The loser boy clanged his locker shut, then nearly jumped out of his skin. There, beside him, stood the hottest of the hot girls in the school. From her teased hair to her toenail polish, she was his erotic dream. She was the subject and star of interminable mawkish fantasy masturbation scenes in loser boy's attic bedroom. The mere sight of her down a crowded lunchroom could give him butterflies.
And now she was so close to him he could, for the first time, inhale the scent of her. It was as rich and bewitching as desire itself. And she had worn her tightest hiphuggers and a frilly little pink nothing of a top.
This late after school, he didn't expect anyone else in the halls, much less his erotic queen, dressed like a bluejeans belly-dancer and staring at him and smiling.
"I want you to come to my party Saturday," she said. And then she said his name. The first words were astonishing, and yet somehow it was the sound of his name that made his stomach drop inside him. Not just the nirvana of hearing it in her voice, from her lips. But that she even knew it! A girl of her caste never bothered to study a dweeb long enough to learn its name. If one such as her spoke to one such as he, it was typically a blunt, "get out of my way."
She had said his name.
"I want you to come. It won't be a party without you." She was so close now, her thigh brushed against his crotch. Her hand lifted his white T shirt, and her fingernails stroked his stomach.
"If you do come, ..."
She pulled back, but only a step from him. She began to move her hips in a slow little bellydance. She ran her fingers up under the hem of her top, pushing up, holding it between her breasts to bare whatever little had been covered of her belly. The other hand shoved sharply down to her belt buckle and gripped it and pushed it south till every last bit of her lower belly stood bare.
[She paused just to enjoy the effect of this erotic assault on the poor loser's libido. He seemed to melt and freeze at the same time. His whole body positively quivered.]
... Then lifting her doe-eyed stare to his eyes, said, "I'll let you kiss my belly-button."
He seemed to have lost his ability to breathe. Words would not grunt from him, and he began to panic.
"What do you say?" she whispered. Then she dropped her belly-flaunting pose and simply stood up to him. Her voice got 40 degrees cooler.
"Too good to be true? It is, wimp. But listen. I got a new boyfriend and I need to show him off. You're going to be the punching bag. Go to my party and I'll tell him something that will make him pick a fight with you. Of course, he'll beat you up in front of all my guests. There's no question of that. And that's what I want. I want everyone to see what a beast he is."
Now the poor fool felt breathless from the chill of it, and from the fear he had of other boys and their hard little fists. That had been his secret fear for as long as he could recall. It made him a conflict-avoider, a hippie, a pacifist. Or what she said. A wimp.
"Oh, in case you're wondering: Yes, I'll enjoy it all. I'll get aroused watching him punch you out. He's such a wicked bully, it really turns me on to watch him pummel some wimp's weak stomach."
"So what do you say? Still in on the deal? Oh, I'll make sure he leaves no marks on you. 'Just belly punches,' I'll tell him. 'Just belly-whomp him to his knees so we can laugh at him.' There. I like that kind of fight best, anyhow."
"So what do you say, boy? I am serious about my belly-button. Come, and you'll get your kiss. Just one. I promise."