Hello! All characters in this story are 18 or older. This story contains chastity, domination, cum play, semi-public antics, lingerie, and light sissy content.
This is the final part to this story, and I appreciate the patience of everyone who has followed it through. I enjoyed writing it a lot!
Let me know what other stories you'd like to see in the comments.
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The next morning, Wes and I wake up next to each other for school. In the almost-summer heat, we've decided to sleep with only a sheet covering us, and I can see every edge of Wes' naked frame. I reach to turn off my phone alarm, and I see a text.
"Unknown Number: I know what you two are doing."
[IMAGE ATTACHED]
I open the picture, and my mouth goes dry. I turn to Wes, who's still in a tired stupor. Once he sees the text and picture, he jolts upright.
The picture is of us standing by the water during our date, holding each other and kissing.
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I look at the photo again. It's a good picture; I have my arms wrapped around Wes' waist, and he has his draped over my shoulders. It's a snapshot of a kiss between us, and even in the still, grainy image, it's easy to see the passion.
I close the photo and pull up my browser again.
Wes and I are in the bathroom, simultaneously trying to get ready and do investigative work about the mysterious photo and text I got in my phone. The number isn't in either of our contact lists or listed online, and the area code tells us only that the number is from Minnesota of all places. Wes brushes his teeth as he pulls up the ground-level view of the street near where the photo was taken from on his Maps app. To his credit, he pinpoints where the texter must have been standing down to a five-foot wide square, but finding out that the weirdo was standing between a bus stop and a parking kiosk ends up leaving us still pretty much in the dark.
"Why would they just take a picture of that?" Wes asks.
I know what he means. Considering the other things we did that night, including public oral sex and walking into a gay sauna, a picture of us kissing by the water seems innocent. Even still, both Wes and I are shaken. Someone took a picture of us without our knowledge and sent it to us like they're the masked freak in a fucking horror movie.
Wes seems especially panicked.
My own anxiety starts to ebb as I continue to get ready. Wes and I are college-bound, and even though we're both going to in-state universities, they're up north, and almost nobody else from our high school is traveling farther than 45 minutes from home. His friends from the soccer team, Joey, Chris, and some others, would certainly care, but I don't even know if Wes cares about what they think anymore. Besides, today is the last half-day of school, and with graduation this evening, we can write off this whole town if we want and make new friends at our chosen universities.
Wes keeps typing manically on his phone though, looking up the number, searching up how hard it is to track a text, and a bunch of other FBI-lite shit that has no chance of finding out who sent this text.
"Wes," I say. "It'll be alright."
Wes' face is flush, and he won't make eye contact with me. He just nods.
Before we leave for school, I tell Ms. Simmons about the text. She takes a look, and although there's nothing precisely illegal about what we've been sent, she still writes down the details and says she'll try and help how she can. Sasha, who's over for breakfast again, checks her contacts, but she finds nothing. Both she and Ms. Simmons are just wearing robes. Sasha's stayed over a handful of nights in a row, and with the way Ms. Simmons has been acting, I'm starting to wonder if this is more than sex for them. It looks like it might be an actual relationship. They've been doing yoga classes together. I'm happy for them, whatever connection they've found.
From then until we get to school, Wes hardly says a word.
Even when we pull up to the parking lot, Wes steps out as soon as I settle into the parking space. "I'm late," is all he says before he closes the door and speedwalks toward the building.
What the fuck?
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My first class passes me by. There's only three hours of school for seniors, and then it's just the ceremony, so even if I listen, the thing of greatest importance that's going to be said today is "congratulations."
My mind is now firmly split between two subjects: one, the potential blackmail that Wes and I received, and two, the sudden cold shoulder I'm getting from Wes.
The blackmail is straightforward enough--I want to pummel whoever is at the other end of the line. The cold shoulder? I screw up my face. Wes and I aren't even going to the same college anyway. I'm going to Barnes, a private college, and he's got a scholarship to Northwestern. Maybe it would be best if this all died out now before it fizzled a couple months into classes. He would only be distracting me, anyway. I feel a twist in my chest at the thought of this, but I bitterly push it down.
During passing time, I feel a hand on my own shoulder, and I hear someone clear their throat. My back tenses. Even before he speaks, I can recognize who it is. It's Chris. "Hey, fag," he says.
Chris has called me this plenty of times, but now my blood boils. I'm past the stage of my life where I'll lay down and let people walk over me.
I turn and push his hand from my shoulder. His eyebrows raise. I've never done anything like that. He's the same height, as me. He has short bleach blond hair and a smooth-shaven face. If I recall correctly, he's going to college to play water polo, lacrosse, or another one of those rich niche sports. It's probably for the best that he figured out he was an athlete, because he would never have passed the eighth grade without coaches shuffling him along to the next classroom.
"What the fuck do you want?" I ask. Any amount of fear I once had is gone.
"You---I mean I need to talk to you," he says, looking up and down the hall.
"Fine," I say, "talk."
"Not here," he says.
I don't move. "Yes, here," I say.
Chris huffs and looks around again. "What the fuck are you doing to Wes?" He hisses.
