The Contest: Becoming Sarah

The music just slammed the sorority house. Bassline? Like a freaking fist pounding the walls. Foundation was basically groaning.

The bass wasn't music to the closest freshman. It was a leech, biting through her eardrums. Molars rattled close to the speakers, and some kid had quit, hands over his head like a POW.

Fairy lights bled a drunk glow over the couch-crammed living room. Bodies and red cups collided in the sweaty grind of a party hitting its stride. Beer and punch slicked the floors—sacrificial offerings to the night. Every squk of shoes on sticky tile was a eulogy for the floor’s dignity.

Vanilla body spray fought the corpse of a citrus candle. It reminded Sarah of her aunt’s tacky beach house, where every room smelled like a fruit salad had a midlife crisis. Laughter ricocheted, tangled with shouty flirtations and a very wrong rendition of the chorus.

Annie the sorority president, didn’t stand; she occupied, spine like a steel ruler. Black dress so tight it might’ve been painted on. Her hair—fucking flawless. Light caught every wave like it owed her money. Her smile—champagne meets arson—killed the noise. The crowd feared her more than FOMO.

A spoon ting against a stolen cup. Chatter flatlined. The music ducked, leaving only the bass, throbbing like a bruise.

“Alright, you heathens…“ Annie barked, ducking a whizzing cup. “Chill, Chad! Our anniversary bash. You’re welcome.” Squk. Squk. Annie’s glare froze the offender mid-step: dog caught pissing on the rug.

“This isn’t a party; it’s our annual descent into chaos.” A phone buzzed. “Tonight? I’m the one holding the matches.”

The crowd buzzed. What’s she up to? Annie’s plans were legend—sometimes iconic, often a felony. This? Branding-iron memorable.

Sarah hovered by the punch bowl, half-invisible, like she’d mastered the art of vanishing. Her cup—sticky, red, tasting like someone melted a bag of gummy bears—was basically glue in her hand. Cardigan buttoned up to her chin, never mind the house felt like Satan’s sauna. Same old Sarah, hiding in her sweater fortress, wondering if anyone noticed she’d been standing there for, like, an hour.

Always the same. Walls up, safe inside her soft, modest cage. Back in high school, after that guy—nobody talked about it—she’d learned to hide. Sweaters were her armor. And for a long time, she felt safe in them.

Used to.

Phil saw through all that. From that first day in the Student Union, hunched over Pride and Prejudice, clutching a soda the size of her head.

“You’ll have to drink that faster if you want to make the Soda Olympics,” he’d said. She’d looked up and laughed. Real, loud, like something broke free. The crack had started there. Then came dates: coffee, pizza. Walks that stretched past curfew, where his hand found hers like it belonged there. “You’re a gem,” he’d said.

He saw her. Really saw her. Nobody else did. And he stuck around. It rattled her, but God, she craved it.

The party raged, but Sarah was background noise. Wallpaper. Her punch was lukewarm now. Gross. Sarah wondered why she even came. Same old nerves, same old hiding…God, was she always gonna be this way? Shoulda stayed in my room. Too loud, too hot. She took a sip. It didn’t help.

Then Amanda showed up. Of course. Brassy, bold Amanda, her roommate, her chaos magnet. Her accidental compass. Chipped bracelet jangling like it was late for something. “Sarah,” she said, voice low, slicing through the noise. “You’re doing this.”

Sarah flinched, clutching her cup. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. “Really.”

“No way,” Amanda said, leaning close. “Not hiding tonight. This is your moment.”

Moment? Sarah’s pulse spiked. Moment for what? “Amanda, me? On stage? I’d die. I’d actually die.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t even wear a tank top without turning red.”

Amanda’s grin was all trouble. “Exactly why you’ve gotta. You’re not that shy Sarah anymore. Phil took care of that.”

“Amanda!” Sarah hissed, glancing around. “Keep your voice down.”

Nobody knew. Not about last week, that night she’d let Phil in. When she'd wanted, and asked, and let herself feel. His touch— slow, careful, electric, steady and reverent— made her feel alive, and for the first time in forever, she’d felt lit from within. Like someone had turned her on and left the lights glowing. New.

Amanda knew. She’d seen Sarah sneak in at 3 AM, cardigan slipping, hair wild, lit up like a stadium. “Chill,” Amanda said, waving it off. “Nobody’s eavesdropping. Oh, Phil’s here, by the way. He asked about you.”

“He’s here?” Sarah’s stomach flipped. She found him by the door, laughing at something, red cup in hand. Easy and relaxed, like always. Clueless about the chaos Amanda just sparked.

“What’ll he think?” Sarah muttered, picking at a thread on her sleeve.

Amanda snorted. “He’ll lose his mind. Proud as hell. Watching you shine, owning it.”

“Really?” Sarah’s voice was small.

“Yeah. Also? You’ve got the best ass in this house.”

“Shut up!” Sarah laughed, mortified, cheeks burning. Best ass? Her? Hidden under cardigans and loose skirts, unnoticed.

Best ass. Doe eyes. Smile like a secret. Amanda rattled off her assets like she was someone else. Me?

“My family would freak,” Sarah mumbled.

“They’re not here.”

“Our pledge class?”

“They’d be shocked but they’d cheer. Claire’d probably throw confetti.”

“You think?”

“They’d see what I see—a badass stepping up. Owning her power. ” Amanda softened, just a touch. “You’re gorgeous, Sarah. Stop hiding.”

"Think I could?" The question came out small, soft, like it slipped past Sarah’s filters. Like she wasn’t even sure she’d said it out loud.

Amanda didn’t even blink. “I know you can.”

Something shifted. Like a door creaking open inside her chest. Sarah’s heart pounded. Annie hadn’t even mentioned the contest to her, only Amanda and Jennie, her “big sister.” That hurt more than she wanted to admit.

They think I’m a joke. A nothing. They think I don’t matter.

Her breath hitched. Joining Annie’s contest terrified her, but Amanda’s words echoed Phil’s touch—scary but amazing. A quiet yes stirred inside. Small and shaky, but alive.

It grew. Not just stepping on stage. Owning it. Not stripping…revealing. Music pulsing. Lights spinning. Phil’s breath hitching. Her cardigan falling, not a loss, but a rebirth. They’ll see me.

“I can’t,” she murmured, her voice barely holding.

“You can,” Amanda said, softer now. “You need to.”

“Good girls don’t do this,” Sarah said softly, almost to herself.

Amanda leaned closer, her voice teasing. “Good girls don’t fuck their boyfriends either.”

Sarah gasped. Amanda really went there.

“Remember what you said, Sarah? Scary but amazing? This is like that, only more so.”

Sarah stared into her cup. The punch had gone flat. And warm. She thought of Phil. His hands. His whisper. How she trembled, but didn’t stop. The way he’d made her feel beautiful, not in spite of who she was, but because of it.

“This would feel like that,” she whispered.

Amanda nodded. “Exactly.”

“Come on,” Amanda said, eyes gleaming. “Phil’s jaw dropping. You, shining like a damn star. Not Punchbowl Girl; woman. Kick that cage open.”

She saw it—flashes of it. Blurry, but real. The stage. Her. Not just taking off the cardigan, but stepping out of it. Music flaring. Her body in motion. The crowd going still. Phil’s mouth hanging open. A hush, and then—

Applause. Seen. Not invisible anymore.

“I don’t know…”

“You do,” Amanda said, gentle. “You’ve just never let yourself believe it.”

Something cracked. Sarah swallowed hard.

What if I could? Wanted to? What if this was it? The moment she stopped hiding?

Amanda touched her arm. “Do it for you, okay? Not for me. Not for Phil. For you. For Sarah. Because you deserve it.”

Sarah exhaled slowly, unsteady. Trembling.

“You know you want to,” Amanda pressed. “Admit it. It'll be fun. Just think about it, okay?”

Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll… think about it.”

Amanda grinned. “That’s my girl.” And she vanished.

Sarah’s fingers eased off the cup. Not yes. Not yet. But not no. Her skin tingled.

She couldn’t.

She might.

She shouldn’t.

She wanted to.

The crowd buzzed, drunk on drama, high on beer and anticipation. Annie clapped, voice shrill with excitement. “To our anniversary bash!” she shouted, grin wicked. “We go big, but tonight’s lit.” The room crackled. Annie’s heel tapped, scuffed. “Not just a party…a Striptease Showdown!”

The crowd roared. Annie listed six sorority sisters, each bold, ready:

Jennie, Sarah’s “big sister,” the six-foot blonde softball pitcher, busty, toned, and blazing with hazel-eyed fire. She didn’t just walk onto that stage; she stalked it like a predator. I’ll own this.

Betsy, Jennie’s “big sister,” cute but wild, a busty redhead with a daring bob and a reputation to match. House VP. Loyal to Jack—mostly. Her barely-there dress made her intentions crystal clear.

Amanda, Sarah’s brassy roommate. Round-titted and fresh off a breakup, dressed to play: red top, leather skirt, and confidence like a dare. She was ready to turn heads and prove something to herself and everyone else.

Debbie, sultry brunette with a history, her vibe electric, teasing Charlie tonight, sparking jealousy tomorrow. She’d once swapped partners with Jennie. The crowd could feel it.

Penny, short, auburn-haired, with a wicked glint and no fear of nakedness. A spotlight addict, ready to charm. She practically wiggled onto the stage.

“And, uh, me,” Annie said, a quick giggle breaking her cool. The crowd went wild.

Sarah clutched her cardigan, heart pounding. They’re fearless. Could I be?

Annie’s voice rang out. “Let’s hear it for our six contestants!” Applause exploded.

Sarah’s throat tightened. She gripped her cardigan. This is it.

“Seven.” Soft. Shaky. Firm.

Heads turned. Chatter stopped. Eyes blinked.

Sarah—quiet, demure, Cardigan Sarah—stepped forward. Chin up, hands shaking. Amanda’s grin spread, slow, like dawn.

Phil’s beer froze halfway to his lips. Sarah? His Sarah? His heart skipped.

Annie blinked. “I count six,” she said, repeating the names.

Sarah climbed onto the stage. Her voice, steady but loud in her ears, cut through.

“Seven, Annie. I’m in.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. She was gobsmacked. “SARAH?!” she yelled. The name came out like a scream in a library, eyes bugging out like she’d seen a ghost. Cardigan Sarah? Punchbowl Girl? Her hand smacked her chest, half-joking, half-pissed. “You sure?” It sounded sweet, like she cared, but it was a shove—This isn’t you. Go back to the punch bowl. But Sarah wasn't budging.

Sarah nodded, gut screaming, Nope. Her hands shook, but her eyes said, You ain’t ready.

“Totally,” she muttered, tough as nails. Her knees wobbled, but her eyes burned. My moment. She was done hiding, done being the girl who ducked out. Done wondering what might happen if she dared. This was her, strutting out. Gutsy, real, owning it. No turning back. Cardigan Sarah? Toast.

The rickety stage groaned, beer cans rolling underfoot. Girls froze. “Wait…Sarah? For real?” one giggled, half-choking. Others gaped, like, What the hell? Laugh? Clap? Run? Pretend it wasn’t happening?

But Amanda’s wink hit like a high-five. Phil’s grin—wide, shocked, proud—locked her in. She’s got this. His eyes screamed it. He knew the nights it took—coffee runs, 2 AM talks, cracking her walls like a safe. Porchlight goodbyes, poems he coaxed from her cardigan shield. She wasn’t his gem to uncover anymore. She was blazing, blowing his damn mind, owning the light.

For me. For him. For us.

She was here. She was burning bright.

And even he hadn’t seen this coming.

But Phil’s grin twitched. Can she handle this? The sweaty crowd, buzzing lights, Annie’s glare?

Too late. Sarah was on that stage, not backing down.

The whispers lit up like a fuse.

The crowd went nuts. “Wait…is that—?”

“No freaking way.”

“Cardigan Sarah?” Whispers hit like a bar fight breaking out.

Annie’s smile cracked, turning stiff and glassy. She gritted her teeth She’s serious? A snicker here, a gasp there. Punchbowl Girl? Striptease? This has to be a joke. Sarah was crashing her party, stealing her spotlight. Hell no!

Sarah. Sarah? In this? Not in a million years.

This wasn’t the plan.

Sarah didn’t fit the vibe: wasn’t brash, wasn’t wild, wasn’t the kind of girl who showed skin or stole stages. Hell, Annie hadn’t even told her about the contest. Sarah was supposed to pour the punch and stay out of the way.

And yet here she was. Shaking, but standing tall. Owning space Annie hadn’t offered.

I swear to God. She's hijacking my party.

Sarah’s knees were unsteady, but her eyes blazed. This was her moment. She could feel it. No turning back now.

Annie’s voice cracked as she forced the words out. “Our, um, seven contestants!” Her tone hit like dry ice—cold and brittle, breaking on contact.

She’ll choke, Annie thought.Gotta.

Then the crowd erupted. For Sarah. Cheers slammed her ears, wild, raw, like a Bronx bar after a Yankees homer. Wild, electric, alive. A wave of raw sound that seemed to lift her off the ground. Sarah blinked, then stood taller, eyes flashing. I’m here.

Annie’s face fell. They’re cheering her? Punchbowl Girl? Her smirk was gone, smoked like a bad pitch.

Five judges plopped down: Steve, Casey from the baseball team, Charlie—Debbie’s guy—sweating bullets every time she glanced his way, and two frat bros, better at beer pong than brains, names lost in the party’s roar.

Backstage, the contestants drew numbers. One by one, they vanished behind curtains to get ready. Sarah’s hand shook as she pulled hers. Four. Smack in the middle. Her gut screamed, Nope, but something stronger pushed through: heat, resolve, the quiet roar of I’m doing this. “Breathe, girl,” she muttered, legs like jelly but spine like steel.

Annie leaned in, voice syrupy but sharp. “Sarah, you don’t have to do this, y’know.” Total BS. It was a shove: Beat it, Punchbowl Girl. Her second jab to ditch Sarah, like, You’re embarrassing yourself.

Sarah stared her down. “I need to, Annie,” she said, voice low, steady. “I want to.” I’m not hiding anymore. Cardigan Sarah? Donezo.

Annie’s eyes slit, like, Need to? Who the hell does this chick think she is? “Whatever,” she spat, turning away.

Amanda grabbed Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re a damn knockout, girl,” she hissed, all fire. Sarah’s chest lit up.

That did it. Annie’s jaw clenched. Amanda. Of course.

Debbie sashayed out, owning the rickety stage the second her heel hit it. Red dress hugging her like a second skin, barely hitting her thighs. Dark hair tumbling, messy and wild. Her smoky eyes locked on Charlie—judge, boyfriend, squirming like a kid caught red-handed. Her hips rolled slow and smooth, like she was circling prey.

The sweaty crowd erupted, whistles, howls, roars, “Go Debbie!” Debbie soaked it in, savoring the simmer. Then she moved—fluid, dangerous, totally in control.

She smirked, hips swaying, a predator vibe. “C’mon, Charlie, watch,” she purred, dragging a nail along her neckline. The straps slipped. Dress hit the floor, showing lacy black bra and panties.

“Hot damn!” a dude hollered, voice cracking. She spun, ass angled just right, grin all smug. Crowd roared louder.

The bra flew, launched like a trophy. A guy in the back caught it, fist pumping like he’d won March Madness. Panties next—slow, teasing, bending low to flash the room, no shame, eating the gasps. She kicked them aside. Charlie’s eyes burned, half-jealous, half-hooked.

Naked now, Debbie hopped on the creaky chair, one knee up, skin glowing under buzzing lights. She spun, hands on hips, owning the space, the noise, the moment. Charlie’s glare said she’d rattled him—bullseye. She blew him a sassy kiss. “Beat that,” she mouthed, strutting off, hips swaying like an exclamation mark.

“Damn, Debbie!” The crowd went nuts, girls buzzing. Sarah’s pulse hammered. Can I top that?

Then Penny bounded onstage, auburn ponytail swinging, green mini-dress sparkling in the lights. Her grin screamed trouble, all curves and chaos. Tiny but electric, her energy crackled like live wire.

“Let’s get wild!” she yelled, arms up, sparking hoots and claps. Her grin could’ve powered the entire room; she was all curves, loud, carefree, and electric, pulling everyone in with her energy. Short, fiery, every move sent her hips and chest jiggling.

Music thumped. Penny twirled—too fast, too fun—skirt flying, pink panties flashing. “Oops!” she giggled, winking. She flopped on the chair, paint chipping, legs crossing and uncrossing like a hyper burlesque queen. Then—whoosh—her dress flew, landing with a frat bro waving it like a flag.

The crowd howled. Penny threw her hands up, beaming.

“Want more?” she taunted, bra straps sliding. She yanked it off, boobs bouncing free. “Penny! Penny!” the sweaty crowd roared. Panties dropped, no shame, her grin screaming, Gotcha! Stark naked, she slung a leg over the creaky chair, ass out, laughing like she’d just pranked the whole damn room.

Then—bam!—a freaking cartwheel, landing in a sweaty split, ponytail plastered to her neck, arms high like she’d just won gold.

“That’s how you do it!” she hollered, skipping off to deafening cheers.

“Penny’s wild!” some girl cackled. Sarah’s stomach knotted. Can I be that fearless?

Betsy strutted out, red bob bouncing, blue dress hugging her curves. Green eyes locked on Jack. “Yo, Jack, you watching?” she called, all sass and brass. Sarah’s stomach knotted. So sure of herself.

A slow, smoky jazz beat rolled in. Betsy swayed to it, hips rolling, hands skimming her body like she was learning herself by touch. Dress hit the rickety stage, beer cans rolling nearby.

Underneath, emerald-green bra and panties shimmered under the lights, glowing against her pale skin. Gasps and cheers broke loose, the crowd digging her vibe, that sly-ass grin like a shield. “Let’s heat this up,” she said, voice all fire.

Her grin widened as she unhooked her bra, letting it fall, boobs out, free. She stood there a beat, letting them look. Cheers erupted. Panties next—slow, bending just enough for a cheeky flash. She held the moment. Crowd lost it.

Naked now, she slung a leg over the chair’s arm, posed, and did a saucy little curtsy. She strutted off, kissed Jack Hard. On the lips. He grinned, half-smug, half-proud, totally into it. The crowd erupted. Jack looked dazed.

“Betsy’s got game!” a dude yelled. Girls exchanged glances—impressed nods, a few awed laughs. Sarah’s pulse slammed. Can I bring that fire? Can I be that fierce?

Then it was Sarah’s turn.

Annie sidled up, all syrup and venom. “Last chance to back out,” she hissed.

Sarah just smiled and stepped onto the stage. Gonna puke. Her knees wobbled, but her spine screamed, I’m here. I’m doing this. You ain’t ready.

The other girls shifted, eyeing her like a puzzle. Whispers buzzed through the crowd:
“Cardigan girl?”

“No way.”

“She’s gonna bolt.”

“Ten seconds, tops.”

“She’s out.”

“She’s a joke.”

Snickers. Disbelief. Dismissal. Sharp and mean.

“Here comes the punchline!” a frat boy jeered.

Annie froze, eyes slits, smile stretched too tight. “She’ll choke,” she hissed, smirking.
This wasn’t her show anymore, it was a mutiny.

Phil’s grin screamed, She’s got this. She’s tougher than they know.

From the wings, Amanda whispered, “Knock ’em dead.”

Sarah hit center stage, all layers, a living cartoon. Cardigan. Scarf. Gloves. Hat. A modest black dress. The room howled.

“Oh God, it’s Cardigan Sarah.”

“Knitting club’s that way!”

“Layers at a strip contest?”

“Did she bring her grandma?”

“She’s a joke.”

Someone muttered, “This’ll be good.”

And for the first time, Sarah felt it— not even adrenaline. Rightness. Like sliding into a version of herself she’d been avoiding. Every nerve buzzed. She was alive. I’m doing this.

Sarah’s heart slammed. Fingers shook, popping cardigan buttons, one by one. No stopping. Another button, then another. Phil’s grin broke, proud as hell. She’s got this.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Cardigan hit the stage. The crowd gasped.

“Oh my GOD, she just killed Cardigan Sarah!” a girl squealed. Yes, that was the point.

Sarah yanked her hat off, hair spilling wild. Gloves peeled slow, finger by finger, eyes on Phil. Scarf slid down, caressing her neck, dropping with a flick. A flicker of a shy smile. Still me.

Beneath it all, the black dress hugged every soft, secret curve. Boobs just right. Waist soft, hips, thighs—hers. Ass to die for. Real. Gorgeous.

“Cardigan Sarah’s HOT!” a dude hollered, floored.

Hot? Me? Sarah’s gut buzzed.

She stepped forward. Reached for the hem of the dress. Slipped it off.

Gasps. Then chaos.

Black garters.

Phil’s jaw hit the floor. Garters? Where did she even get garters?

She propped a leg on the creaky chair, sliding a stocking down—inch by inch, eyes locked on Phil. Stocking flew his way, blowing a kiss.

“For you,” she mouthed.

Phil snagged it, grinning like it was gold. Holy hell.

The second stocking came off slower. She bent low, ass out, all grace and audacity. Another toss. Another kiss. The crowd was screaming.

“Wait, what?—Cardigan Sarah’s got a BOYFRIEND?!” some guy shouted. Yeah. I do. He’s sweet. And tonight, he looked at her like she was the moon.

She turned around. Hands shook. Reached behind her. Unhooked the bra. Paused, holding it, breath caught. Then…dropped it. Round boobs, nipples sharp in the sweaty air. Gorgeous.

The room exploded.

Judges froze, gaped, leaned in. Scribbled notes, stunned. Blinked. Sat up straighter. Noted.

Sarah turned her back, slow…so damn slow. Breathed in. Spun, thumbs in her panties. Slow—real slow—she bent, sliding them down, her killer ass popping under buzzing lights. Crowd lost it.

She twirled, waving panties like a damn trophy, lips smirking, eyes blazing. Triumphant. Tossed them to Phil. Winked. Another kiss.

“And…they…DID IT?!” someone yelled, cracking. Yeah. We did. It was amazing.

Phil clutched the stockings and panties like they were sacred, grinning like he’d won the World Series, Super Bowl, an Oscar, a Tony. Everything. Framing these.

The applause wasn’t wild; it was fierce. Not frenzy. Respect.

“I have to go on after THAT?” Amanda said.

Sarah bowed—low, slow, proud, owning it. And walked offstage with nothing on but fire.

She hadn’t just undressed.

She had arrived.

I’m here. They came to watch her fall. She made them rise.

Gasps followed her. Then cheers. Then a roar.

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!”

Debbie whistled low. Betsy raised a brow. Penny clapped like a nut. Jennie nodded, impressed.

Annie gaped, jaw slack. “I can’t believe she pulled it off,” she mumbled to Betsy. “Sarah, of all people.”

At the DJ table, Emily bit her lip, curls bouncing as she shook her head. “If Cardigan Sarah can do that…” She groaned, dramatic. “I completely messed up skipping this. Who knew she had it in her?” A beat. “I’m signing up next year. No way I’m missing out again.”

Then Amanda.

She didn’t walk out. She strode. Like the floor owed her rent. Like the room was hers and always had been. Stormed the rickety stage like it was her kingdom. Red tank tight, leather mini barely hitting her thighs. Chipped earring glinting, the other gone—classic Amanda. Wild hair, lips scrunched up, eyes screaming trouble. Chaos in heels.

“Ready for this?” she shouted, voice cutting through the roar, grinning like she’d already won.

The crowd didn’t roar. They howled, shaking the bitchin' walls.

No dainty step. She danced like a storm: shoulders rolling, hands on her curves like a lit fuse. Every step a threat. Every glance a dare. Hips smacked the beat like a fist. Fingers slid down her sides, slow, electric. She owned it, every inch.

Tank ripped off in one swift motion. Just like that. Flung into the mob. Some dude snagged it like a knight with a holy relic, waving it like a flag. “Hell yeah!” he hollered. Amanda winked. “Cute,” she mouthed.

Underneath: a black bra, tight and bouncing with her rhythm. She teased—hands on, off, pause—then snapped it off, tossing it like a dare. Cheers hit like a bomb. Like cannon fire.

“Who wants this?” she purred, all heat, all fire.

Screams. Laughter. Someone nearly fell off a chair.

She hiked her skirt, flashing a black thong, then spun it like a lasso. Slow and wicked. Everyone watching her.

Then her eyes found Kenny. Her grin softened. Just a little. Him.

She flung it his way.

Kenny caught it like it had changed his life, eyes bugging, like he’d been hit by lightning.

“Hold that,” she mouthed.

Now she was bare, sweat dripping. Gleaming. Backlit. Whole stage hers. The moment was hers.

Amanda slung a leg over the creaky chair, center stage, ass up, then spun, back arched, eyes blazing, hands on hips. Try looking away.

She dipped low, cheek brushing wood, then rose—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Not a performance. A declaration. This was her.

Hair toss. Grin. Wink. “Catch ya,” she said, strutting off, scoping for Kenny.

“Amanda’s a damn wildfire!” someone yelled.

Girls screamed. Guys lost it. Kenny stood there clutching her thong, grinning like he’d hit the lottery. Sarah watched, heart still racing. That’s my best friend.

Next: Annie.

She didn’t walk on. She arrived. Like a queen stepping off a chariot. That dress—black, clingy, dramatic as hell—moved like it had been trained for this. Hair spilling wild, like a shampoo commercial crossed with a Bond villain. Emerald eyes locking the room. The room just...fell silent.

“Yo,” she said, voice low, smoky, unimpressed. She glanced at Steve. One brow raised. Already hers. “Ready?”

He gave the tiniest smirk. Hell yeah.

Sarah’s gut twisted. Big leagues.

Annie didn’t dance; she owned. Hands slid over her hips, slow and surgical, like she was doing them a favor. Dress dropped, no warning.

Gasps ripped through the room.

Red lingerie. Bold. Unexpected. So not her usual polish. Bra hugged a body that stopped hearts. She stood, like, So what? Like this was just Tuesday. Fierce, not fancy. This was hunger. Fire. Command.

She sank onto the creaky chair like it offended her, legs uncrossing like a dare. Every movement slow. Measured. Dangerous. Eyes pinned the room. Look all you want.

The crowd leaned in. Someone actually dropped a drink.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” she said, voice silk and steel. Smile like a knife.

Then her bra hit the floor.

And the crowd detonated.

Raising the stakes, indeed.

Panties dropped…slow, deliberate, like Annie planned every damn second. Not sultry. Calculated. Strategic.

Her ass popped under buzzing lights, daring the crowd to blink. Naked, she didn’t pose. She chilled, leg slung over the creaky chair’s arm, spine loose, like she owned the rattling stage. Long look, like, Go ahead, stare. A spin, hands on hips, smirk locked.

“That’s how you do it,” she said, voice dripping swagger, strutting off. Scuffed heel clicked—mic drop.

Boom. Done.

The place detonated. Crowd roared. Thunderous applause. Gasps. Whoops. A rising, reverent hum.

“Annie’s a damn legend!” a dude hollered. Girls clustered together, whispering fast, shocked-laughing. Half-stunned. Almost reverent. Steve leaned back, smirking, like he’d been kissed by a storm.

“Unreal,” another guy shouted, dazed, like he’d just watched the Second Coming in heels.

Sarah stood frozen, stomach twisting. I held my own… right?

Then Amanda’s hand squeezed hers backstage, the buzz still humming from Annie’s vibe. Warm. Anchoring. Amanda didn’t say a word, but her eyes did. You got this.

And then…thunder.

Not applause. Jennie. Jennie charged the stage like a damn tank. Six feet of grit, white dress clinging like it was scared to let go. Blonde ponytail flailing, hazel eyes burning, “C’mon, let’s go!” she barked, and stomped like she was starting a riot. The crowd rose to meet her. On instinct.

Sarah’s breath caught. She’s unstoppable. She’s not even performing. She’s just… Jennie.

Jennie spun, dress flaring, white panties flashing. Then—rip—dress gone, yanked like it pissed her off. Underneath: white bra, matching panties soaked, hugging every curve. Her body didn’t flex; it owned.

“Who’s in?” she shouted, voice raw.

Bra flew off—tits out, no games. Crowd exploded.

No blush. Just that grin. Arms lifted. Biceps flexed. Her ponytail slicked back like she’d run through a warzone. Her stance wide, unshakable.

She straddled the beat-up chair like she was about to pin it. Sharp. Sexy. Unapologetic. Legs wide, sweat dripping, she looked like a statue. She was a damn force. A sexy, unstoppable freight train.

Then, without warning—panties gone. One kick. Into the crowd. Someone snagged them, screaming.

Jennie stood, naked, chin high, hips squared, owning it. Not asking for anything. Just... there. Triumphant. Naked. Hips squared. Feet planted. A goddess.

Then—bam!— she vaulted off, fist pumped, like she’d just won gold at the Olympics, the Super Bowl, and a street fight all at once. “That’s my girl!” Betsy shrieked, half-crying, half-laughing.

Annie blinked, gave a slow nod, Almost grudging. Like, Respect.

A guy somewhere behind the judges table just lost his mind. “Jennie’s a BEAST!” Girls whooped, buzzing off her fire.

Backstage, Sarah’s stomach knotted. Her body remembered the stage like a bruise. Did I match that? Did I even come close? Did I even belong in the same show?

Amanda leaned closer. “You lit the fuse,” she whispered. “They’re all just running on your fire.”

Sarah blinked, heart thudding.

And for a moment—just a breath—she let herself believe it.

The lights dimmed.

It was over.

Seven girls stood naked on the rickety stage, sweat dripping, breaths jagged. Someone coughed. A cup hit the floor. Crowd held its breath, beer cans clinking.

Sarah stood among them, gut churning, Amanda’s arm slung around her shoulder. “Yo, you slayed, girl,” Amanda hissed, all fire. Sarah nodded, but thought, Jennie was a tank. Annie owned it. Me?

Crowd buzzed—sweaty, electric, beer cans clinking—while the judges huddled like gamblers with too much on the line. Pens flew. Paper shuffled. Judges scribbled like their pens were on fire.

The judges whispered, shuffled papers. The head judge leaned in toward the beat-up mic; it gave a pop and whine like a busted speaker at a middle school dance. His voice cut through the feedback’s screech. “Real close call,” he said, voice cutting through. “Winner is… Jennie!”

Boom.

The room blew up. Jennie threw her arms up like a champ: sweaty, grinning, glowing and slick, locking eyes with Casey. She spun. Pointed at him, rock-star style. Crowd roared.

“Second place goes to… Annie.”

Polite applause. Not cold. Respectful. Sarah caught Annie’s jaw twitch. Cool, but tense. Calculated. Like she was already rewriting the playbook. Annie nodded stiffly, eyes cutting. She’s pissed.

“Third…” Pause, long. “Sarah.”

What?

Sarah froze. Blinked. Me? Crowd exploded. “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” Chant hit hard, real, wild. Her face burned, heart slamming. Damn.

Jennie had won, but Sarah was the story.

Jennie snagged the mic, hands slick, chest still heaving. She looked drunk on adrenaline. “Before I grab my prize,” she said, eyeing Casey, “these girls? Badass. They killed it.”

She turned to the line behind her, pride loud. “Debbie, that red lace? Damn, girl, you set the bar! Tore that shirt, strutted like a boss. Walk was fire. Runway-level. Legendary. You slayed.” Debbie shimmied, arms up. Charlie went red, sinking low
like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Penny, you brought the damn carnival. Thong spin? Wild. Chaos queen! Dudes still shook.” Penny blew a kiss, curtsied, ass popping. Someone screamed.

“Betsy, pure class. You were elegance. Velvet. Quiet fire, a slow burn. That wink to Jack? Smooooth. Sexy as hell, girl.” Betsy blushed, giggling. Jack grinned like he won big.

“Amanda,” Jennie said, grinning. “A goddamn hurricane. You hit the stage like a bomb. Ripped your top off like it owed you money. Then just…took the room. Owned it, no survivors.” Amanda shrugged, tits jiggling. Crowd lost it. Someone in the back fainted.

“And Annie…” Tone shifted. Eyes locked. ”The brains. Planned it, then smashed it. Bra drop to Steve? Ruthless. Savage. Queen shit.” Annie smirked, arms crossed, steady.

Then she turned to Sarah. Room went quiet, heavy. “Sarah,” Jennie said, soft, awed. “Holy crap, girl! You shocked us all!”

Shocked? Annie’s teeth clicked. Quiet. Too quiet. She hijacked it.

Jennie laughed, amazed. “Killed ‘Cardigan Sarah’ with those garters to Phil, that grin, that wink? Damn. You showed up! Prouder than ever, li’l sis.”

Sarah’s cheeks blazed. The crowd exploded again. The chant rose again. Louder, hotter.

Phil melted, eyes soft. Sarah’s face blazed. Crowd roared, chanting, “Sarah! Sarah!” Amanda leaned in, “Told ya.”

Annie muttered, “She fucked it up.” Sarah didn’t hear. Didn’t need to. She smiled. I’m not her anymore. I’m me.

“Yo!” Jennie yelled, bouncing like she’d launch into the damn ceiling. “Where’s my prize?”

The crowd went nuts, screaming like a damn stampede, beer cans clinking on the sticky floor.

“Casey, get your ass up here!” Jennie hollered, hand cupped, grin wild.

The room roared, walls shaking, chairs scraping. Claps hit like a storm. Someone chucked a beer can. Some dude shrieked, voice cracking.

The room howled like a stadium. Chairs scraped. Claps hit like thunder. Cheers so loud it rattled the walls and made your chest vibrate. Somewhere, a beer can flew. Someone shrieked, for real.

Sarah couldn’t help it; she laughed, breath hitching, Amanda’s arm around her. She’s a damn champ. “You held it down, girl,” Amanda said, smirking. Sarah nodded, gut still buzzing. Jennie’s a beast. Me? Third? Wild.

Sarah’s thoughts drifted just for a moment to Phil’s stunned face. And the girls beside her on the stage. For Sarah, placing wasn’t the real prize —it was arriving.

Casey, tall and cocky, swaggered onto the wobbly stage, smirking like he’d hit the jackpot. Jennie yanked him by the waist, sweat dripping. He slung an arm around her, both bowing like they owned the night: bold, reckless, all swagger. They bounced off, waving like rock stars, flashbulbs popping, crowd losing it. And just like that, the queen of the night was gone.

“Jennie’s a damn blaze!” some guy shouted voice cracking.

Sarah’s heart thumped. I did that. Third place. Cardigan Sarah? Poof.

Annie stood offstage, arms crossed, jaw tight. “She fucked it up,” she muttered, eyes slits. Amanda caught it, snorted. “Nah, she owned it.”

Backstage, Sarah was lit, cheeks red, body buzzing like she’d been zapped. Legs shaky, but her heart was flying. No more hiding, no more playing small. She scanned the sweaty chaos, eyes hunting for him.

Phil.

But the crowd swallowed him. His boys swarmed, pounding his back like they were trying to break him. “Lucky dog!” one dude bellowed, grinning.

“You pulled THAT off?!” another shouted, his voice full of disbelief. World Series-level backslaps had him stumbling, threatening to knock him off his feet , trying to crown him king of something he hadn’t even done.

“Dude, your girl’s a freaking legend!” someone hooted

“Total bombshell, man!”

Someone shoved a mangled beer can at him like a trophy. Her garters peeked from his jacket pocket, tucked there hastily, wrapped in the remnants of the party like spoils of war.

Phil laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, gotta find her,” he muttered, ducking away. He pushed through the sweaty, sticky crowd, floor sticky beneath his sneakers, heart pounding with urgency.

“How’d you know, man?” a guy yelled.

Phil didn’t turn around. He just smirked, shoulder-checking some dude by accident as he dodged another slap. Always knew. Back at the Union, her laugh at his dumb Soda Olympics joke, eyes crinkling, head tilted, already half his.

The crowd’s roar still echoed, faint but alive.

And it was for her.

Sarah felt it, chest swelling, pulse racing. She’d done it. They’d seen her.

“Legend!” some dude shouted, voice cutting through. Sarah’s chest buzzed, heart matching the crowd’s roar. They see me. Not just Cardigan Sarah. Her, all out, free, real as hell.

And in that second every cheer felt like a crown placed right on her head, a symbol of her newfound confidence and acceptance.

Claire burst in, teal dress popping, heels snagging on the beer-sticky floor. Jake trailed, muttering, “That ass,” still shook from the crowd’s wild roar.

“Don’t dream on her too much, babe,” Claire teased, elbowing him without looking. Then she spotted Sarah with Amanda and lit up. “Hot girl house in the house!” she yelled, arms out like a hype queen. That pledge nickname still slapped.

“Where was that girl during pledging?” Claire asked, chipped nail jabbing with a twirl.

Sarah grinned, buzzing. “She was here. Just hiding,”

Claire tilted her head, mock-suspicious. “Girl, you’re turning on my boyfriend.”

Old Sarah—Cardigan Sarah, Punchbowl Girl—would’ve folded. She’d have stammered “sorry,” and shrunk into the nearest wall. Not now. Not anymore.

“Well, take advantage of it,” Sarah shot back, sharp, owning it.

Claire’s jaw hit the floor, then she cracked up. Amanda doubled over, cackling. The three were a sweaty, chaotic mess, vibing hard. Laughing, radiant, chaotic in the best way. “Next time, I’m in,” Claire said, eyes flashing trouble. “Gotta get Jake’s eyes back on me.”

Jake jumped in, voice cracking. “I’d pay to see that!” Claire shot him a look, half smirk, half chill. He just grinned, all in.

“You’d slay, Claire,” Amanda added, piling on. “Total knockout. You’d own it.”

Sarah, still hyped, spilled, “It’s such a rush,” she said, practically glowing from the night.

Claire’s grin turned sly. “What if we all do it? Three besties burning down the hot girl house. Set the stage on fire.” Laughter popped, a pact locked for later.

“Think you can beat me, Claire?” Sarah grinned, the challenge ringing clear, edge sharp, playful.

“Gonna try,” Claire fired back, snagging Jake’s hand. She threw Sarah a sly look. “For now, I’m gonna go take advantage of this. Thanks.” She winked, dragging Jake off, him stumbling like a dazed pup, still reeling.

Their laughter lingered in the air like confetti. Sarah felt light, like the sticky floor and sweaty crowd were hers. Seen. Whole. This was her. Finally, fully her. And she was all in.

Phil pushed through, dodging slaps and shouts, the garters stuffed in his jacket pocket like contraband, eyes all pride. Beer cans clattered on the tacky floor, crowd still buzzing. His cheeks were flushed, shirt damp, heart pounding.

There she was.

Sarah stood under a flickering, half-dead bulb, ratty robe barely hanging on, cheeks pink, hair a mess. Radiant. Lit from within. Bold, unstoppable. Not just the girl he’d met in the Union…more.

Their eyes locked. Phil’s breath caught in his throat. Damn, she’s everything. Heart thumping, he stepped closer. “Soda Champ,” he said, voice rough with awe, nodding to the beginning. To them. “Uh, you were fire. Killed it. So damn proud of you.” He pulled her in, tight. “Cardigan Sarah? Vanished. You’re a star, babe.”

Sarah laughed, leaning in, soft and startled. Babe.

The word hit different now. It felt earned.

Sarah’s smile flickered, shy, but blazing underneath. “Did you like it?” she asked, nerves creeping in around the edges of her glow. I did it. I actually did it. Me.

Phil reached into his pocket, holding up the tangled garters, hose, panties: his bounty, his proof, his trophies. “I’m framing these.”

Sarah’s laugh broke free, wobbly at first, then full and bright. The high of the night softened into relief as she sank into his arms, face pressed against his chest. “I was so scared,” she whispered, raw but proud. Her voice cracked a little, raw and vulnerable, but it carried triumph, too.

Phil kissed her forehead, soft and steady. “Could’ve fooled me, champ,” he said. “You owned that stage, Sarah.”

She looked up and kissed him—deep, fierce, real. No performance. No pretending. Just them, holding tight, grounding each other. She pulled back, forehead to his, breath quick, eyes bright. “Guess I’m not ‘Punchbowl Girl’ anymore,” she whispered.

Phil smiled. “Hell no, you’re the star now!” he teased, his crooked wink flashing in the neon glow.

Annie slouched against the bar, her grip tight on a sweaty glass. Ice clinked. Her glare could’ve scorched Sarah’s skin. Beer cans littered the counter, floor sticky as hell. Her eyes followed Sarah through the crowd—still glowing, still surrounded. Lips curled, she muttered to Steve without looking at him. “Punchbowl Girl’s big moment? Won’t last.”

Her eyes slit. The smirk she wore was razor-sharp—meant to cut, not charm. Beneath it, fury simmered, quiet and coiled. She’d given Sarah three chances to fold. Three chances to stay small, stay safe. Instead, Sarah had grabbed the spotlight with both hands and lit it on fire. Snagged the damn spotlight like it was hers.

Steve raised an eyebrow, sipping his beer, but wisely said nothing.

Annie’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Let her have her curtain call,” she said, voice low, blade-thin. “Stars crash hard, trust me.” She hated losing, sure, but getting outshined? That shit stung.

She spun, heels clicking on the beer-soaked floor, fake smile plastered on. A plan was already cooking, something sharp, something to flip this. “Gonna fix this,” she muttered, eyes glinting.

Jennie yanked Casey into the guest room, grip tight, door slamming shut. Her lips smashed his before the lock clicked. “Ready, pitcher?” she rasped, nails clawing his chest. My prize. Right now.

“Hell yeah, champ,” Casey growled, lifting her in one smooth motion. Her legs hooked him, back slamming the wall. Their kisses turned wild, tongues clashing, her nails digging his shoulders. They stumbled to the creaky bed, clothes half-ripped, her heavy boobs bouncing free

She shoved him down, straddling him with wild, windblown hair and a grin that burned.
“What you got for me?” she purred, grinding slow, teeth scraping his neck. His fingers slid low, teasing her wet; she gasped, sharp.

Jennie kissed him like a dare. “Still cocky, pitcher?” she taunted, kissing slow, deep, thumb brushing his lip.

“Only when I’ve earned it,” he murmured, breath catching as she pressed against him, nothing but heat between them.

She took him into her mouth with purpose—relentless, skilled. He gasped, bucked, begged. When she climbed on, her hips set the tempo, her gaze locked to his.

“So damn good,” she hissed, sweat sheen on her skin, muscles rippling with every grind. Casey gripped her hips, matching her vibe.

She rode him again, like she’d cracked the code to his soul, taking, giving, all in. Her eyes didn’t budge, breath a hot, messy gasp.

“You gonna break me, champ?” he grunted, wrists pinned.

She laughed, low and dangerous. “You ain’t that lucky.”

Their rhythm kicked up—slow, sharp, then slamming, bed creaking like it’d snap. She braced herself on the headboard, demanding more. “Harder,” she growled, walls shaking with every slam. The room was all gasps, muttered names, skin slapping skin.

Flipped, her ass bouncing, headboard thumping , moaning into the mattress. She pulled him close, legs locking, lips crashing. She came hard, screaming his name; Casey followed, groaning into her shoulder.

Silence buzzed between them, charged and warm. Panting, he caught her eyes. “You always this wild?”

Jennie grinned, soft now. “Only when I trust someone.”

He paused, hands still. “Then I’ll earn it. Every time.”

Again: Jennie on top, his chest raked with fresh nail marks, then against the wall, panting and grinning, frantic. Dawn crept through the blinds, painting the wrecked sheets gold. Jennie lay sprawled across him, her head rising with each of his breaths.
“Best night,” she mumbled, curling in, still pulsing with aftershocks.

He kissed her forehead, voice gravel. “Round two?”

Her lips curved, eyes half-closed. “Bet on it,” she said, spark still lit, contest high still pumping.

Amanda strutted up to Kenny, her thong dangling from his fingers, grinning like he’d won the damn lottery. “You caught my panties,” she purred, voice low and sultry. “Least you can do is sleep with me.”

Kenny’s eyes lit up, all hunger. “Hell yeah, deal,” he said, grabbing her waist. She tossed Sarah a wink—watch this—and dragged him down the hall, hips swaying with purpose. Nobody stops me.

Door slammed, Amanda didn’t hesitate. She ripped his shirt off, hands skating over his lean chest like she’d been saving it for dessert. “Had my eye on you,” she murmured, lips brushing his skin, voice thick with want.

“Same here,” Kenny growled, his mouth on her nipples.

“Shit Kenny,” Amanda murmured, wrestling his belt off with a clink. The pile of clothes on the floor grew fast and messy like her heartbeat, as everything else faded but him.

Amanda took charge—bold, teasing, pure fire—hair a wild mess as she climbed over him like a femme fatale in a noir film. “Lights, camera, orgasm ,” she taunted, tossing herself on the bed, mattress squeaking. She rode him, hips grinding tight, boobs bouncing. . “This good?” she teased, clenching tight around him.

Kenny flipped her, thrusting deep, hands on her thighs. Her legs wrapped around him, nails raking down his back. “Trouble,” he groaned, voice shot, breath ragged.

“More,” Amanda snapped, legs locking, nails clawing his back. She came hard, shaking, sharp cries muffled against his skin; Kenny growled her name, collapsing, done.

Silence stretched, charged and heavy. His arm draped over her, breathing still out of kilter. “Worth it,” he panted.

“Round two?” Amanda smirked, spark already back.

Dawn crept through busted blinds, casting shadows over the tangled sheets, their bodies tangled. Kenny brushed a strand of hair from her face, unexpectedly tender.
“You’re... kind of incredible, you know.”

Amanda grinned, softer. “Careful,” she said, voice quieter. “I might start thinking you mean it.” Her sly look—lazy, loaded, unbothered—said next time’s coming. “Bet on it,” she whispered.

Penny, spark and flame and all that, zeroed in on Jim: big, broad-shouldered frat dude, lazy grin, Solo cup tipping in his hand. Her auburn hair swung as she strolled over. “Want to make tonight one to remember?” she said, smirking, and yanked his shirt, leading him to a guest room. The door slammed, old floorboards creaking under their steps.

“Hell yeah,” Jim breathed just before her mouth crashed into his, her fierce kiss slamming him against the wood. She ripped his shirt open, buttons flying. “You’re trouble,” he growled, hands squeezing her round ass.

“Damn straight,” Penny shot back, laughing. Jim’s mouth hit her nipples; she gasped, sharp. They stumbled to the bed, her vibe all raw heat. “I want you now,” she hissed, straddling him, hips teasing, slow, then fast.

“Damn, Penny,” Jim groaned, hands locked on her waist.

“Fuck, you’re huge,” she moaned, grinding, she moaned, grinding, boobs bouncing, grin all teeth. They flipped, Penny on her knees, Jim hitting from behind, smacking her ass. “Yes! Like that!” she yelled, pushing back, hair flying.

“Harder!” she demanded, voice raw. Her screams shook the walls as she came, hard and loud. Jim groaned, crashing beside her, spent.

“Unforgettable,” Penny panted, sweaty curls sticking to her cheek, laughing.

She nuzzled his jaw. “Still breathing?” she teased, lips brushing his jaw.

“Barely,” he huffed.

“Five minutes,” she whispered, eyes glinting. “Round two’s on deck.”

Round two hit—wild, messy, bed creaking like it’d break. Dawn crept through busted blinds, sheets trashed. Penny lay draped across him, quieter now, fingertips tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“No one’s ever kept up like that,” she said softly. Then, half-shy: “Don’t let it go to your head.”

They went at it for hours, Penny’s spark leaving Jim wrecked, grinning, half-hooked, and wondering how the hell he'd just fallen headfirst for a hurricane named Penny.

Annie’s eyes locked on Mike, baseball dude, broad, quiet, eyes cutting through the chaos, like he saw too much and said too little. She liked that. Mystery without the mess. Contest cheers still buzzing.

She didn’t flirt. She advanced. She marched over, all steel and swagger. “Let’s see what you’re made of,” Annie said, voice sharp as cheap whiskey, cool as frost.

Before he could blink, she snagged his hand, dragging him upstairs, her stride all command. No questions. Just her rules.

“Show me what you’ve got,” she purred, low and sure. I call the shots. Door clicked shut; she shoved him onto the creaky bed, straddling him, grin sly as hell. She straddled him like a queen taking her throne.

Her kiss was a test—sharp, deep, unforgiving. He tried to push back. She pinned his wrists. “My rules,” she whispered, teeth grazing his skin, laughing rough. Slow, in charge…she owned it.

She took her time, every movement calculated, deliberate, like she was writing her name across his body. Clothes hit the floor in careless disarray. She rode him hard, back arched, hands on his chest, eyes locked tight like a dare. When her climax came, it snapped through her like lightning—sharp, involuntary—gasping, shaking hard. Mike groaned, caught in her fire, undone. Against the wall, she pushed him again, her whispers turning ragged. Her game. Her rhythm. He kept up. Barely.

Dawn crept in, through busted blinds, scuffed floor trashed with their shit. Annie’s head rested on his shoulder, still buzzing. “Still good?” she taunted, nails scraping his back.

“Fuck yeah,” Mike panted, pressing a kiss to her temple, half-dazed.

She stretched, smirking. “Next time, bring your A-game.” Already plotting. Already pulling ahead.

Betsy’s red bob caught the dim light as she glided toward Jack, his grin wide, her bra and panties stuffed in his pocket. “Guarding those, love?” she purred, hips swaying, all curves and fire.

Jack pulled her close. “You were fire, babe,” he said, their kiss slow.

“Let’s own tonight,” Betsy said, dragging him to a lounge, door clicking shut. She nudged Jack into a rickety chair, straddling him, her blood buzzing like cheap wine. “Good to go?” she teased, lips at his ear, nails grazing his shirt.

Jack’s hands hit her curves, lingering on her boobs. “Always,” he growled, kissing rough, all heat.

Betsy popped his jeans, lips trailing low, teasing. “This good?” she murmured, guiding him in, hips rocking slow, then quick. Her gasps were quiet, real. They flipped to doggy, her red bob a wild mess, bouncing as she arched. Jack gripped her hips, pace kicking up, their vibe locked tight.

“Damn, babe,” he grunted, sweat dripping. They switched, her back against the wall, legs hooked around him, then a messy tumble to the floor, laughing. Betsy’s bold spark drove him nuts, every move tight, real.

Dawn crept through busted blinds, floor a wreck with their clothes. Tangled, panting, Jack brushed her hair back. “My trouble.”

“Yours forever,” Betsy winked, glowing in their sweaty mess.

Debbie’s blonde waves bounced as she strutted to Charlie, her black lace bra dangling from his pocket. “Keeping that?” she purred, sly grin flashing.

Charlie, all brawn and cheeky grin, tugged Debbie tight, kissing like he meant it. “You’re killing me, girl,” he said, voice low and scratched.

Debbie smirked, lips brushing his ear, low laugh slipping out. “Just getting started, love,” she teased, dragging him to a guest room. Door slammed, rickety bed waiting, beat-up blinds barely holding back dawn.

She climbed over him, snapping his buttons open. Her lips grazed his jaw, teasing. Charlie’s hands found her ass, squeezing tight. “Damn, girl,” he growled. Debbie grinned, yanking his jeans off, touches slow, making him squirm.

“You’re mine,” he growled, eyes dark.

She laughed, guiding him in, hips rocking, gasps loud as hell. “Harder,” she moaned, flipping to missionary, legs locked around him. Then doggy, her waves a tangled mess.

They switched. Her hair splayed across the pillows like a golden halo. She arched high, then dragged him in again—quick, fierce, headboard slamming. She rode him slowly, nails clawing his shoulders, whispering, “This is ours.”

“Fucking unreal,” Charlie gasped, as they unraveled, their climaxes crashing like a storm. They collapsed, laughing, her spark still lit.

“Set the room on fire,” she playfully teased, kissing him.

“Bed’s toast,” Charlie shot back, tangled in sweat-drenched sheets.

Emily, pissed she skipped the contest, watched Annie snag Mike and burned. She locked onto Steve—broad, chill, big grin—and moved fast. Her curls bounced as she strutted over. “You’re mine for tonight,” Emily said, voice low, almost a dare.

Steve’s grin faltered, eyes glinting like he was weighing her move. “You sure about that, Em?”

“Bet your ass I am,” Emily replied. “C’mon,” she urged, leading him to a corner room, creaky door shutting, blinds letting dim light slip in. Her kiss hit hard, all hunger, hands ripping his shirt. “Wanted this forever,” she gasped, straddling him, riding fierce, sweaty curls a mess across her face. Her body arched toward him.

Steve flipped her, desperate. “Jesus, Emily,” he muttered, her gasps spurring him on.

Wild, clumsy, a little sloppy, perfect. They went twice. “Annie’s loss,” Emily panted, smirking, kissing him slow, deep. Hers now. Morning light cut through busted blinds, sheets a sweaty wreck. “Worth it?” she teased, grin all fire.

Steve laughed, still dazed. “Hell yeah.”

Claire, teal dress clinging, yanked Jake through the buzzing sorority house, her grin pure mischief. “Caught you staring,” she said, voice low and teasing. Her dark hair swung as she moved—every step a dare. She took his arm and pulled him into a bedroom. The door closed. Silence.

“Blame me?” Jake rasped, hands on her hips, pinning her against the door. “You’re killing me.”

Her laugh was all fire, fingers clawing his shirt open: buttons popping, one hitting the floor. “Let’s finish the job.” Her lips hit his, hot and needy, all in.

He fumbled with her zipper, the dress dropping to reveal black lace. “Holy shit, Claire,” he muttered, mouth grazing her neck, then lower, her skin warm under his lips. She tossed her bra aside, kicked his jeans down, feeling him hard against her thigh.

“Less talk,” she ordered, climbing onto the creaky bed, panties gone. She guided him in, hips rolling slow. “Feels so good,” she whispered, breath catching.

Jake gripped her ass, rhythm building fast. He flipped her, driving deep, her legs locking around him. “Harder,” she snapped, nails scraping his back. The bed squealed, their rhythm messy, frantic.

“Claire—” Jake’s voice cracked as she trembled, screaming, letting out a sharp moan, her body tightening against him.

“Gonna come,” she gasped, quivering. Jake grunted, spilling. He groaned, losing it, then slumped beside her, both of them panting hard.

Claire traced his chest, smiling despite her shaky breath. “Took advantage of it pretty well, huh?” she teased, nipping his jaw.

Jake chuckled, still catching his breath. “Ten minutes.”

“Try keeping up,” she shot back, eyes glinting.

Sarah grabbed Phil’s hand, her voice a quiet blaze. “Take me for a ride.” No more hiding. She led him to a private room, door banging shut. Pinning him against it, she kissed with fierce abandon, then softened, tracing his chest, his heart thumping.

“Like my show?” she teased, tugging his shirt, mussed hair glowing. I’m free.

“You burned that stage down,” Phil said, hands soft on her curves, eyes awed. Her robe fell, walls gone. Their lovemaking was slow, reverent, Phil’s lips on her neck, breasts, ass, worshiping her. “You’re my star,” he whispered, pride thick in his voice.

Every touch felt like rediscovery. Like becoming. Sarah responded with equal tenderness, equal fire, until her shyness melted into something bold, real.

She guided him in, doe eyes locked on his, wide, gasping, real. Their rhythm built, deep and full, her moans unbound. It wasn’t rushed, just real, warm, building. Her gasps were soft at first, then bolder, spilling out as she let go completely, their climax a desperate tangle of limbs and breathless euphoria.

“No more Cardigan Sarah,” she panted, curled against him.

“You’ve always been my Sarah,” Phil said, kissing her deep, hose and panties clutched like relics. “But damn, I’m loving this you.”

Morning light crept in, painting their tousled sheets. Sarah smiled in his arms, free, radiant, alive. Same girl, only more.

The sorority house was quiet at sunrise, the party’s echo—laughter, bass, clinking glasses—fading like a dream. But in the quiet aftermath, warmth lingered.

Jennie and Casey dozed, limbs entangled, breathing slow and steady. Amanda and Kenny lounged on the couch, nursing chipped mugs of coffee, trading hushed laughs that still carried last night’s spark. Penny, still glowing, scribbled her number for Jim, her eyes lit with maybe-later. Annie and Mike crossed paths, tossing a wink, already slipping into their morning groove.

But in the living room’s hush, creaky floorboards marking time, Sarah felt new. That glow in her chest, embers from the contest, from Phil, still burned.

Amanda leaned against the wall, one sock sagging, sipping coffee like she was plotting something. She caught Sarah’s eye and grinned. "So," Amanda teased, eyes glinting, “how do you like New Sarah?”

Sarah laughed softly, her doe eyes bright with something unspoken. “I don’t know her that well yet,” she murmured. “But I think I like her.”

The girl who’d hovered by the punchbowl, all nerves and cardigans, was gone. She’d stepped into her own light last night, and it hadn’t dimmed. Punchbowl Girl was gone, her cardigan cage burned to ash.

Sarah still wore cardigans sometimes: soft, familiar, hers. “"They look good, Phil,” she’d tease, a glimmer in her eye. “It’s what I was wearing when we met, remember?”

“Best thing I’ve ever seen someone wear,” Phil would say, kissing her slow. Reverent.

But Sarah didn’t live in the past. The girl who said no had become the woman who said yes— grabbing life with both hands. She didn’t mourn the old Sarah, just felt grateful for the steps that brought her here.

She was different now: bold, open, ready for whatever came next. The future felt wide, full of possibilities she couldn’t wait to chase. Sarah stepped into the morning light, heart steady, unafraid.