as I watched Connecticut's top debater totally own the school's worst teacher. "I can't stand this damned book! Maybe in the 1860's it would make Oprah's book club quite easily, but seriously, the writer is so earnest and melodramatic that the names of the characters make their roles so transparent that there's no getting out of them. And six different branching parts? Really? If this guy were a writer for Law & Order the show would get lower ratings than some fishing show on NESN! I love complicated. I enjoy long, complex plots. But I shouldn't need to consult Mapquest to know where I am in a story." She argued a couple other points, and by the time she sat down you could tell that Mr. Mercurio was put in his place. I watched her from my seat. My heart was thumping hard in my chest, my eyes totally trained on her, and I sucked at my tongue, a sudden need in me to show her how much her commentary was appreciated. I closed my eyes and didn't even need to touch her the rest of the period because she was so dead-on about the book and brought me to a point where I couldn't stand the hard wooden seat against my ass.

I don't know what suddenly has brought her to be so bold and erotic with me. During paper meetings she brushes her leg against mine, while she comes over to my station often and writes little notes in the margins of my articles with her red pencil. Standing over me while her breath drifts across the back of my neck, she quickly scribbles what she needs to quickly while her hair falls down to graze my ear. They're usually just nudging corrections, grammar and prose like she usually touches on.

Today though, on what should be a long and trudging Tuesday, her notes seemed to have nothing to do with the articles. Her knuckles brushed across my fingers as her tall script flowed from the graphite and shielded it from view with her palm.

"Keep an eye on this. I won't tell you again, Gilmore," she purred, and then pulled away to leave me to read her notes.

I never thought I'd use editor and sexy in the same sentence, but I have many times to myself this week. I read her writing and felt flustered by her text.

A paler pink next time. Today's was nice, but it didn't blend in like I thought it should. - A

Oh God. She was talking about my choice of underwear for the day and with her shorthand 'A' to remind me of the ride into Hartford! I thought it looked nice, but I'm learning that her preference is that I contrast my skin with what I wear under the uniform. Something that's innocent is still cute to her, but she seems to enjoy me more in patterns that are interesting and bold. I smiled, and took it in mind.

The notes continued through our work forming the draft layout with everyone else, small things being listed on them, like her mention that she was drawn to the scent of my perfume. The slight highlighting in my hair also got to her, while the tone of my voice is better during an argument when I'm ready to argue my points rather than just going into the fight unplanned. I expected a note once everyone had left except for Ms. Peters and I could unbutton my sweater. Three minutes later, Paris came to my side and scribbled lines across a couple of lines of overwritten prose. Her nose touched the top of my head, while her right hand drifted across my shoulder. She hurriedly let her tall cursive overtake my writing in red, taking a bit more time than usual.

I was surprised by what she told me as she pulled away.

Might need a 2nd opinion on hose. Dreamt last night you wore them...took me back to old times. - A

I stopped her before she could leave, startling her. Moving towards the bottom of the sheet, I quickly scribbled a response.

Thigh highs? Full hose? Need to know further. I give her a look, and she shook her head. Putting her pencil next to my text, she communicated further.

Stockings, definitely, love peeling them off. That one hot day last June in DC? Liz Taylor in 'Hot Tin Roof' has nothing on you.

I stood still, in place. God, that heat wave towards the end of the month was miserable, and I still remembered it. Rather, my legs remember sticking to the leather of a chair in Kennedy Center as we waited to see some sub-Mark Russell political satirist. We had to dress very nice and humor the guy that he was funny, but the auditorium was hot and the AC was on low, so by the time we got back to Howard we were both sticky and sweaty. Paris got the shower first, leaving me to undress...

Which I thought I did in private, until then. My heart skipped a beat, the idea of her perving over me so early spinning me around. I darted a look towards her and responded in kind.

Once you got in that shower I got myself off hard. Thinking of you in that damp blouse. You sweated through it and...I wish you were heated up like that more often.

She turned to the next page, her response written fast.

Through my panties too...had to peel them off. Letting that dress slide above the garter, how dare you? - A

I felt myself tighten up...

Sucks that it's winter. I bet you get slick when the temp's above 80?.

Thank goodness Ms. Peters doesn't monitor the computer screens from afar. The written foreplay was quickly overpowering the article...

I naturally moisturize in any condition; temp doesn't matter.

I decided to get gutsy and whisper my thought.

"How wet are you now?" I husked softly, shielding my voice so Ms. Peters couldn't hear us across the room. Why I was bringing myself into her game, I have no idea. I closed my eyes, ready for Paris to come to her senses and walk away angry.

Instead, she brought herself closer, letting her nose brush across the back of my head. Her voice was tight and shaky as she tried to dull our progress.

"No kissing at Chilton." She pulled away, and I knew her aversion and non-answer wasn't just a reminder of our self-set rules.

Before she could disengage herself from me, I brought her attention back my way, pulling the keyboard towards me and touch-typing a quick response to the non-answer.

I'm gonna ruin the seat in the Jag. I stare at the words as I heard her breath hitch at the insinuation. I felt her nails dig into my shoulder. She hunched back over me and scribbled another note onto the sheet of paper.

I think I can smell it coming from you. Making me aware of that, G-d. We have rules between us!

I thought for a moment as her fingers scraped across my bra strap. I felt so shaky, going into the unknown. What should be said was instead written and whispered. I crossed my legs over, beginning to warm, sensing her heat. I held down Enter for about ten lines and let the Tahoma text flow onto the screen.

Rules were meant to be broken, I typed. I feel daring, incredibly bold. Staring straight at the screen, I heard her breath hitch, a hard tap of her shoe against the hardwood. Bending back down, she scribbled a response, the lead of her pencil quickly dwindling as the details of the words softened on the sheet.

You're playing w/fire Gilmore. This round, she didn't pull away, and I could tell I was lighting her up. Down two more lines as my self-censor screamed at me to not hit Option+S...

Madame Editor, you're the one who started it. The question is; how are you going to put it out? I struck the enter key with force, waiting for her response while feeling my walls close in on themselves. I almost forced out an accidental moan as my slickened lips pushed against my hardened nub.

There was a history behind the Madame Editor name of course; it was what the other paper staff called her behind her back. In their hands, it pissed her off.

In mine though, it was a high compliment that pushed her ego to new heights not even seen by Maureen Dowd. She pushed provocatively against me, heat wafting from her as she used the last of her lead to put in the last word. My eyes totally focused on her handwriting, my cheeks warm and...well, Dean stacking soup cans at an end cap never did as much for me as Paris's proof-flirting.

Peters leaves in 15. If you can stand to wait that long, there are a few snaps in the darkroom I have to examine and you have to look at w/me. Punctuating the finality, she slammed a hard, deep dot atop of the last lower-case I in the sentence, and I saw the lead fracture.

"Damn it, I have to sharpen this," she cursed as she ran the implement up my arm before she slipped it into a pocket. Her voice was commanding and deep, filled with hidden lust veiled by the everyday task of writing a school newspaper. I closed my eyes, letting her have her wicked way with me.

Oh God! I was stone still in my chair panting heavily as I realized that I had just extended a wanton invitation to her, and she had not only taken it, but dared me to flout our self-governance about our relationship.

"Hopefully you'll take my notes in mind, Gilmore." Moving to hover dead center over me, she slid her right hand onto mine, guiding the mouse and hard-clicking the button as she pushed the cursor up to highlight all the text. "This won't work anymore. You need to redo this all over." After highlighting all that dirty text, she dared to stretch over me one more time and struck the backspace key with her middle finger.

A movement I didn't even notice as her mouth grazed the back of my scalp. The text blanked out and she pulled away as if she just pushed a reset button on me, Small Wonder robot girl-style. I heard her retreat, and whatever the story was, I completely blanked out on the topic and the details.

Fuck, I didn't even know how to do a simple byline at that point. My mind was only on one thing. It completely blanked out, and I spent an inordinate amount of time watching the cursor blink on and off, completely lost to the article I was intending to write. Even if I remembered the darn thing, it would've all come out written in lorem ipsum.

Ten minutes later, I heard the door to the darkroom open and close, and then the red light flipped on. Three minutes later, as I made a feeble attempt to write something...

"Have a nice evening, Rory. Don't forget to let Paris know to lock up." I looked up to see Ms. Peters ready to leave.

"She never forgets," I assured, and after some other pleasantries, our faculty supervisor left, as I felt nervous about entering the darkroom. I logged myself out of the network and put the computer in standby, pushing in the chair and wetting my mouth with Diet Coke. Slowly I approached the door and knocked, knowing if I did not I was signing my death warrant.

"Come in," she said, and I opened the metal door, expecting to see her actually working in some form.

Oh, if there were so many ways I was dreaming of the moment 'no kissing in Chilton' was broken, this was the one possibility I thought of the least, but was the hottest version.

There was Paris, bathed in the glowing red light of the room, sweat reflecting off her glistening skin. A foot propped against a cabinet holding photography chemicals as she glared at me, hungry and wanting, her brown eyes reflecting black within the dim room. Her tongue poked in the right side of her mouth; she took me in as I took her in.

The stubborn woman I've always known was relaxed in that setting. Her sweater was draped carelessly over a stool on one side of the room.

Along with, surprisingly, her tie. I darted my eyes towards her, the missing items becoming exactly that after that point. She beckoned me towards her as I stuck the hook and eye lock onto the door to kill any interruptions. I couldn't help but stare at her as I watched the shadows shift with each step.

"I reordered," she said softly, drawing her eyes down. I moved with them, towards her blouse. She shyly smiled, feeling a bit self-conscious about finally finding the seductress within.

The blouse she wore, instead of being ill-fitting and clumsy, was cinched close against her bosom, now fitting tightly against her, putting herself on full display. I could trace the swell of her breast, where formerly it just disappeared into the tuck as she tried to mute herself around Madeline and Louise. She unbuttoned down two places and the effect of her looking like that was overwhelming to me.

I asked her how many new blouses she ordered. "About ten," she responded softly. "I was surprised they had that many, actually, or that they would fit so well. I kept a couple of loose shirts, and the rest I donated to the Uniform Fund." I walked towards her, my gait careful as I felt overheated. "Some fortunate student shouldn't have to pay $45 for something that's nothing on my step of the wealth ladder."

I focused on her, becoming slowly turned on further. I heard my steps echo in the room, the red glow of the light contrasting our clothing in such a way that I felt the lighting of the room take my mood from dead focused on the newspaper to just wanting her.

"I was that girl once," I confessed. "I had to wear a Uniform Fund shirt the first two weeks until Grandma could try to order 25 shirts for me. Somehow I managed to have her pare it down to twelve."

"You can't have too many shirts," she said. "I...I'm just realizing now that there's no longer any need to hide myself." Her lip quivered while she kept her voice soft and hushed. "I was always teased for the way my body was, and rather than doing something like defend myself, or do something drastic like starve, I've ignored it. What use is it to play up things no one notices?"

"Thus, huge shirts." She nodded as I went into my own history. "I used to be the same way. In part looking good for Dean played into it, but it's like, I don't want to play into everything about body image. So I have a bit of a stomach; does it hurt me? Really, does it make any difference to have ten more pounds on me? I look good. I feel good. You're the same way, I assume."

"I think what did it for me was last week." We were close together against the counter in the corner of the room. "It was such a small step, buying me that lingerie. I thought I couldn't carry it off. But because I never tried, I kept that self-opinion that I was meant to be dowdy and dull. Who could give me that self-validation besides myself? Until you came forward, no one." Her warm hands slid against my arms, unbuttoning the cuffs of my blouse. "I never felt comfortable in a loose blouse, really. But I didn't know what else to do."

"We're both coming into our own, together," I surmised, my hands at her waist as she bent me against the edge of the steel counter. "Our self-censors are off around each other. For a long time myself I didn't gussy up, or bother with it. But we're human, beautiful, red-blooded vessels with hormones here. Eventually we have to capitulate to those inner desires we hold in because what would people say if either or both of us were sexual."

"Like your desire to have text sex on Sunday night with me?" The twinkle in her eye was mischievous and I shuddered while I recalled how I turned a boring and compulsory cocktail party she was forced to attend into something which made her a sopping mess. I grinned, seething as I untucked her blouse.

"You weren't complaining," I noted. "Better not, with such responses like I just bit into the cherry in my Temple...tastes familiar."

"A delicious cherry too," she recalled. "Nice and juicy."

I had to close my eyes, overwhelmed by her husky voice. I blushed, feeling myself color all the way head-to-toe. "I never thought you'd go for keeping the thread going for hours. I was just planning a hello and a little taste, but you went for the whole pie."

"What can I say? You can't just have a slice." I groaned as she slightly pressed against me, her eyes intense as a leg pressed against me softly. "Seriously, you're my levity now when it comes to these stupid events. Although I still think you timed that one message before Vance tried to lay his game on me to both piss me off and turn me into a dripping mess."

"How was I supposed to know?" I whined. "It was the truth that I still felt so weird about sleeping completely nude, that I had to stretch out. I...I didn't know it was that nice though."

"What did I tell you?" Her eyes roamed across my lips. "Wasn't it nice, waking up slowly from a dream about us in the library? You didn't have to bother with anything stopping you at all. Nothing was in your way."

"Nothing at all." I laid a soft kiss upon her lips. "To describe it while Sharon was describing you as the paragon young woman of Hartford society...a complete virgin, competent, compliant to whoever might marry you, loyal and unwavering..." I nipped her lip. "Which I'm sure is a carbon copy of how my grandmother describes me." I slid against her in a hug, our legs meeting as I tried to get out of my shoes. "But they're so wrong, aren't they?"

"Incredibly." She returned the kiss and soon we were entangled together, our bodies moving onto the cool surface in the middle of the room as she straddled herself against me, her right hand resting upon my thigh. She bit at the bottom of my lip, taking it between her teeth, rolling it back and forth. I breathed in deeply, feeling the innate urge to buck my hips against her when her hand wasn't near my core. "Bet you Summer would never think of doing this."

"Summer thinks?" My breath became heavy as slowly two fingertips slid across my thigh. "Oh, damn, Paris....God." I opened my legs a bit, heating up. "That...that's so good."

"Let me know, hon. I want to make you feel nice right now. Paper work is done for the day, we can finish tomorrow."

"What...about...no...kissing?" As I asked the question, she began to do exactly the negative of that statement, closing her lips around mine and giving me these slow and teasing busses which had just the slightest bit of tongue tease within. I felt her begin to settle against me, her body by far heated from so many close calls over the last four days. The buildup of our teasing was beginning to get to the both of us. Slowly, she pulled away and forced me into a sitting position onto the table. So little to keep me warm surface-wise...

"Fuck no kissing," she commanded. "Ever since you got into the Jag Monday morning I can't help myself, my wanting you. We're truly lovers now, and I'm tired of using self-invented rules to deny each other. My body just hasn't felt right since Saturday night."

"Tell me," I gasped out. "Please." I tasted vanilla on my tongue, the slight scent of spearmint within my nose.

"I...I really don't know how to describe it, to be honest. It's like this heat that radiates from within. I look at you and I develop some kind of blush that colors my face and seems to flow down from there." This was bare honesty she was sharing with me. "I try to brush it off, look serious and all that, but you get to me with those eyes and that smile. It's just...urrrgh." She shook her head. "I'm so besotted with you that I forgot to yell at Myra Canton about the many grammatical errors in her pep band article. I just couldn't do it!"

"Oh, Par," I soothed, "you can still be yourself around me; it's OK. You know I really enjoy when you blow your gasket at someone."

"I know, I just..." she blushed, laughing nervously. "I've gone so long without somebody that I don't know how it is to be in love. I'm still getting used to this, to us. I just don't know how to cope, to keep my edge. To..."

"Baby girl," I interrupted, lowering my voice to a growl. "I'm not going to let you get fully mushy on me just because we love each other. The girl I fell for shows no mercy and always gets her way. And I know that she wants a certain young lady to just fall apart with her right now."

"Rory..."

I began to slide my hands up her shirt, above. "You must feel so hot, overheated. Just being able to browse at me from afar, be content with my slight touches in RN. It must be hard for you to know that I have to hold back doing so much to you from behind, like dipping my fingers below your collar." I let my voice just slide on out, my eyes focused fully on her as I pulled her against me, the building heat between my legs calling for a release. "I can feel it in your back muscles, how tight you are around me, the need for me to be around you. You've had a taste of me and you just want so much more, right?" She nodded as I kicked off my shoes, feeling awkward about pulling off my activities in such uncomfortable footwear. Paris already took the cue when I came in the room, her socks still on. "I want to feel you, how all of this affects you. Tell me...please, tell me."

"Force it out." Paris insisted on not giving out the details straight. I felt her against me, her left hand sliding up my skirt, flirting with the hem. She doesn't want this to go easy...this is going to be slow. Not like my first time, or in the depot. This was going to be sex, our first full time without all this pressure upon us, first stuff, virtues or no sense of our sensual selves, all of that. She wanted to be teased, to be riled up, know what buttons to push.

"What do you want me to ask?" I gave her a look of understanding, communicating that if she doesn't want to talk about something, it's OK.

But unlike everyone else, she isn't who she comes off to be. With me, she's Paris, my girlfriend, open, ready, unwilling to keep her heart closed off. She shook her head, picking at her skirt nervously, shifting her foot on the ground. I pushed my shoes beneath the table, my palms rested against the table. Her eyes seemed so warm and welcoming to me...

"Anything and everything," she responded, the bitter bite of her voice gone.

"Anything?" She nodded once again.

"I don't care. Rules are all off now. We are free to do, say, or ask anything we want to each other within the bounds of this institution."

"You declare that as student body president?" I smiled shyly.

"As long as you orally agree to it." Her eyebrow quirked up and I shook my head towards her.

"Well, when put it that way..." Once again, we both kissed, softly and without a rush to it. Slowly, each button of our blouses was undone, revealing just that much more of the each of us. I feel so warm for her, hungry for her. It felt so odd to undo a top on her that was so cinched against her bosom, but as I looked down, I warmed immediately, my eyes widening like saucers as to the effect I had on her.

"Well, I was going to ask if you physically arouse easily, especially your nipples. But I can see that I don't have to ask." Each one pushed against the material of the blouse and what was beneath it. She looked down, not shy at all about sharing her feelings.

"They...I don't understand it. Around Tristan I'd be aroused a little, but not to the point where I was showing off. But...um, there's probably a good reason for why they're so prominent."

"Why is that?"

"Take it down further." I did what she said, finishing off the last three buttons on the shirt and opening it up for her, sliding it off Paris very carefully, as if she was fragile. I wasn't going to get forceful, no matter what the darkroom setting was doing to me. In the deep and dim light of the room, I couldn't get my mind off from how sexually alluring the color red was, the romance of the hue. I felt less awkward, moonier with her in there as the blouse slid from her arms and onto the ground below.

I looked down once it was off, to be surprised by her also unsnapping her skirt.

For good reason, however. She wasn't rushing things at all, just to take off one layer for the sake of taking off a layer. As the soft sound of stiff school clothing dropped against the cool tile floor, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her at all as I took her in fully once again.

"I...I'm..." I tried to say something, but my train of thought had derailed. What do you say when you're looking at the woman you love in a state you'd usually associate with her Pied Piper friends or heaven forbid, some of the cheerleaders in the school?

Wait though. They would never look like this. Not in this day and age, because they couldn't pull it off in something modern. Paris has a classic and timeless beauty that cannot be duplicated, and only she could do what she did. I felt my heart pound as I took her all in, and my throat seemed to dry out.

"Damn," was all I could say. I was withering in her presence, feeling so much weakness in front of her as I felt numb, my cheeks warm and getting even more of a feeling that I was extremely lucky to have her. She settled her hands against my arms, pushing up the sleeves so we had skin-on-skin contact.

"I admit, it's downright anachronistic to dress like this, but it feels so nice."

"I'm sure it does." I was nervous about touching her. "You in a slip; it seems so weird. I don't know anyone my age who dares to wear one."

"You've just learned another secret thing I keep to myself," she said as I took in the cream-colored slip, no bra beneath, just fitting against her so well. I couldn't believe how alluring she looked in it, the garment smooth against her curves as if a second skin.

"If it's not a gym week, I try to wear a bra to school as little as possible. Ever since I was a little girl, I'd watch these old, vintage movies, all these women in thin undergarments and the like, how beautiful they were, and I yearned to be like them. But with Sharon in control of my wardrobe I have to sneak it through and be careful." I saw her face blank as she reminded me of the controlling nature of the woman, how I could never forget that if she got her way that she'd be stick-thin and sickly. "I just love the feel of the silk, how it doesn't irritate my skin at all. How even though I'm so stubborn and authoritarian, I don't mind being girly in some aspects."

I smirked at her, having at least one question answered. "Now I know why I occasionally find it hard to look for a bra strap."

"The question is," she purred, "you don't happen to mind this, do you?"

"Oh, not at all." I urged her closer, wanting to feel her warm body against me. "You look very hot right now, hon. I have to say, I'm glad you ignore Louise's advice to you, because you seem to do a pretty good job on your own."

"Actually, I may have had a little help," she confessed. "I did call Madeline this morning. It just felt like the kind of day to be a tease, and I asked her advice on whether to have my hair up or down. Having someone in my corner to give me some counsel really is helping. I don't know how she does it."

"Was she the one to tell you to go braless also?" I stared at her cleavage, prominent within the cups of the full slip. "Because if so, she has more than made up her apology to me."

"It's likely she did--"

I cut her off by moving my left index finger towards the dip of the V in the slip and began the slow teasing process that would start the dominoes falling. Four days of tension, all that unsaid want and blatant flirting, was about to come to a head. Using my fingernail I scratched lightly at the skin along the side of each portion of cleavage. I watered at her nipples in front of me, visible through the semi-transparent lace, the deep circles of pink flesh enticing. I felt an innate need to suckle against her, tease her. I always had an odd thing for nipples, even for guys, about how they're the same type of skin as that between our legs.

I wanted to experiment with something that I always wanted to try. As she moaned deeply while I teased her with my nails, I began to slowly plant the idea in her head of how I wanted to turn her on. The hard flesh drew me in, my eyes, magnetic to her as if my sense of feeding at infancy was returning, but instead for sexual fruition.

"Ror...ohh...ahh..."Her eyes tightened and I started to turn her on.

"Baby, what do you want?"

"You," she gasped out weakly. "Come on, please." Her breath shallowed as I eyed her up, tracing dot patterns with her thin freckling and prominent moles. I still am amazed that underneath it all, Par has all of these beautiful marks beneath her that add a character to her that some Neutrogena girl with nothing but clear unmarked skin can never compare to. The lace edging of the slip was beautiful and fragile, just barely edging the outside of each areole.

"Such a tease," I said, directing a stream of breath against her slip as my free hand traced her stomach through the thin fabric. "God, Paris."

"Not teasing," she gasped.

"Oh, but you are." I let my left hand drift down a strap, sliding fingers beneath it. "You have this hard front on you, but beneath it you're just beautiful." My voice softened as I took her in closely. "Your skin feels so warm to the touch."

"I know," she admitted. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Killing the 'no kissing at Chilton' rule?"

"Letting you get to me." She took a deep breath in, exhaling slowly as my finger dipped within her belly button. "I did not have anything on my mind coming into seventh hour today, seriously. I was actually going to go home early, hand the paper reins to you and decompress before we see my father tomorrow night."

"So you're saying something I did to you in life-sci got to you?" I couldn't think of anything before she hovered over my desk that was turning her on. "I guess I feel clueless about what."

"You shouldn't, because it was all just in my head," she said. "I've just had this feeling over the last few days, where it's like I can't seem to shake off our date on Saturday night. What we did, what happened, and how it affected me. I don't know if that girl at the shop lined my dress with love potion or what. But I've just feel so off keel since I left you in the bed."

"So pretty much, what you're trying to say in your long and complicated upper crust New Englander kind of way is," I smiled at her widely as she looked down towards me, and began to push the flirt even further. "You're in heat?"

"If you want to compare me to a common housepet, certainly." I laughed a bit at her analogy before she shot a menacing glare towards me. "I'm serious, Gilmore. I shouldn't be at this stage where my mind is filled with sexual thoughts of you in the middle of class, where I should be fully attentive. Instead I'm thinking of you laying kisses all over while you seem to give me limitless orgasms."

Oh, did she know what that was doing to me. Hearing her describe me as a seductress who had turned her on made me feel heartened and extremely useful, and I never thought I'd be able to get anyone to that point. There was a bit of pride floating within me that she was getting this off-track, all from nothing more than a stare. She was the only one who could make me feel this way. Dean never could, not once. My patience was always exhausted when it came to him. But with Paris, it's different. The teasing is there, along with the strong competitiveness that's always going to be a part of us. I know how both of us tick, that as I admitted my voice thing with her, she was hoping for me to feel a come that was out of control, sexual and beautiful. Using that drive on the mats I also did the same thing, trying to push against her and stimulate her in a way she had never felt before from her own hand.

We have give and take, and I was ready to give, and I had hopes she wanted to take of me. We stared each other over as my fingers curled around the slip strap, ready to push this idea of us beyond what we had done so far. I smiled at her, those serious browns wide open, prepared for what we were about to do.

The both of us were enchanted as we began the undressing, her first. I barely grasped the spaghetti strap of her slip as she took down the last few buttons on mine to expose the ribbed tank top, colored a light blue to match school colors.

"Limitless? I don't know if I could handle a girlfriend screaming every four minutes," I joked. I stared her over, rolling the silk material between my fingers. "I feel so daring with you, so naughty."

"I think it's always been there," she suggested as she stretched herself across me to do sort of a pinning move against the table. I released the strap, letting it fall and taking in the view of her above me, looking so intelligently sexy in just that one piece of lingerie. "You've always flirted somewhat to get your way with me."

"Huh?" I didn't understand. "Always? So you're saying even when I came to Chilton I gave off a sexual vibe? In what way? I don't think I have." I was lost on her line of thinking, though that was because the falling material of the slip was teasing me with a peek of pink, a Pavlovian reaction forming within regarding her breasts.

Pinning me down with her hands against the table, she worked the blouse from me by the sleeves as she explained. "You don't even know, because it's subtle. You kept saying that you didn't like me or found me annoying, yet you came back for more. I did everything I could to stop you beyond anything physical, and you still went after me. I just keep thinking that other women wither in my presence." She pushed herself closer against me, pushing out her cleavage just enough to create an allure that kept me in her clutches.

I was warming further as her voice became even more suggestive and breathy; her eyes just trained on me as if I was the prey. Her thumb pushed the sides of my blouse apart from each other, as I felt my undershirt tighten from her attention. "Just think about it, Ror. There you are, your first day, and I just turned you down cold. Never have you been brushed off so fast, as if you didn't exist at all. Even in the Hollow someone would listen to you, but not me, not there, where an F hung over my head like a cloud and I turned you down out of hand." Paris slipped her left hand further to get at the catch of my skirt. "I stared at you, thinking I got my way, that you'd never bother me again. I had no thoughts about you either way, but sitting at that desk, engrossed in a lesson you were lost on from being a month behind, you caught up quickly, your eyes open, taking in every fucking word that teacher said, your notes furious. Internally you're thinking that I'm a pain, that I've just committed scholastic suicide by turning you down. No matter that a week later you topped me in the exam with only seven days of study compared to my seventeen. You sit there, you think."

I brought myself two years back, into that classroom, Paris and I across that aisle, sizing each other up. My face colored red as I recalled my mindset, that this girl was pissing me off. I wanted to help, she didn't want me to, and it was fucking infuriating. Like I was back at Hollow High and about to be ignored all over again.

That entire class flashed before my eyes, the lectures, the notes, those jabs in the back by the guy sitting behind me. Add Tristan to the mix, and you probably would've walked out right in the middle of class if you were me, becoming alienated once again from the high school experience.

But leave it to Paris to bring out the undercurrent of my subconscious, licking her lips slowly, then going in for the kill with her description of my mind state. "The thing is, Madeline made me see things in another view. I have the clarity that's been missing for so long, so now I see that class for what it is. Your first move, unknown to me, was to lay down the gauntlet. To plant subconsciously that I would be thinking of you all the time, no matter how much I wanted to ignore you. The same on your end, as you were drawn to my stubbornness." Her finger dipped within the hem of my undershirt, near the catch of the skirt. "Answering the questions while I became infuriated with you, that was a subtle direction for me to pay attention to you. It was negative on the base level, the one we were at then. Subconsciously, however, the attraction began to build. The latching, our poles attracting, however you want to describe it." She motioned for me to sit up and prepare to take off the skirt. I pulled up, pushing against her as she untucked the shirt and took off my blouse the rest of the way. I found my focus distracted by her breasts, large, beautiful, defined. So natural, beautiful. In the state we were in, making me feel as if we were still in the school during the era before it went co-ed, sneaking a thrill before getting back to our boarding dorms.

Her light scent was intoxicating, drawing me in with subtle notes of perfume along her neck and down the plunge, her Star necklace resting softly against her clavicle. Her words were like honey to me, so beautiful.

"The attraction has always been there between us. We just never thought to do or say anything to acknowledge it." She wrapped her arms around me, taking me into a kiss that teased me, teeth scraping softly against my lower lip as she let herself get lost. Her voice took a softer tone. "I never had true sexual dreams of you before last year, but you figured within them somehow before then." I heard the rustle of fabric as the shirt fell from my arms. More kissing, slow, loving. Our eyes were closed as we got lost within each other. "Your eyes, they haunt me. Have for so long. That determination when you get all pissed at me, holding back words that are meant to hurt. I don't see you as you are, but this passionate girl." Kiss again...untucking my tank top, her hand on my stomach, mine on her arms, small wispy hairs dotting them. "I love your anger, your empathy, how nothing stops you. The determination, never to be stopped. Indulging me in the Puffs no matter how much you didn't want to get involved, but you stayed by my side, trying to keep me out of trouble." She became more frantic, blatant. The top was being pushed up to bare my stomach. "You're a true friend, there for me, kicking and screaming."

"I want to be there for you," I gasped, the bottom hooks of the skirt being pulled apart. "Always for you, the undercurrent to be empathetic."

"You know my pain, I know you do." Her breath was heavy, the words deep and soulful. "I may not have always wanted you, but I've learned that I have to have you."

"Me too, me too." Left hand brushing against the top of my stomach beneath my tank top, the other about to free me from the skirt. "Oh my God, I feel so tight."

"Tighter than usual?" I nodded, saying that I wanted her so much. "You feel a pumping, don't you? A want for something, a need for me. You want this, don't you?"

"Mmm." Another much deeper kiss, one that was involving our tongues. The gentle caressing of hers driving me further, I sensed the taste of her subtle lip gloss, minty and cool. My body became wracked with many more feelings as she let her hand wander inside my shirt, against the bottom of one of my breasts. I groaned within her mouth as the sudden touch went through me like a bolt. I couldn't stand the teasing, the rounding of a nipple with her thumb. A puff of warm breath came through her mouth; she pulled slightly away to take in a reaction that I wasn't in a bra. We were both going free in that moment, and it was like an inevitable destiny that we were internally prepared for this. A drip of saliva went down her mouth from our shared kiss, her eyes closed as she regarded me, afraid to stare.

"No laundry left?"

I replied in the negative. "Plenty of laundry, but I just didn't feel like throwing one on this morning."

Scowling, she gave me a dirty look. "And you failed to notify me of this, why?"

"You didn't ask," I reminded her while she began to push things further along. Her eyes roamed me over, my nipples pebbling within the fabric of the tank top. The room felt so hot, the red light forming an illusion that the room was warmer than it actually was.

Paris's voice deepened as she brought the both of us further in, farther from sanity. "You should've told me then."

Before I could stop myself, I made a quip. "So you don't believe in that whole policy?" She was thrown for a second, but quickly matched up.

"Certainly not. But right now I'm not wanting of a political debate." Paris smiled down at me, and with that closed off the conversation quickly. Her fingers flitted across my nipples, circling each of them and enjoying watching the building stimuli as she riled me up. I couldn't believe how she teased me, her other hand sliding between my skirt and panties, playing with the waistband at the fringe. I felt a rush of air drift in, a lump moving from right to left, her finger lifting both articles up to tease me. The air seemed to hit right where I least expected it as I pushed out a harsh breath.

"Ohhhh...ohhh dear!" I was so unbelievably wet from her teasing and I couldn't find my concentration.

"Rory, please...touch me." She felt a bit of anguish wanting to further things along. "Make me feel good."

I let my finger run against the strap of her slip, dipping slowly within the V just above one of her breasts. We soon began to work each other off in such an erotic and heated manner. I pushed down the slip to expose her breasts and began to kiss at them. At first I felt leery from the thought she might find it demeaning, but her rushed heartbeat and her gasps as I rounded each of them as I played suggested so much otherwise. She began to relax back and I concentrated on them, making up for the time she had been neglected. The material of my skirt bunched between my legs irritated my thighs as I clenched the material between them and felt warm. The skirt wasn't made for having sex by any means, and I wished for it off, but we were just buried into giving each other pleasure.

She cried out my name as I lathed one of her nipples, sucking against it as if trying to draw something out from it. I didn't feel odd and she didn't stop me at all, going so far as to encourage me to explore her further. I heard Paris's deep cries echo within my brain, no words really, more just random syllables. She tried to strip my tank top, but the only thing her feverish pulling was doing was stretching it in unintended directions. This continued on longer than we thought possible, sharing, kissing, passion...I couldn't help but think her hand up my skirt was so sexual and untamed, making me feel like that we were about to become true Chiltonians from going through sex in the school itself.

More clothes came off, our socks kicked off quickly, followed by my skirt, but a little too fast as she took the zipper off-track and separated the teeth. I didn't dwell on it (would you?), and soon I was lying against her in the pink panties which started this all to begin with. As I didn't plan for us to ever be sexual in Chilton and there was no gym, I let myself slip for today. I looked up at Paris, a bit scared as she connected the dots. She stared me down, her deep eyes taking me all in, the shirt bunched up to expose my belly button, my hair all astray, with the underwear just a bit beneath my hipbone. I felt a bit sloppy, freaked I was killing the mood.

Instead, her hand caressed my cheek, and she stared at me lovelorn. Then silently, she made a motion that she wanted me to lose my shirt with a push up at the back near the hem.

Yeah, that's one way to make myself match again. I felt so daring beneath her as she shifted the shirt up, letting her fingers wander up my ribcage. You can't see each rib thankfully (yeah, not a fan of visible ribs here), but she could feel each bone. She let her fingers take in each of the curved bones until she reached my sternum, and then moved back towards the next one. I was soon left only in my underwear, the tank top tossed onto a spare stool. Our shirts were on the table, spread beneath me so I wouldn't have to be cold from the steel surface. She slid off from the table in order to let her slip slide off the rest of the way down her body. I watched, sitting on the table with my knees bent as she let the article fall into a heap at her ankles. I felt the heat of the room build up as I took her in.

I was so turned on at the thought that we both went free for the entire day and I really wanted to touch myself as I looked at my Par-Bear bathed in red. Her skin glistened in the light, her curves standing out as she stepped out from the slip. Shadows falling, defining her small form further. Her nipples had that tiny shadow that cast against her breasts and the moles all over her body really stood out. I could have just stared at her for the rest of the evening, memorizing how her stomach curved as she stretched out, the way her hair fell exactly to shield her breasts and how her brown eyes in that photographic light took on a really dark shade, reminding me of erotic novels I read where the lust was expressed by black eyes.

She pushed herself back onto the table, bending down on her knees as she hovered over me. She was focused on wanting to please me so much. With each shift, her breasts had that small little bounce to them, and I felt the blood in my body pump faster and faster. I watched her hips shift with each move towards me, her movements like an animal. I really had to thank our girl at the Secret one of these days for recommending boyshorts to Par. The light blue underwear flexed perfectly with her body, reminding me why exactly this woman was in my dreams for so long.

I love the reality more though. This was beautiful and loving. The Paris above me was the same girl I knew sophomore year except she wasn't shy about her body.

I closed my eyes as she took me into her arms and kissed at my neck. I encouraged her to just kiss me, on and on, to not get enough of me. I could tell how hungry she was by her zeal. Her teeth, scraping against the hollow of my throat. I felt her hands moving lower and lower, down towards my panties. She cupped her hand against my crotch, and soon it was clear what she wanted. Her other hand was at my back and began to pull the fabric down. Moving her busses along the edge of my chin, I felt my core heating up. She didn't say a word. There were none needed, and soon we were both in that intimate lover's clench, necking and petting. My panties were peeled down and they stayed on near my knees as her fingers circled my clit, engorged and damp. I took in a deep breath, bumping my head against the table as she worked me off. I heard just our breathing, the humming of some appliance, while my eyes were filled with Paris's damp and reddened form above me.

Things went further and further. Skin met skin as we came ever closer. My girlfriend was very warm, the closed in and dark space heightening all of our senses, especially touch and scent. They mixed together and I felt my body become very sensitive to every touch Paris sent through me. She seethed through her teeth when I touched her breasts and let my hands wander her back, my nails scraping against it. Soon, we were reaching that point where we needed each other so badly. I wanted this...wanted this so bad. She slid her fingers in, and I tightened right against them. The same with her, and soon we were establishing this slow rhythm mixed with kissing and necking, the occasional grunt and gasp. Par was in heat, but I was going to cool her down in a slow and tenuous manner...make her beg for it, silently.

It was just wonderful, focusing on each other, all of this going on between us. We knew there was a chance that someone could walk in on us making love, Ms. Peters could come back for something or have the key to unlock the door. But with that pithy little red light bulb stopping anybody, we didn't have anything to fear. Photography was serious to Paris, and if someone ever ruined developed shots, they'd never work at any paper, pro or amateur. We were safe, a cushion between us, along with heavy metal walls keeping our lovemaking to ourselves.

We spent a half-hour in that room, doing nothing more than giving into our passions. My morals were stretched to the limits, my skin heated to the touch from both closeness and friction from my leg against her. Sweat dripped down onto me, her forehead dripping with the energy she was expressing from my want of her. Her voice was high as she rode the peaks and valleys of our sex. I no longer felt like I was before Chilton, like a little girl coming into a situation with the best and brightest of Connecticut. My heart swelled with each kiss, touch, stroke, caress. I was numbed, my body stretched in a thousand different directions. She would go down on me, and this time she stayed there; it wasn't a tease. My hands nested within her beautifully messy blonde locks and I opened up as she let her tongue stroke against my clit. It was slow and laborious, not at all what I was expecting.

But damn, was it awesome. All that tightness within me, through three days of not seeing her, it seemed to dissipate as she went further, tasting me and making me brace the table hard, biting on my lip with each new slide of the tip against my bud. I watched her below me, humming against my flesh, my eyes tightening up. I don't really remember each and every single moment after that, because it was just something where you can't describe it in mere words. It was just...oh God.

I can't find them. All I remember is about twenty minutes later, curled up against her as her fingers ran through my hair, both of us on top of our blouses. She was back in just the slip and the skirt, looking me over as I opened up my eyes to her. She kissed me softly upon my lips, and smiled in that subtle way of hers, going over the situation as she loved to do.

"You know, I keep thinking that I've found my sexual peak with you. But I'm surprising myself." She giggled uncharacteristically as she wrapped around me. She had slid back on my panties and had my tank top in her hand as she handed it over. "I don't know how long I've dreamt of doing it in the darkroom."

I rolled my eyes, smirking. "I knew you had this planned. How long?"

"The day I came onto the Franklin, except it would've been with Tristan and a bit more...dominated by him."

I cringed. "I mean with me, not him."

"Well if you're looking for specifics, since at least last May when you started to strip down during those hot days." I ran a finger across her lips, enjoying her closeness as my other hand took the shirt. "I would actually nod off during my practice editing for Ms. Peters. It turned out tougher than I thought and I stayed until 9 o'clock a few times."

"So you fell asleep on your keyboard and woke up in a cold sweat?" She nodded at me and I laughed. We talked a little more, got dressed, as she went on to explain that she felt fulfilled with the both of us in that darkroom. As she organized the room back into a somewhat non-messed up state and put back on her blouse (and might I add, untucked and without the tie? Yeah, very yum-o...), she explained that it was good luck.

"I heard rumors over the year that the darkroom is required to be sexually initiated by the new editor, sometime before the end of first semester. It doesn't matter with whom, just as long as it occurs." She blushed, trying to explain that indeed, she was hoping I would go for it. "We've had about eight or nine off years during the entire run of the newspaper. Some of those came during the war years, girls worried about the boys over in Europe and too busy to take their minds off. Not to mention we had to fit sixteen pages of news on eight because of rationing. The 80's also were kind of a dry run where the unauthorized pubs nipped at our heels. We had some very weak editors, giving into Headmaster Cameron when he was midway through his twenty year dictatorship as head of Chilton."

"Charleston is a breeze?" I was surprised. "I think he's stern."

"Cameron made everyone recite the Lord's Prayer after the Pledge, and no one, not even the few Muslim students, dared to mess with his authority. It finally took a news crew from Fox 61 shooting b-roll and deciding to expose him to get their news department started with a bang to end the practice. My father absolutely loathed him, very traditional, mean, backwards. If not for the union, he would've kept corporal punishment going past 1982." Paris is almost as deep a historian of the history of Chilton as anyone else you could find. She went on further to describe all of the other anecdotes she learned over the years about the Franklin. "The weak editors, you could tell right away from the archives. They don't print the critical letters, they barely delved into any school issues beyond lunch, and their stories never had a punch to them. It read like a small-town paper. Not your Gazette, but something very hollow, meant to fill a paper rack and put money in the owner's pockets. I think we're here because we want to break things, to be a training ground for the journalists of the future. Blogging, yes, that's only going to go up in the future and every Johnny-come-lately with a PC can state their thoughts. But newspapers, they'll still have a place. They need to."

She was passionate describing how much she had fallen hard for journalism, her cancer researching dream seeming to be in the distant past with each new day. "I looked at you and the first thing I thought was that you wouldn't have it, Gilmore." She sat down on top of a table in the newsroom, powerfully arguing how she saw things. "I really did think that. I'm sorry if it hurts, but I looked at you, and you didn't have that jaded view of the world, the one that takes you out of the excitement of a moment and brings you into a dull neutrality. You get excited about everything."

"I do not." I shrugged, throwing back on my blouse lazily and not even bothering to button it up as I put my sweater vest back on. "I didn't get excited for Dean's hockey playoffs."

"Who would? The NHL's been ruined by their ridiculous zone defense rules and it's passed down to the high school game." I watched her legs dangle enticingly as she eventually turned her opinion into a compliment. "But what I'm saying is you're not worn down by anything I throw at you. You look at the work and whatever it is, I can count on you to write a good report, keep it neutral and the writing to be top notch. You made me respect you so much last year by standing up to my stupid third-grade tactics and making it clear you weren't going to tolerate me giving you the lower tier stories." She tapped her fingers against the table as she stared at me, proudly. "I'm not just saying this as your girl, but you're doing me proud, Gilmore. You've built up a good mix of tools and you can pretty much switch-hit between writer, observer, and all of the writing styles and POV's. I might even see a couple of guest editorials in your future."

"Oh, Par." I blushed, because I'm not the type who really wants to be a columnist. A byline is like a comfy blanket to me, and I don't mind hiding under it. "I couldn't...I really don't think it's a good idea. What if I screw up?"

"You wouldn't, I'm sure of it." Sliding off the table, she felt the need to correct my assumptions. "You can be very persuasive and I know your passion. I know you like to underplay your time with Junior Leadership in DC, but you took on all comers in your debates and won them well. You argued the points crisply, your voice was even, and I no longer hear that soft little stutter you had to start out with."

"And I've improved my WPM?" I asked, hopeful. She smirked, nodding with a smile.

"You have indeed improved on that. Although we still need to work on the dairy addiction."

"I have been working on that!" I scoffed. "You told me to cut out milk."

"You ate a la carte cheeseburgers before a couple of debates. That is still dairy, my friend."

"We didn't lose, did we?" I argued, bending down to pick up my backpack, sitting next to my workstation on the floor.

"No, but we have to be prepared, no matter what. You know that." I huffed good-naturedly at her obsession with clean living as I picked up my safety yellow bag, and just smiled back at her. I think it's a pretty good point when my debate prep is the only thing she has to get mad at me about, right?

Little did I know I was about to put our relationship back on the line again. As I hefted a strap onto my shoulder, I didn't realize that the front pocket of my bag was still open from when I took a pencil out earlier. The zip was open, exposing the pocket holding my pens, pencils, diskettes...

Along with one other thing. I heard a slipping sound as I got the bag on my shoulder, one other thing I was afraid to bring up to Paris yet. The object fell out from being upside down for only a moment, but it was still enough time. I couldn't rescue it or do anything with it as both my hands were occupied with putting the bag on, so I had to watch in what seemed to be slow motion as the device slipped from the bag and down towards the floor.

The first words in my mind? Oh God, no.

Within my own speech? "Crap!" Paris's eyes darted over to the object immediately and she quickly made her way over the couple steps away from me to catch it. She dove a little bit, down to her knees, not caring that she would scuff her skirt with the dirt of the hardwood floor. All she saw was $50 about to break apart on the floor. I was hoping at that moment she wouldn't catch it, no matter that what was on the device was important in my attempts to undermine Francie.

She caught it just about a foot before it hit the floor and grasped the microcassette recorder in her left hand tightly. I didn't know what she was going to do next, but I knew I was likely caught.

For one thing, I am an organizer. I couldn't label the tape in the player with some fib label like 'fun stuff' or 'lecture notes', could I? No, I'm Rory Gilmore. I have to know what's on the tape. As she got back up, she didn't offer the player right back to me, because I knew her eyes immediately landed on the door of the player, which had a visible window onto the label and the amount of tape left.

Suddenly I was cursing that I was truthful and labeled the tape 'Conversations with Francie, week 10'. I prepared for the torrent of emotions to come, for her to feel a betrayal for me going behind her back in order to make these backroom deals to keep her government somewhat fluid. I knew I couldn't lie as she looked at me, her eyes dead focused on me as the expected words came from her mouth.

"What is this?" She asked the question neutrally, without a bit of anger. Not yet, at least. Any opportunity to lie was quickly extinguished as I felt my girlfriend-honesty side come out instead of the one that should be covering my ass.

"Hit play." I sounded defeated, totally giving up without a thought. She grasped at the player tightly, and I couldn't tell what she was thinking about at all. "I...I'm--"

She stopped me before I could make any excuses. "Fine." Then she hit that play button, after a few seconds of rewinding.

I was scared, frozen in place. I slid back into my chair, ready to cry, but feeling completely numb. I did this. All I could do was admit that fact and hoped to God she would still stay at the very least, my friend. I hated this, not letting her know about my sessions with Francie.

But I only did it to protect her. That's all. I was willing to take Francie's damaging barbs in order to spare her the abuse from the only other Chilton student who has ever bullied her. I know that, because Madeline told me last year after the Puffs debacle. Suffice to say and to keep it short, she was Paris's Sam Petersen, except with increased and hyperbolic gay-bashing, along with bitter loathing for her intelligence and sweeping of school offices.

Paris had never said a word as Francie tried to recruit me. But from that one conversation in April last year, I no longer regret that Charleston busted us in his office. If we had gotten in, our souls would have withered. Paris would have seen herself go from the strong and iron-willed girl she has been to nothing but an underling. Francie would have bullied her in any way she knew how and when I heard her pet name for Par from Madeline, for the only time I ever, I shocked even Mads with my language.

"She calls her...'that uppity blonde'...you know the word. It starts with C, ends with T, and has the United Nations initials in between." She was scared to say the word, going by that mnemonic to sound it out. I seethed and with only my emotions guiding me, I let it rip.

"Funny what she calls Paris, because she certainly isn't. Francie however, is a rotten cunt." I didn't have my self-censor on at all and the look on Madeline's pale face was shocking.

"Rory...my stepmom could've heard that." She shook her head. "Don't you think there's good in every one?"

"Fuck her, Madeline. A good Puff would have taken the blame for the whole group. But when the police came, she didn't speak one word. Not. One. Word." My anger level was high after hearing all the abuse heaped over the years on my girl from Francie. "If it wasn't for Lisa telling about how the group recruited me, her, and eventually Par, along with the other girls, Francie might have been able to keep the Puffs together. However, she found the courage to tell everything, and thank God she did. Once the school opened up the Puffs to scrutiny, they didn't see the group Sandra Day O'Connor joined; they found a hollow shell which used this entire secret crap to further their agendas and install their officers and horrid schemes in the school." My mouth trembled as I recalled the one thing I hated about it all. "If it wasn't for Francie's daddy donating $50,000 to the Hartford Fraternal Order of Poilce branch before the cops would have charged her with the break-in, she wouldn't be in school right now."

Madeline promised to keep the entire story secret, as only Paris and I knew because of privileged information for a Franklin investigation piece that was to be printed in the last issue of the paper last year, and that she worked on personally with a senior photographer and senior researcher that could push out of the way and deny everything when it was published. I was to contribute my own experience, and we were sure to have gotten much more than the Oppenheimer for it. It would have broken the secret sororities of Hartford area schools and UConn wide open, and what we found turned our stomachs, so much that we will not even consider pledging for any sorority when we get to college.

However, it would never be printed and not because of Headmaster Charleston's interference. We were sure he would have approved it without any second thought. Before we went to press, Ms. Peters received a gag order from Francie's attorneys, threatening libel and slander charges and a multi-million dollar lawsuit if we printed it. The language in the order was threatening, even frightening, to both Ms. Peters and Paris. Somehow, the lawyers had let slip in the wording, 'we will own you, ladies. Back off this piece. You won't win in court.'

So we never printed it. Currently the entire story sits on a local drive on Paris's computer, never to see the light of day. Ms. Peters told her to take it off the Franklin network and to keep it unprinted until the day Paris felt that she was strong enough to fight her worst enemy. "Keep a copy," she told the both of us. "I hate to say we can't fight this, but we have to back off. This threatens all of us, and no matter how much it hurts, this is something I will regret until the day I die. She may have wormed her way to senior class president, but I will not see her ruin my brightest pupils. I might be your adviser here and on student government, but I will defend you both. Screw impartiality; you will both win one day. Her threats mean nothing to me. She knew we got her, but one day, she will see that she cannot forever hide behind her lawyers. Her own mouth will get her into trouble."

In case you can't tell, Ms. Peters really loathes Francie, mainly because she never has respected the woman's authority in any way.

So that's the full situation. I've never felt like saying a word until now, but I have to show you why I was scared that Paris would react the wrong way to the tape. As she hit play, I felt my life flashing before my eyes and a humming in my ears. I was freaked as I heard the hateful words of her over the last two weeks come out harshly through the tiny speaker of the recorder.

To be continued...