Erotica Harem

Plot:
Tammy is thinking back to school days with her best friend Jill. Jill gets away with violating the dress code. Tammy gets busted for it. She sexually aware at her age and likes it when the boys pay attention to her.

Characters:
Tammy is spoiled and doesn't like being called snot nose/snot-nosed. Should it be hyphenated?
She wants to get away with being naughty like her friend.
Her family is messed up and places importance on money and appearances.
Your character's voice is strong and her personality comes through clear.

Setting/Descriptions:
I'm not exactly where she is throughout this chapter. It changes. It's more of a monologue alluding to events to come. She's in the bathroom at one point, smoking with her friend and later busted by the monitor for wearing no bra.

My Opinion:
My only complaint is the jumpiness of the storyline. It didn;t run smooth for me. Maybe it's the smoking scene that soon jumps to how she met Jill.
Character is driven and well-done.
There's a read-on prompt at then end. Plenty of room for erotic happenings in the future.

Edit Notes:
Be careful of the overuse of the word "that".
Some small repeats noted in the line-by-line.

Line-By-Line:

Chapter 1

Let me say this right up front – I’m spoiled. It’s not like I’m spoiled rotten or that I’m some kind of brat that stamps her feet whenever she wants something, it’s just that my parents almost never deny me anything. They’ve really gone out of their way to make life easy for me, something I didn’t appreciate until my summer adventure.

Take the private high school I went to – Walmarette. It’s one of the best private schools in New Jersey, a really expensive school that has short hours and great lunches and where detention is a word that is almost never heard. If someone blindfolded you and dropped you off in the middle of the campus, you’d never guess that Walmarette was in the middle of an industrial area of northern New Jersey, an area best known for its crummy motels, fast food restaurants, and shopping malls.

You really have to see this place to believe it. The main building was supposedly once a church, maybe even a cathedral, and it has twisted spires on the roof to prove it. The campus is a few acres large and covered with huge oak trees and perfect lawns and, in the spring and summer, beautiful flower gardens. Walmarette’s almost like a world unto itself, a world that most people in the area don’t even know exists or, if they do know about it, they don’t know much, because those of us who go there don’t associate with outsiders .

*Note: Watch out for overusing the word: that. In many cases it can be omitted.

It took me a while to fit in at Walmarette, mainly because most of the kids that go there are from old money and that seems to give them a reason to have a kind of uppity attitude. My family is from new money; that is, my dad is a partner in a law firm that made lots of money on class-action lawsuits, you know, like a bunch of drunk drivers suing a car company because the car couldn’t tell them that they were drunk. I suspect that a lot of people in town frowned on him – the bloodsucking lawyer - <--make into a proper em dash, not a hyphen and, by default, they frowned on my mother and me, but Walmarette didn’t care. Money was money to the school, whether it was new money or old money. But, once Jill took a liking to me, I was accepted in a heartbeat. Who’s Jill? I’ll get to her soon.

My parents say that they sent me to Walmarette to get the best education they could provide, the type of education that would get me into the best Universities <--I don't think that needs to be capotalized. In that regard, they were right – I start Columbia University in June. But I know the real reason they sent me there – they wanted to keep me away from the disturbing influences of kids that come from families that are not quite as – how do I say this? – sophisticated as we are. God forbid I meet someone that’s outside our elitist country club social circle. If I did, I might meet someone like – well, like my parents used to be.

My father’s from a family of working class Irish Catholics straight out of Boston and, if he hadn’t gotten lucky with his first class action suit, we’d probably still be living there. My mother’s a Jewish American Princess <-so is my neighbor whose parents owned a number of dry-cleaning stores – not exactly Nobel Prize winners. My father’s family is upset that he married a Jew and my mother’s family is upset that she married a goyim. My parents, though – they seem to think they’re descendants of royalty, always fretting about appearances and what connections they have and what kinds of cars they drive.

The truth is, my family is about the most messed up family in the world and I, unfortunately, am messed up as well, and I have a story that proves it.

It was the next to last day of my senior year at Walmarette, and Jill – my best friend Jill Montrose, the same Jill I mentioned earlier – Jill and I were sitting under a tree smoking cigarettes, holding the world in contempt.

Now that I think about it, I can’t really say that Jill was my best friend. We never did anything outside of school except when our families got together, which was very rarely. I never saw her after school or on the weekends and, when I would ask what she was doing, she would just smile secretively and tell me it was none of my business. I’m pretty sure that most of what she did in her free time almost always had something to do with sex.

One day a few years ago, completely out of the blue, Jill sought me out and we started to hang around together, at school that is, so I guess we were friends, even though we have practically nothing in common.

Right here you jumped out of the tale. I was in the scene with the cigarettes and now I'm getting more backstory.

Here’s what I think happened – when we moved here, when I was twelve, I was so angry. I guess that was one time when I did stamp my feet and carry on and cry and scream, but to no avail.

“Honey,” my mother said. “Daddy’s going to start working in New York and we don’t want to live in the city and...”

“I don’t care!” I screamed. “I don’t wanna go! I don’t wanna !” I literally threw myself on my bed and kicked my legs and screamed and carried on. A whole lot of good that did.

So, my parents yanked me away from my lifelong friends and deposited me among all these rich kidscomma and I wanted to have nothing to do with anyone. If it wasn’t for lacrosse, I wouldn’t have associated with anyone at all.

Anyway, as soon as I started Walmarette, boys started hitting on me – mind you, I was twelve. I, of course, ignored them and walked around with a permanent chip on my shoulder. One day, after I had been in school for about six months, Jill walked up to me and put her arm around me. Okay so now I'm here when they met.

“I like you,” she said. “People think you’re a snot nose, but I just think you know you’re better than them.” So, just like that, I started hanging out with her and became one of the cool kids in the school. I was happy to have someone I could hang around with – someone I could mock everyone else with – but I sure didn’t like being referred to as a snot nose. More about that later.

Anyway, Jill was the alpha female of the school, the girl every boy wanted and that every girl envied – a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty who never exercised in the least but who had a perfect body, a bikini model body, a thin, lithe body topped by a pair of perfect boobs. She understood the power she had on the boys rep: in school, and maybe on some of the girls rep: in school, and she seemed to enjoy flaunting that power.

She also had some kind of unexplainable control of the school administrators – I mean, she got away with everything !

Like, we girls all had to wear uniforms to school – white blouses, either blue or black skirts, white socks, and black shoes. The uniforms and our general appearance were strictly regulated – the skirts could be no more than two inches above the knee, we couldn’t were excess jewelry, we had to limit our hair styles, we couldn’t use heavy makeup, and – above all – we had to wear a bra, no matter how small our boobs were.

Not Jill. Slowly but surely, over the last two years, her hemline crept upward until her skirt barely covered her butt and no one said a word.

She wore red lipstick and blue eyeliner and something like six earrings, and on one ever said a word.

She almost never wore a bra and, when she walked through the hallways, she swung her hips back and forth, making her breasts sway under her blouse.

And no one said a word!

I figured – what the heck – I could get away with that kind of stuff, too. After all, I was the second sexiest girl in the school, or at least that was what Jill told me – second sexiest behind her, of course.

I’m a little shorter than Jill, about five six, so I was a little less intimidating than she was. I was thinner and my boobs were smaller, so I looked cute and perky rather than glamorous, but I was also sexy! I know that I was sexy.


My eyes are prettier, being dark green and all, and my hair is a sort of reddish brown, and the combination of my eyes and hair is fantastic – at least that’s what JD, my old boyfriend, told me. And I was an athlete – captain of the girl’s lacrosse team – so I had more muscles than she did and boys told me they liked that. They said they liked how strong my legs looked.

God, I loved that! I loved knowing they were looking at my legs, and I really loved knowing they were looking at my butt. Sometimes the throbbing between my legs was so intense that I would go into the girl’s room and feel myself between the my legs and be astonished at how wet I was.

I knew I was ready – I was ready to do it, you know, I was ready to have sex. So, one day, to draw a little bit more attention to myself and to draw some away from Jill, I decided to go to school braless. Oh, I was so excited! My little nipples stood out against my white blouse and the thought of all the boys staring at me made me so horny. I proudly sauntered into school when the doors opened in the morning, back straight and chest pushed out, secure in the knowledge that every eye would be on me and not on Jill, but, within thirty seconds, I heard my name being called. Whoa. Total deja vu moment. I know I've read this before. But where?

“Tammy Weinhart, stop right where you are!”

That voice sent a chill through me! It belonged to Ms. Solomon, the dean of the women, the big, fat, smelly, sloppy, probable lesbian dean of women who had worn the same outfit to school every day for the past four years. The very same Ms. Solomon who could make life miserable for me.

“Young lady , just what do you think you are doing ?” she asked in a singsong, rep: mocking tone.

“What do you mean ?” I asked in a rep: mocking, innocent tone of voice.

“It’s fairly obvious,” Ms. Solomon droned on, “that you’re not wearing a bra.”

“Oh, is it?” I snapped, laying down a challenge.

Ms. Solomon looked at me with an evil, knowing smile. “Ah,” she said, “so it’s going to be like that . All right, let’s go to the office and call your mother or, better yet, your father.”

“But...” I whined.

“But, nothing,” Ms. Solomon said. “Let’s go.”

“Please...” I begged. “Pleasecomma don’t call my parents.”

“Are you braless?” she asked.

Come oncomma? Tammy, I thought. Come on. Tell her to look for herself. Dare her to undress you! Do something! Be tough! <-place internal thoughts in italics

I crumbled.

“Yes,” I mumbled as I fought off tears.

“You do know the rules, don’t you?”

“Yes, but,” I cried, “Jill...”

“Never mind about anyone but yourself,” Ms. Solomon snapped. “Now, what are we going to do about this?”

“I...I don’t know,” I said. “Jill drove me here. I can’t go home. Can’t I just go through the day – just today?”

“I think,” Ms. Solomon sneered, “that you’re not feeling well and that you have to go home, and to go home, you’ll have to take a cab, and, if you don’t have the money to take a cab, the school will loan it to you and you’ll have to pay it back.”

By now I was in tears. “Sick? But – I mean – what kind of sick? If I was sick, wouldn’t you call my parents?”

“Not if your period just started,” she laughed.

“omit space here Please !” I begged. “Not that!”

I was so mortified! Only geeky girls went home because they were getting their periods. It was so juvenilepmit space here !

“Okay, then,” Ms. Solomon whispered, “we’ll just call your mother or father.”

“Why?” I sobbed. “Why are you doing this?”

Ms. Solomon leaned over and hissed into my ear. “To teach you a lesson, you snot nosed little bitch . It’s not bad enough that you girls parade around the way you do. No. Now you have to dress like a...”

I didn’t hear what Ms. Solomon said – her voice became a stream of white noise. All I heard was snot nosed ! <--Watch out for these extra spaces before punctuation.

How I hated that expression!

When I was younger – starting when I was about eight, I think – my parents used to send me to my Aunt Lois’s place in the Hamptons, mainly because they wanted to have the summer to themselves. Aunt Lois and Uncle Herman, a person I almost never saw, were really rich and had a place on the beach, and I could take riding lessons and tennis lessons and you think I would have loved going there, but I hated my Aunt Lois. She was so unbearingly obnoxious!

She was always saying things like, “Stop talking while you eat, you snot nosed little brat.”

And, “Don’t talk back to me, you snot nosed little brat.”

And my cousin – that little creep Agatha who wound up running away with some Puerto Rican horse trainer – began to call me snot nose .

“Hey snot nose, let’s go to the beach.”

“Hey snot nose, let’s play tennis.”

And, if I was afraid to do something, like run into the ocean when the waves were bigger than me, she’d yell, “Don’t be a little snot nosed chicken!”

Those two little words infuriated me. A hot rage permeated my body and I’m sure my face turned red and I wanted to ball up my fist and smash Ms. Solomon right in the mouth. But, of course, I just stood like a statue and stared at her with hatred in my eyes.

I think Ms. Solomon saw my expression, and I guess she realized that she was about to say something that somehow, someway, might come back to haunt her, so, she straightened up and, staring off into space, asked me, “So, do you have the money to take a cab?”

“I...I have a credit card,” I whimpered.

“Good,” she said. “You wait outside while I call the cab, and...” – she paused for dramatic effect – “...tomorrow, make sure you’re dressed correctly.”

How I despised Ms. Solomon! If I could ever do anything to pay her back, I decided, I would! On the ride home, though, my anger morphed into resignation. I would never do anything to get back at Mrs. Solomon, and I knew it. But I did make a vow I was sure to keep – I made up my mind that I was going to find out how Jill got away with the things that she did.

** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **