"You're always primping. I don't see why," Traci said, shrugging as she began gathering up her belongings.

"And you're not? I see the way you try fixing yourself up whenever Greg's around," Emily countered. Traci dropped her eyes, feeling a flash of excitement rush through her pussy at the mention of the basketball player's name. Her fingers trembled slightly as she slipped a shirt over her naked shoulders. Wearing a skimpy bikini as the air chilled wasn't such a great idea.

"I… I do not…"

"Don't lie to me, Traci," Emily said, hooking onto her friend's discomfort and smiling nastily. "You keep meeting him in the halls. He likes you, Traci. Why don't you let him… go all the way. I said before you shouldn't let him fuck you. But now I'm not so sure. Maybe that'll loosen you up."

Traci flushed beet red, her eyes rounding as she stared angrily at her friend.

"And I suppose you're the great expert on the subject? How many boys have you… you fucked?"

The word rolled off her tongue, piercing the air like acid. She was surprised how her flesh shivered with excitement when she pronounced that word. Fuck. How strange a word could have that kind of power!

"That's my business… if I've fucked any, that is," Emily said cagily. "I don't see why I should tell you anything if you don't listen to my advice."

"And what's that? To wind up the town whore?" Traci retorted, almost shouting. The wind rose, blowing her hair in front of her face. The surf was rising already while thickly piled cumulus clouds scudded across the darkening sky. A thick fog promised to settle over Venice and Santa Monica soon.