Becoming Chaos
Copyright© 2025 by Lyander Lockhart
Chapter 3 - Part 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Part 2 - 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
Part 2
Claire becomes my anchor.
And anchors, I’m learning, don’t keep you still — they keep you from drifting too far.
By early October, Wednesdays have a shape. Class at ten. Office hours at two. The pattern settles without me deciding it, like something I stepped into and didn’t bother to step out of.
The first time was after our second class—she’d mentioned a passage about gender fluidity in ancient Rome, and I wanted to dig deeper. She gave me a book from her personal collection, margins filled with her notes, told me to read the marked sections. That was three weeks ago.
Today, she’s going to make me earn it.
Her office is small, lined with books floor to ceiling, papers everywhere in organized chaos. Not cluttered — layered. Lived in. There’s a photo on her desk of her rock climbing—all muscle and concentration, hanging off what looks like an impossible overhang. Another of her at some archaeological site, dirty and grinning, holding a trowel. Nothing ornamental. Everything earned.
“Gabriel,” she says when I knock. “Come in. Shut the door.”
I settle into the chair across from her desk. Worn leather, comfortable, probably older than I am. She’s got reading glasses on, which she takes off and sets aside.
“So,” she says, leaning back. “The symposium chapter. Walk me through it.”
“The part about—”
“Start at the beginning.” Her tone doesn’t rise, doesn’t soften. “What’s Plato actually arguing?”
And we’re off.
She doesn’t let me coast. Every answer gets a follow-up question. Every assertion gets challenged. When I try to quote the text back at her, she asks what it means. When I generalize, she demands specifics. When I try to charm my way through uncertainty, she simply waits.
It’s not unkind. It’s relentless.
“You’re dancing around it,” she says at one point. “What is he saying about the nature of desire?”
“That it’s ... fluid? That we’re all looking for our other half, regardless of—”
“No.” She leans forward. Not confrontational. Precise. “You’re importing modern frameworks. What does the text actually say?”
I try again. Get closer. She pushes back. I adjust. I stop performing confidence and start thinking.
By the time we’re done, my brain feels raw. Used. Alive.
“Better,” she says, and the single word lands like praise I’m not supposed to chase. Which makes me want it more. “You’re starting to read actively instead of passively. That’s the difference between memorizing and understanding.”
She stands, pulls another book from her shelf. This one is annotated too, Post-Its flagging certain pages. She doesn’t hesitate.
“Catullus,” she says. “For next week. Pay attention to the Lesbia poems—how he writes about obsessive desire. What it costs him.”
I take it carefully. “You really trust me with your books.”
“I trust you’ll take care of them,” she says.
When I stand to leave, I make the mistake again. “Thanks, Dr. Hastings.”
She looks at me over her reading glasses, which she’s put back on. “Gabriel.”
“Claire. Sorry.”
“You keep apologizing for that.”
“I keep forgetting.”
“Do you?” She tilts her head slightly. Assessing, not teasing. “Or does it feel wrong to call me by my first name?”
The question lands harder than it should. “Both?”
“Good.” She goes back to her papers. “Discomfort means you’re paying attention.”
“Read the Catullus,” she says as I reach the door. “We’ll discuss it next week.”
I leave with the book in my hands and that tightness in my chest I’ve started to recognize. Not hunger. Not guilt. Something sharper.
Walking back across campus, I try to figure out what just happened.
Because I can’t tell if I want to be her.
Or if I want to be with her.
Or if the difference even matters anymore.
Eve starts acting different.
Not in obvious ways—she’s still affectionate, still texting constantly, still wanting to see me every day. But there’s a shift I can’t quite name.
She stops introducing me as “my Freshman with Benefits.” Now it’s just “This is Gabriel” with her hand in mine. The ironic distance is gone. Everyone around us has started treating me like her boyfriend even though she’s never said the word.
The party is at some off-campus house, packed and loud. Eve’s band is setting up in the living room—they’ve shoved the furniture against the walls to make space. Her drum kit takes up most of the cleared area.
I’m at a table in the kitchen with Diego, Isabella, and Lila. Lauren is mercifully elsewhere.
“I still can’t believe you’d never heard ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ before you met her,” Diego says, grinning.
“I grew up on country music and opera,” I say. “My father and my grandfather had ... specific tastes.”
“What about your mom?” Lila asks.
“My mother listened to whatever made her feel cultured at dinner parties. Aunt Anna was the only normal one. She had taste, but she was too late to influence me, I guess.”
The band starts the next song—guitar riff, bass line, then Eve comes in with the drums. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans, hair up in her ponytail, completely focused. Her sticks are a blur.
“She’s really good,” Lila says.
She is. I’m still getting used to it—this version of Eve. Lacrosse Eve is all focus and aggression. Sweet Eve is the one who traces patterns on my chest and asks about my day. But this Eve, behind a drum kit, is something else entirely. Confident. Powerful. Completely in control.
The singer—some girl I don’t know—launches into the vocals. Pat Benatar. Eve’s made me listen to enough of it that I’m starting to recognize the songs now. Not quite converted, but getting there.
“You’re staring,” Isabella observes.
“She is good. Shouldn’t I?”
“Good at what?” Diego asks.
“Yeah, I want to know all about that.” Isabella starts her usual interrogation. “How good is she really?”
Before we can start our usual match, a girl appears at my elbow. Blonde, cute, holding a beer.
“You’re Gabriel, right?” she says. “From the auction?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Sarah. I wanted to bid but I got there late.” She smiles. “Glad I caught you though. Want to—”
Eve’s drumming gets louder. Harder. I glance over and she’s looking right at me, sticks hitting the cymbals with more force than the song requires.
“I’m actually here with someone tonight.” I start.
He’s taken,” Isabella cuts in, voice carrying. “Very taken.”
Sarah looks between me and the stage, reads the situation, and retreats.
But Lila, she is looking straight at me with knowing eyes.
The song ends. Eve sets down her sticks and heads straight for our table, weaving through the crowd. She’s sweating slightly, face flushed, energy still crackling off her.
She doesn’t say anything. Just slides her arm around my waist, fingers gripping my shirt, and kisses me. Hard. In front of everyone.
When she pulls back, she’s looking at where Sarah was standing, not at me.
“Good set,” I say.
“Thanks.” Her grip loosens slightly but doesn’t let go. “Who was that?”
“No one. Some girl.”
“She was flirting with you.”
“I noticed.”
Eve’s hand tightens again. “And?”
“And I’m here with you.”
She searches my face for something, then seems to find it. “Yeah. You are.”
Diego and Isabella exchange a look. Lila is suddenly very interested in her drink.
Later, walking back to her place, she’s quiet.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I saw like three different girls watching you tonight.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Liar.” But she’s smiling now. Softer. “You always notice.”
“Maybe. But I am well behaved when I am out with someone.”
“When you are out with someone?”
“Of course, didn’t you notice?”
She stops walking. Looks up at me, her face is stone all of a sudden.
And there it is. The question she’s been building to all week.
We start walking again, silently. Because it’s easier than the alternative. Because she’s standing there in her tank top with her drumsticks still in her back pocket and I can still taste her on my lips.
I pull her into a kiss. Deep strong. She hesitates and then she reciprocates.
“You were amazing tonight. I couldn’t keep my eyes away from you. You are so hot when you are playing.”
She smiles and kisses me. I kiss back and tell myself this is simple. That I can give her this without giving her everything.
We go back to my room and we have sex. As always.
When we are done, I lay there with her in my arms, sleeping soundly.
Happy.
All is well, still casual.
Everything is fine.
It was not fine.
Luna texts me four days later, Monday this time.
Come over
Eve is asleep next to me, curled into my side. It’s past midnight. Her breathing is soft and even. Peaceful.
My phone screen glows in the dark.
I should delete the text. I should stay here. I should be the person Eve thinks I am.
I extract myself carefully. She doesn’t wake. I dress in the dark, grab my keys.
I find a pen and paper on her desk. Write quickly:
Had to head back to my dorm - just remembered I have an English Lit essay due tomorrow morning. Need to get to my desktop to finish it. Didn’t want to wake you. Sleep well. -G
I leave it on her nightstand where she’ll see it.
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of knowing exactly what I’m doing and doing it anyway.
When I arrive, Luna opens the door before I can knock. Like she was waiting.
“Come in.”
The space is the same. Plants perfect. Books organized. White sheets on the low bed.
But tonight there’s rope laid out on those sheets. Coiled precisely. Deliberately.
She’s wearing her thin cotton dress. Hair loose. Barefoot.
“Take your clothes off,” she says.
Not a request.
I reach for my shirt.
“Slowly.”
I pause. Look at her.
She’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me with those analytical eyes. Clinical. Like she’s studying something.
I pull my shirt over my head. Her gaze doesn’t waver. Just tracks the movement. Takes inventory.
My jeans next. I undo the button, slide the zipper down. Step out of them.
“Everything.”
I hook my thumbs in my boxers. Hesitate for half a second.
“I want to see all of you,” she says. Still watching. “I want to see what you’re hiding.”
I push them down.
Stand there naked while she looks at me. Really looks. Her eyes move over my body like she’s cataloging every detail. My chest. My stomach. My cock—already half-hard just from being watched like this.
“You have a beautiful body,” she says finally. Matter-of-fact. “You know that, don’t you? You use it.”
I don’t know what to say.
“That’s not a criticism.” She moves closer. Walks around me. I can feel her gaze on my back, my ass, my shoulders. “You perform with your body the same way you perform with words. Every gesture calculated.”
She completes the circle, stands in front of me again.
“But right now?” She reaches out, traces one finger down my chest. Just once. “Right now you don’t know what to do. You’re exposed and you don’t have a script for this.”
My cock is fully hard now. Obvious. Undeniable.
She sees it. Smiles slightly. “Good. That’s honest.”
She pulls her dress over her head. Naked beneath. That body I’m learning—curves, soft stomach, heavy tits with pierced nipples, that wild bush.
“Hands,” she says.
I turn, put my hands behind my back.
She picks up the rope. Wraps it around my wrists. Efficient. Methodical. The rope bites into my skin—not painful exactly, but present. Real.
She tests the knots. Satisfied.
“On your back.”
I lie down on the white sheets. The rope presses into the mattress beneath my weight. The position is immediately uncomfortable. I can’t adjust without making it worse.
She picks up more rope. Ties one ankle to the bed frame. Then the other. Spreads my legs wide. Tests the knots.
I’m completely exposed now. Arms bound behind my back pressing into the mattress, legs spread wide and tied. Vulnerable. Unable to close them. Unable to hide anything.
She stands at the foot of the bed for a moment, just looking at me. Taking in the full picture of what she’s done.
My cock is hard, exposed, straining upward between my spread legs. There’s nowhere to hide it. No way to control how she sees me.
“Good,” she says quietly. “Now you can’t pretend.”
She climbs onto the bed. Kneels between my spread legs first, close enough that I can feel her body heat. Her eyes travel down my torso to my cock, hard and exposed. She doesn’t touch it. Just looks.
Then she moves up my body. Straddles my chest. I can smell her—that earthy musk, soap, something uniquely her. Her pussy is inches from my face, wet already, that bush thick and wild.
“Look at me.”
I do.
She’s above me, tits hanging heavy, piercings catching the light. Face calm. In control.
“Open your mouth.”
She moves up, plants her knees on either side of my head, and lowers herself onto my mouth. Not gentle. Full weight. Using my tongue however she wants.
I can barely breathe.
The bush is thick against my face, coarse hair scratching my cheeks and nose. Her taste floods my mouth immediately—salt and earth and her. She’s already wet, coating my tongue, dripping.
She starts grinding. Slow at first, then harder. Riding my face like she’s entitled to it.
I have to time my breaths with her movements or I can’t breathe at all.
My nose is buried in her pussy, my tongue working where she directs it. When I find her clit she gasps, grinds down harder. I can feel her thighs clamping around my head.
My cock is rock hard below, untouched, exposed between my spread legs. I can’t even press my thighs together for friction. Can’t move at all. Just lying there spread open while she uses my face.
“Stop trying to control it,” she says above me. Her voice is steady even as she rides my face. “You can’t. Just take it.”
I stop trying to anticipate. Stop trying to calculate the right move. There is no right move. I’m just here. Bound. Spread. Being used.
When she comes the first time, her thighs clamp so hard around my head I think she might suffocate me. Her whole body tenses, pussy clenching, and she moans loud and shameless.
She barely pauses. Just shifts her hips slightly and keeps going.
My jaw starts to ache. The muscles in my neck burn from the angle. The rope digs deeper into my wrists with every shift of position. My legs strain against the ankle restraints, wanting to close, to move, but they can’t. She doesn’t care. She uses my face like it’s hers to use, grinding down whenever she wants more pressure, lifting slightly when she needs less.
I can feel my spit mixing with her wetness, everything slick and obscene. The bush is matted now, soaked, scratching my raw face.
Looking up, I can see her tits swaying with each movement, piercings glinting. Can see her face—not lost in pleasure but focused. Deliberate. Watching me.
My cock throbs, untouched, leaking precum onto my stomach. Completely exposed. Completely ignored.
When she comes the second time, it’s harder. Longer. Her pussy pulses against my tongue, coating my face with more wetness.
By the third orgasm—or maybe it’s the fourth, I’ve lost count—my jaw aches so badly I can barely work my tongue. My face is completely drenched. The rope has left deep red marks on my wrists. My ankles burn from straining against the ties.
But something has shifted.
The more control I lose, the less I have to be. No versions. No compartments. No performance. Just this.
Empty.
Finally, she climbs off.
I gasp for air. My face is soaked, my jaw barely functioning. Every muscle in my neck screams. My legs are still spread wide, tied, my hard cock exposed and aching between them.
She unties my ankles first. The relief is immediate even though my legs ache from being held open. Then my wrists. The rope has left deep indents that will take hours to fade. I flex my fingers, getting feeling back. Try to close my legs but they’re stiff, reluctant.
She lights a joint. Doesn’t offer it immediately. Just smokes, sitting cross-legged beside me, completely unselfconscious in her nakedness.
“How do you feel?” she asks after a few drags.
I don’t know how to answer that.
“Empty,” I say finally. “In a good way.”
She nods like this makes perfect sense. Takes another drag. “That’s what happens when you stop filling every space with performance.”
She passes me the joint.
We smoke together, lazy and slow. The high settles in. Everything feels distant and close at the same time.
Then she straddles me.
My cock is still hard, has been hard this whole time, untouched and aching. When she sinks down onto me—no preamble, just sudden wet heat—I groan.
She rides me slowly. Unhurried. My legs are free now but weak, useless. I can’t thrust up into her. Can only lie there and take what she gives. We pass the joint back and forth between us. Her tits bounce gently with each movement, piercings catching the light. That bush rubs against my pelvis, still wet from my face, from her coming.
I can watch everything from this angle. Watch my cock disappear into her, reappear slick and glistening. Watch the way her body moves, deliberate and controlled even now. Watch her face—still calm, still focused, still studying me.
The smoke makes everything feel dreamlike but I can feel every detail. The way she clenches around me. The weight of her on my hips. The scratch of her nails on my chest.
“Don’t hold back,” she says. Not an order. Permission.
When I come, it’s almost violent. Each pulse feels like it’s being ripped out of me. She keeps riding through it, milking every drop, until I’m completely empty.
She climbs off. Lights another joint. Doesn’t offer it.
“You did good,” she says, exhaling smoke. Not praise exactly. Just observation.
I lie there, spent, marked, used. My wrists and ankles still bearing the deep indents of rope.
“You can go now,” she says into the silence.
No invitation to stay. No cuddling. No performance.
Just done.
When I leave, I can still feel the rope marks on my wrists and ankles. Can still taste her on my tongue. My legs are unsteady.
I drive back to campus in a daze.
Sitting in Claire’s class the next day is the only time my thoughts stop colliding with each other.
Not because they resolve, but because they slow down. Everything else in my life has started to overlap in uncomfortable ways — Eve’s growing presence, the way Luna pulls me out of myself, the constant effort of deciding which version of me is required where. Here, none of that matters. Ancient History doesn’t care who I was last night. It only cares that I’m paying attention.
Claire writes ACHILLES on the board and turns to face us.
“We usually meet Achilles at Troy,” she says, “already armored, already furious, already legendary. But that’s the end of his story, not the beginning.”
She leans back against the desk, casual, controlled.
“Achilles grows up knowing a prophecy. If he goes to war, he will die young but be remembered forever. If he stays out of it, he will live a long life and be forgotten.”
A few people nod. It’s familiar enough.
“So his mother hides him,” Claire continues. “Not in a cave or a prison. On Skyros. In a palace. Among the daughters of King Lycomedes.”
She doesn’t pause before saying it.
“He lives as a girl.”
The words land plainly, without emphasis.
“He wears women’s clothes. He learns their rhythms. In some traditions, he even takes a feminine name. And the myth does not frame this as shameful or temporary in the way people like to imagine.”
She gestures with the chalk, thoughtful.
“Skyros isn’t a mistake. It’s a viable life. Achilles could have stayed there. He could have lived, aged, disappeared quietly into history.”
I feel something settle uncomfortably low in my chest.
“What ends Skyros isn’t discomfort,” Claire says. “It’s recognition.”
She sketches Odysseus’ name on the board.
“When Odysseus comes looking for Achilles, he doesn’t expose him by force. He sets a test. He lays out gifts — fabric, jewelry, weapons. Achilles reaches for the weapons.”
She looks at us then, deliberately.
“That’s the moment of choice. Not between masculinity and femininity. Between life and name.”
Prophecy. Name.
Withmore.
The room is silent.
“He chooses Troy,” she continues. “He chooses death. He chooses to be remembered.”
My pen has stopped moving. I don’t remember deciding to do that.
“And here’s what matters,” Claire says. “Achilles does not leave his queerness behind when he leaves Skyros. Patroclus isn’t a phase or a detour. He’s part of Achilles’ continuity.”
She stops and looks straight at me.
“They train together. Live together. Fight together. Achilles carries intimacy into war. What he leaves behind isn’t desire. It’s anonymity.”
Something about that tightens my breathing.
“When Agamemnon later challenges him,” she goes on, “it isn’t about trophies or pride. Achilles has no throne, no inheritance, no institutional power. All he has is the prophecy. The certainty that he is meant for something singular.”
She taps the board once.
“When Agamemnon treats him as replaceable, Achilles refuses. Not because he’s arrogant, but because accepting that insult would mean accepting an ordinary life.”
The words echo longer than they should.
“Hubris,” Claire finishes, “isn’t thinking you’re great. It’s believing that destiny protects you from consequence.”
Class ends, but it takes a second before anyone moves.
I walk out feeling slightly off-balance, like the ground shifted without warning.
Claire stops me just outside the lecture hall and hands back my first essay. The one where I thought I was being clever. Where I talked about balance and desire and control like they were abstract concepts.
She taps the top page lightly.
“You write well,” she says. “You notice patterns. But you talk about identity as if it’s something that happens to you.”
I don’t argue.
She smiles faintly. “You mentioned your birth chart. Libra sun and moon. Venus in Scorpio.”
I blink. “Yeah.”
“October twentieth,” she says, almost casually.
The accuracy of it hits harder than it should.
“Libra likes equilibrium,” Claire continues. “Harmony. Being liked. Venus in Scorpio wants intensity. Depth. Power. It’s a configuration that can feel like fate if you don’t interrogate it.”
She hands me the essay back fully now.
“Prophecy is seductive,” she adds. “Especially when it flatters you. But astrology, like myth, is only a language. What matters is what you choose to do with it.”
She steps back, already done with the conversation.
“For next time,” she says, “read about Thebes. The Sacred Band. We’ll pick this up then.”
Walking across campus, the air feels sharper than before.
I keep thinking about Achilles on Skyros, living a life that would never be sung about. And about the relief the myth seems to offer when it tells you that choosing the name is noble, inevitable, almost responsible.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, another thought presses in, unwelcome and unresolved: how easy it feels, lately, to stay where I am. How warm. How complete.
I don’t know why that thought makes me uneasy.
I just know that it does.
After class, Lauren found me at the student center while I’m waiting for coffee. She doesn’t block me or trap me. She just follows me to my table and sits down, uninvited.
Lauren has been getting worse.
Not louder. Not messier. More exact.
At a party a few days ago, I watched her corner Eve near the kitchen, bodies pressed close by the crowd. Her voice is low, conversational. The kind that doesn’t draw attention.
“So what do you tell people you are?” she asks.
Eve laughs, shrugs it off, says something vague. Lauren nods like she expected that answer. She doesn’t push. But I see the moment land — a slight hesitation, a recalibration. Like something just slipped out of alignment.
And, now, she was at my table staring at me.
“People call you her boyfriend,” she says, watching the espresso machine. “Usually when you’re not around.”
“That’s not my problem,” I reply easily.
She glances at me, measuring. “You haven’t told her you love her.”
“That’s a statement, not a question,” I say. “And no.”
She nods. “I thought so.”
“We’re casual,” I add. I hear how practiced it sounds and don’t care. “I’ve never said otherwise.”
Lauren finally turns to face me.
“You see each other every day. You sleep over. You’re exclusive. You’re integrated into each other’s routines.”
“None of which constitutes a commitment,” I say calmly. “Presumption doesn’t equal consent.”
That gets a reaction — just a flicker. Interest, maybe.
“So you’re arguing technical innocence,” she says.
“I’m stating facts,” I reply. “I haven’t promised anything. I haven’t named anything. I haven’t misrepresented what this is.”
She takes her coffee when it’s handed to her, adds sugar slowly.
“You haven’t clarified either,” she says. “You let the shape form and then hide behind the absence of a label.”
“I don’t owe anyone definitions they didn’t ask for,” I say. “She’s an adult. If she wants something specific, she can say so.”
Lauren smiles faintly at that. Not impressed.
“You’re very careful,” she says. “About what you technically owe.”
I shrug. “That’s how responsibility works.”
“No,” Lauren says, finally looking straight at me. “That’s how plausible deniability works.”
I feel irritation flare — sharp, controlled.
“You’re projecting,” I say. “You don’t know what happens between us.”
“I know what doesn’t,” she replies. “You don’t ask what she wants. You don’t correct assumptions that benefit you. And you don’t leave.”
“That’s your interpretation.”
“It’s her reality.”
I meet her gaze. “She’s choosing to be here.”
Lauren studies me for a long second.
“Yes,” she says. “And you’re choosing not to choose.”
“That’s still a choice,” I point out.
Her smile widens just a fraction.
“Exactly.”
The word hangs between us.
She takes a sip of her coffee, already disengaging.
“Just be honest with yourself,” she adds lightly. “You’re not avoiding commitment. You’re avoiding being framed.”
She walks away before I can respond.
I sit down with my coffee and let it go untouched, cooling between my hands.
For a moment, I tell myself she’s wrong. That precision absolves me. That clarity protects me.
And then, uncomfortably, I realize how much effort I’ve put into making sure all of that sounds convincing.
It’s Thursday afternoon when Isabella texts: Coffee. Need to debrief about your little scene at the party.
It took her almost a week to reach out and demand explanation. That was impressive.
I meet them at the place off campus. The one with the good espresso and terrible lighting. Isabella’s already there, Lila beside her in the booth.
“Black coffee, no sugar,” Lila tells the server before I can order.
I blink. “Yeah. How did you—”
“She’s creepy like that,” Isabella says. “Pays attention to weird shit.” She looks at me. “I would’ve bet money you’d get something with milk. You seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The type who pretends to be simple but isn’t.” She pauses. “I expected you to choose frappuccino. The gay version of coffee.”
“It’s just coffee, Bella.”
“Sure it is.” She grins. “Just like you’re ‘just friendly’ with everyone you meet.”
Lila doesn’t react. Just sips her tea—something herbal that smells like it cost too much.
When my coffee comes, Isabella leans forward. “So. That party. When you told Eve you were ‘well behaved when you’re out with someone.’” She grins. “What the fuck was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that’s such a weird thing to say. Like you’re admitting you’re NOT well behaved when you’re alone? Or that you’re only good when someone’s watching?” She’s enjoying this. “So which is it? Are you a slut who needs supervision or what?”
“Bella,” Lila says quietly. Not chiding. Just ... noting.