Becoming Chaos
Copyright© 2025 by Lyander Lockhart
Chapter 2: Proving It ... A few times
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2: Proving It ... A few times - Gabriel Hare is tall, confident-looking, and absolutely clueless about who he really is. College is supposed to be a fresh start, but instead it becomes the place where every assumption he’s ever had about himself gets shattered. Friendships, rumors, desire—especially desire—force him to confront the truth he’s been circling for years: he is queer, deeply and undeniably. This is a story about becoming: becoming bold, becoming messy, becoming wanted, becoming queer. A Chronicle.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Drunk/Drugged Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Humor School Cheating Interracial White Male Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Hairy Public Sex Slow
The plan was simple: I’d slip the auctioneer fifty bucks to ignore any bid after Eve hit twenty dollars. Isabella would drive up the bidding to make it look real. Diego would make sure Eve’s hand went up at the right moment.
In the meantime, I had some proving to do.
Diego was in his element—living vicariously, pointing out targets, feeding the chaos. He introduced me to girls throughout the party—anyone he knew who’d expressed interest in “the hot freshman.” I kissed a couple of goth girls with dark lipstick and fishnets, quick and playful, enough to keep the rumor mill spinning.
Isabella and Lila watched from the sidelines, arms linked, trading smirks.
“Freshman’s on fire,” Isabella called over the music, raising her cup like a toast. “Keep it up, hotshot—we’re taking notes.”
Lila laughed, leaning into Isabella. “He’s got potential. But he’s gonna need pointers later.”
Their teasing felt easy, like they’d already decided I was part of the group—someone to mess with, someone to keep around. It was the first time all night I didn’t feel like I was performing alone.
Then Luna.
She drifted up like she moved through air differently—long red skirt flowing around her ankles, thin white tank top clinging just enough to hint at piercings underneath, green eyes bright and knowing, hair in waves with one thin dread accenting her face like an intentional mark. She had that quiet confidence that made the room shift around her.
“So,” she said, voice soft but certain, “Diego tells me you’re not gay. And that you’re proving it to anyone willing.”
I shrugged, matching her energy. “Yup. Can’t have an injustice go uncorrected.”
Her lips curled. “Then correct it.”
She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me into a kiss that hit like lightning—hot, open, deliberate. She pressed against me, slow at first, then deeper, a little bite to my lower lip like she was testing how fast she could short-circuit a freshman.
I got hard instantly. She definitely felt it.
She broke the kiss just long enough to smirk, then slid her hand down and brushed her fingers across the line of my cock through my jeans.
“Yeah,” she said, amused. “Definitely not gay.”
And then she walked away—hips swaying, skirt rippling—like she hadn’t just detonated a freshman in front of half the party.
I stood there, dazed, and when I glanced over, Eve was watching. Eyes narrowed. Trying very hard not to show she cared.
I approached her, crooked smile in place. “If jealousy were a sport, you’d be varsity by now. I could stop all this and focus on you whenever you want.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.
Each time I caught her eye after another kiss, I blinked with mischief—silent invitation.
Diego pointed out more targets, but I kept orbiting Eve. Isabella and Lila flanked me at one point, Isabella whispering, “She’s cracking. Keep going.” Lila added, “We’ve got your back—literally. Don’t fuck it up.”
Their confidence in me felt good. Like I belonged in their chaos. Or they belonged in mine.
They called my name.
I stepped up on the platform, gave the crowd my best sly crooked smile—the one that would become my trademark—and watched the bidding start.
The platform felt exposed. Lights in my eyes, crowd noise washing over me. Being perceived felt like a drug.
Isabella’s hand shot up. “Five dollars!”
Someone else bid seven. Isabella countered to ten.
Eve lingered in the back, arms crossed, ponytail catching the light. She was pointedly NOT looking at the platform, but I caught her glancing up between bids.
The goth girls raised to twelve. Isabella went to fifteen.
Eighteen.
That’s when Diego—standing right next to Eve—grabbed her arm and lifted it.
“Twenty dollars from the lady in the back!”
Eve yanked away, glaring murder at Diego, but it was too late.
The auctioneer slammed his hand down. “SOLD for twenty dollars!”
Diego grinned like he’d won the lottery. Eve looked torn between laughing and homicide. Isabella caught my eye and winked.
I stepped down and made my way through the crowd toward her. She was still glaring at Diego when I got there, but I saw the ghost of a smile she was trying to suppress.
I gave her my best old-timey gentleman bow. “Congratulations, miss. You’ve purchased one freshman in excellent condition. Seems I’m yours to do with as you please, ma’am.”
She turned, eyes dark in the dim light. “I didn’t even want to bid,” she said, no real heat. “Diego’s an asshole.”
“Hey!” Diego protested, grinning. “I’m a helpful asshole.”
“You rigged this,” she said to me.
“Absolutely.” No point lying. “Fifty bucks to the auctioneer. Best investment I’ve made all year.”
“Why?” Curiosity flickered behind her annoyance. And something else she didn’t want me to see.
“Because I heard you’re spreading rumors about me. That’s unacceptable.”
Isabella burst out laughing. Diego looked delighted.
Eve’s cheeks flushed darker, but she held my gaze. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe.” I stepped closer. “But I’m your insane now.”
The party kept rolling—more auctions, more shots, more noise—but I stayed in Eve’s orbit like gravity had flipped. Every kiss I gave someone else was half performance, half bait. I made sure she could see: goth girls with dark lipstick and fishnets, quick and playful. Each time I pulled back, I caught Eve’s eye and gave her the same quiet offer: “You know I could stop all this and focus on you whenever you want.”
She tried to play uninterested—arms crossed, looking anywhere but at me—but the mask kept slipping. A smile she couldn’t quite kill. That snort-laugh when something hit too hard. Every time she laughed too loud for someone pretending not to care, I knew I was getting under her skin.
My eyes kept drifting back to her anyway.
The way her ponytail swayed when she turned her head too fast. The sharp line of her eyeliner making her look untouchable. The way she’d glance at me, then look away like she’d been caught.
Around 1 a.m., when the energy was finally thinning, I almost gave up on the whole plan. Luna drifted past again—red skirt swirling, that knowing smile—and for a second I thought: Fuck it. She’s already proven the point. I could just follow her and call the night a win.
But then I caught Isabella’s eye across the room. She tilted her head toward the door—subtle, unmistakable.
Message received.
“Eve,” Isabella said, appearing at her elbow like she’d been summoned. “Come smoke with me.”
Eve, tipsy and tired, shrugged and followed. I trailed at a distance, trusting my accomplice. I didn’t know campus well enough to guess where we were headed, but I figured Isabella did.
She led Eve out of the packed indoor chaos, across dark lawns, toward the baseball fields. The night air had turned properly cold—that early-fall bite that makes you wish you’d brought a jacket. Quiet out there. Just crickets and the distant thump of music fading behind us.
When they reached the edge of the field, Isabella muttered something about needing to pee and vanished into the shadows, leaving Eve standing alone near the batting cages. (Turns out that spot was infamous on campus—the legendary hookup place everyone pretended they didn’t know about.)
I stepped up behind her.
“Isabella just ditched you,” I said.
She turned, saw me, and shook her head with that crooked half-smile—like she was fighting it and losing. “You’re all conspiring against me.”
“Completely.” I stepped closer. The metal fence was cool against my palm when I brushed it. “Is it working?”
She bit her lip. I saw the exact second her guard cracked—no ex nearby, no crowd to perform for, just us and the dark.
I could smell her perfume—warm, a little spicy, clinging to her skin from the party.
I reached out slowly and touched her arm. Soft. Still warm. She didn’t pull away. When I slid my hand down to hers, her fingers curled around mine—small, deliberate. Permission.
That’s when I closed the distance.
I took her other hand, raised both gently until her back met the fence. Not pinning—guiding. She let me. Her breathing sped up; I could feel it against my chest. I’m 6’2”; she was a full head shorter. The height difference felt right, like it gave her room to look up and decide.
“So,” I said quietly, “you bought something you’re not planning to use?”
She didn’t answer with words. She just looked up at me—dark eyes wide, lips parted—and that was answer enough.
I kissed her.
And she melted into it.
Her knees softened; I pressed closer to steady her, one hand still laced with hers above her head, the other sliding to her waist. She arched against me, kissing back like she’d been waiting for this all night. When I pulled back for air, she was staring at me like I’d just rewritten gravity—chest rising fast, pupils blown.
“Okay,” she breathed. “You’re definitely not gay.”
I laughed—low, surprised—and kissed her again. Harder. She met me with equal hunger, hands finally free to tangle in my hair, body curving into mine like she couldn’t get close enough.
We made out against that fence for what felt like forever—twenty minutes at least. Slow, then urgent, then slow again. Her little gasps when I nipped her lip. The way she tugged my shirt like she wanted it gone. The metal clanged softly every time we shifted. Somewhere in there, the whole stunt dissolved—this wasn’t about proving anything anymore. It was about wanting more of her.
By the time we broke apart, we were both wrecked—panting, lips swollen, her ponytail coming loose.
“My dorm,” I said. Voice rough. “Now.”
She nodded. No hesitation.
We barely made it back without stopping—kissing against trees, brick walls, a bike rack—like the night itself kept shoving us together. Every time I pulled that ponytail to angle her head, she made this small, needy sound in her throat that lit me up.
By the time we stumbled into my room, we were past ready.
(My roommate—Jack? John? Peter?—the perpetual stoner I saw maybe five times that entire year—was mercifully gone.)
The space was exactly what you’d expect from a freshman who’d only recently escaped parental supervision: cramped, smelling faintly of unwashed laundry and cheap body spray, posters half-taped to the wall, textbooks in a teetering stack, swim goggles dangling from the desk lamp like a trophy. The bed was laughably small—barely big enough for one person, let alone two people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
None of it mattered.
I kicked the door shut. We were on each other before it clicked closed.
Clothes came off in a frenzy—her tank top yanked over her head, my shirt following, jeans and underwear hitting the floor in a tangled heap. She had a wide, athletic frame—big-boned, strong from years of lacrosse (I’d learn that later)—breasts teardrop-shaped and perfect in my hands, wide areolas, an ass that made my brain short-circuit every time I grabbed it. Toned, warm, built for motion. Built for this.
I laid her out on the narrow mattress and just ... looked for a second.
“You’re staring,” she said, voice husky, arms starting to cross over herself like she was suddenly shy.
“You’re beautiful.” I caught her wrists gently, lifted them above her head, pinned them lightly to the pillow. “Don’t hide from me.”
Her breath hitched—sharp, audible—and her hips lifted off the bed like the words alone had jolted her.
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