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First Times at Bayville High	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > General Views: 21210 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I'm in no way affiliated with Marvel, KidsWB, or Cartoon Network, nor do I own the X-Men multiverse in which the characters move. I'm not getting paid for this piece.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Chapter 8: The Cheater’s Tale
- M/F, Angst

You heard me correctly, I’m afraid – while dating Duncan, I gave my virginity to Scott. I did so for numerous reasons, none of which justify what happened but which I will articulate for the sake of telling the complete story. I hope that, by revealing this to you, I will no longer inhabit the pedestal you may have placed me on.

I also hope that this act of storytelling will allow me to analyze my own feelings about the incident, feelings which are conflictingly mixed. Whenever I reflect on what happened, I wonder whether I did the right thing for the wrong reasons, or the wrong thing for the right reasons. I also often question whether there is, in fact, a difference there, since there is always an element of wrongness.

I suppose I should begin with some background, for the benefit of some of you who missed the Scott-Duncan dynamic. Neither of them liked the other, and neither made any secret of the fact. Both are strong personalities – ‘alpha males,’ if you will – and too much exposure to their macho competition became very tiresome very quickly. Some of you may remember the constant antagonism between Scott and Lance – especially at Ironback Survival Camp, for example, or when Lance tried to reform. Imagine that multiplied sevenfold.

Dating Duncan only exacerbated the situation, for reasons I couldn’t fathom at the time. Though they seem quite obvious now, at the time I was oblivious of Scott’s feelings for me. Our friendship was just that – a friendship, borne of long familiarity, since we both arrived here around the same time and at younger ages than most of you. Barely teenagers, we had years to bond before the rest of you were discovered.

You may wonder why I dated Duncan in the first place, given what we all know about him now. I myself sometimes wonder what I saw in him. Whatever his other personality flaws – which he hid for the most part around me – he was certainly handsome and charismatic, two qualities I believe we can all agree are attractive in a man.

Signs of mine and Duncan’s incompatibility first appeared when he presumptuously purchased tickets to the Sadie Hawkins dance before I even asked him. In addition to bone-headedly missing the point entirely, it showed arrogance and a lack of respect for me as a woman with the ability to make her own decisions. Over the next month or so, I rather naively began to believe that the key to improving our relationship was to increase the level of intimacy between us, under the assumption that doing so would allow me to gauge his respect for me. It sounds ludicrous now, but at the time I was too immature to realize that intimacy comes from respect, not vice versa.

Permitting Duncan to move beyond kissing proved a double-edged sword. My libido increased by several degrees; to compensate, I masturbated more and more frequently. However, I also grew increasingly frustrated by his fixation with my breasts, to the exclusion of nearly everything else, including my legs and butt, of which I’m much prouder.

I’ve never understood the male fascination with breasts. They’re nothing more than lumps of fatty tissue attached to our chests, with the sole practical function of nursing infants. Their size is determined by a combination of genetics, diet, and exercise, with genetics seeming to play the largest role.

I apologize for the soapbox moment, but I hate the idea that my appeal as a woman hinges at all upon the randomly-determined dimensions of my mammary glands, a factor over which I have limited control. I’d much rather be noticed for my legs and butt, since I’ve chosen to put the time and energy into shaping and toning them.

However, my pride in my lower half is exactly what led to the events of that fateful night in early December my senior year at Bayville High.

After a month or so of frustration – both sexual and non-sexual – Duncan took me to the under-eighteen club that had just opened. I chose an outfit that I was certain would force him to notice what I wanted him to notice: a pale-pink, short-sleeved, rather boring blouse that buttoned up to my clavicles; a black stretch-satin miniskirt that ended, at best, at mid-thigh; and a pair of black strappy heels that provided just the right combination of lift and comfort. Fortunately, that night was only chilly, as opposed to bitterly cold, or my libido might well have been sent into hibernation.

Despite my choice of clubwear, Duncan continued to ogle my breasts. He even made some inappropriate remarks about my “headlights showing” – which, I assure you, they were not – and offered to “rub them to warm them up.” Obviously, I underestimated their hold on him.

When he tried to grope me in the middle of the dance floor, I decided I’d had more than enough. I batted my boyfriend’s hand away angrily and left him right then and there. I don’t remember what I said to him, exactly – which is odd, since I remember most of the rest of that night with laser precision. I ended up catching a taxi back here and storming up to my room, where I fumed on my bed for at least fifteen minutes.

A soft knock came from the door, startling me from my thoughts. “Jean?” uttered Scott’s muffled voice. “Are you okay?”

Sighing, I answered, “Just peachy, Scott.”

“You didn’t look peachy from what I saw from the kitchen,” he quipped.

“I’m not really in the mood for company right now,” I grumbled, “especially of the male variety.”

I sensed Scott’s fleeting thought of blasting the jock into the next county, which he quickly quashed. I’ll admit that the thought, and the sentiment behind it, brought a small smile to my face. Aloud, he said, “I see. In that case, I guess I’ll just have to deliver this bowl of fudge ripple to Kurt instead.”

Laughing to myself, I shook my head. Fudge ripple is my favorite, especially when I’m upset, and Scott knew it. I literally flew to the door – it seemed both safer and faster than running in those heels.

Scott grinned at me knowingly when I opened the door. “Hand over the ice cream and no one gets hurt,” I warned him playfully. He dutifully handed me the bowl; my mood brightened immediately.

“That bad, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair. He wore only a thin t-shirt and cotton shorts, his usual sleepwear.

“You’re too clever by half, Scott Summers,” I replied coyly, holding up the bowl as evidence. “If I said I didn’t want to talk about it, would you listen?” In truth, though, I found his presence soothing just then.

He shook his head, barely suppressing a smile. “I’m pretty hard-headed when I want to be,” he admitted. Ever since my power surge, our interactions had followed this almost-flirting thrust-counterthrust script.

“Come on in,” I sighed after a few beats. “You can put my bowl in the dishwasher when I’m done with it.” I didn’t wait to sit down before the first spoonful of frozen bliss was past my lips. Scott closed the door behind him.

Suddenly I became aware of his gaze on my legs as I walked. We were just friends, of course, but I felt flattered nonetheless. Tossing him a glance over my shoulder, I decided to tease him a bit.

“Like what you see, Scott?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, well,” he stammered, “you do, um, look nice – very nice – but I, ah, didn’t know you owned any shirts that skort.” He flushed deeply and corrected himself: “Skirts that short, I mean.”

Smirking, I posed for him – nothing too risqué, of course – to show off my calves and hamstrings. “Now you know,” I replied, licking ice cream from the spoon – a move, in retrospect, far more seductive than I’d intended.

With effort, he pulled his eyes up to mine. “I’m, ah, really sorry. I couldn’t help but notice,” he explained.

I sat upright on the bed, my back against the headboard. I intentionally left him enough space to sit beside me if he wanted. Subconsciously I think I was curious how he’d react to this whole situation – alone in my room, invited to sit on my bed, with me in an increasingly-flirtatious mood.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured him, eating another spoonful of delicious dairy dessert. With a sigh I added, “I’m glad someone noticed.”

Scott stood awkwardly, as if wrestling with the decision to sit beside me or not. I patted the empty space nonchalantly to give him an express invitation, which he accepted. I could practically feel the relief wash over him, along with an inchoate sense of excitement.

“Rough date with Duncan?” he asked, his tone indicating that he absolutely expected my answer.

“If you’d call getting groped in public ‘rough’,” I replied. From Scott I sensed another flash of protective urge toward me. It’s simultaneously one of his most endearing and frustrating characteristics: his hero complex was one of my primary reasons for joining the Sirens, but he’s really worked hard at learning to let me look out for myself.

“Could I ask you something,” I continued after another dose of fudge ripple, “as a male?” Not waiting for a response, I gestured to my outfit. “Where do you think I’d want your attention?”

Scott flushed and cleared his throat, his eyes following my hands. “Well, ah, Jean,” he stammered, “I guess you’d, um, want me to focus on your, ah, legs.”

I winked. “Good answer. Why, then, would Duncan ignore them entirely?”

Scott merely shrugged. “Some guys prefer… bosoms.” He’d paused to search for an inoffensive word, but still managed to sound awkward saying it. “I’m not one of those guys, though.”

I leaned a bit closer, not entirely on purpose. “No?” I practically purred. “Which part do you prefer, then?”

I didn’t think it was possible for him to flush any further, but I was wrong.

His mind whirled with possible answers. I knew Scott was searching for just the right one, but he was unsure which criteria for ‘rightness’ to apply. He weighed answers ranging from platonic to flirty to diversionary.

Realizing I’d set him up rather unfairly, I giggled and told him, “Nevermind. You don’t have to answer that.” I tucked my hair behind my ear.

Favoring me with a friendly smile, he put an arm around my shoulder. My heart skipped a beat when he replied, “I’m game,” as though my attempt to give him an out had presented the solution to his quandary. “It’s just so hard to pick one thing.”

“Especially when you haven’t seen everything yet,” I added immediately, without really filtering it through any of my cerebral decision-making centers. We looked at each other in shock; neither of us could believe that had just come out of my mouth. I reddened to scarlet.

Scott whistled. “You’re in rare form tonight,” he noted.

“I was feeling quite flirty earlier tonight,” I explained. The better word, however, might have been ‘frisky,’ not that I was about to say that to Scott right on the heels of embarrassing myself. “Your thoughtfulness – and your timely gift – have fully restored my mood.”

“I’m glad I could cheer you up. Mission accomplished.”

“My hero,” I teased, resting my head on his broad shoulder – his only feature that defies his moniker ‘Slim.’ I floated my half-empty bowl to my nightstand. Scott’s presence was improving my mood far more effectively than any ice cream.

Glancing up at him, I asked, “What would Mr. Hero like for a reward?”

His mouth worked silently for a few moments. I felt the rush of excitement that flooded him, heady, intoxicating. “Ah, well,” he finally managed, “I’d like a kiss. That’s the, um, standard hero rate, Miss.”

Scott expected a kiss on the cheek. I had a little surprise for him. My libido had largely supplanted my rationality.

I stretched upward, my hand resting on his sternum. His heart pounded beneath my palm. Telekinetically I turned his head toward me. Our lips met, but nothing happened at first.

Passion gradually permeated our kiss little by little as our resistance broke down. What began as a chaste, closed-mouth kiss evolved – or, perhaps, devolved – into what Rahne called ‘snogging.’ I distinctly remember the taste of Scott’s minty toothpaste as our tongues twirled together.

Caught up in the moment, I draped one of my legs across Scott’s lap, bending it at the knee. The inside of my thigh brushed across the groin of his shorts, where it encountered an impressive-feeling bulge. Curious about his potential reaction, I rubbed my leg up and down a bit, creating some friction.

Scott groaned without breaking the kiss. One hand – the one not around my shoulders – lighted on my calf and began kneading, which felt especially good on my bare skin. The other hand moved up to the back of my head, entangling my hair among his fingers, which raked down my scalp. I discovered that I found that particular maneuver exceedingly erotic. Moaning, I pressed my body against his.

What began as a mildly-naughty prank had metamorphosed into an intense, passionate makeout session. My hands roamed his torso, back and front alike, my fingers bunching the thin fabric of his t-shirt as they meandered. His hands continued to knead my scalp and climb up my leg, sending my arousal soaring to levels I’d never before experienced.

To my dismay, his hand stopped at the hem of my skirt. Since it was obviously in his way, and since it was also restricting my movements, I unzipped it with my thoughts, wondering how I’d get it off. Suddenly, I had an idea: why not let Scott do it?

I nibbled his lip while my mind chewed on the idea. Letting Scott undress me would definitely enhance the overall mood; it was enticing, sexy. If he declined, I’d know he wasn’t interested in me – an unlikely outcome, given the rest of his responses. Plus, I anticipated his reaction upon seeing my underwear.

“Scott,” I murmured around his lip, “would you do me a small favor?” I guided his hands, one manually and one telekinetically, to the waistband of my skirt. “This is becoming uncomfortable.”

“As much as I like your legs,” he answered between kisses, “I’m, um, not sure I should.”

I broke the kiss to beam at him. “You like my legs?”

Scott flushed and nodded. “I think they’re your best feature, actually.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Don’t you want to see… all of my legs? I know the skirt doesn’t hide much…”

Licking his lips, Scott answered with another question: “Jean, what’s gotten into you? Why are you doing this?” I detected from him the distinct impression that he thought he’d later regret breaking our momentum.

Nothing had gotten into me. In fact, that was the greater part of the problem. I was horny that night – most of it, anyway. I’d been horny for weeks. I realized later that, if Duncan hadn’t groped me in public and angered me, I very likely would have given him my virginity that night.

Of course, I didn’t want to tell any of that to Scott, so I told him the other part of the truth. “I just want to be appreciated,” I explained, tucking hair behind ear, “for things I want to be appreciated for. Duncan sees me as a popular girl with a nice rack; but that’s all he sees.”

I ran my hand through Scott’s hair. “You see so much more – the athlete, the scholar, the whole person.” I giggled. “You also pay attention to my legs, my second-best feature.”

Scott smiled the smile of one who knows where a trap lies, yet springs it anyway. “What’s your best, then?”

“My butt,” I answered faux-innocently.

After a long pause, with the sexual tension in the room palpable, he finally responded: “Well, I stand corrected. I picked your legs,” he added with a nervous swallow, “because I’ve never really, um, seen your, um, butt.”

“Fair enough,” I replied, a naughty smile on my lips. “Would you like me to show you… why you were wrong?”

Slowly he nodded. “A good leader learns from his mistakes.” He began pulling my skirt down my long legs.

Soon the little black garment lay at the foot of my bed, and I lay bare-legged under Scott’s gaze. After letting him look his fill of my legs – he even asked, “Are you sure these aren’t your best feature?” – I rolled onto my stomach to present the pièce de resistance. I watched his face for his reaction.

Under normal circumstances, Scott keeps his emotions on a tight rein. However, these were not normal circumstances, so his guard was lowered. His jaw dropped and he stared openly. Moreover, I felt the spike of surprise from him, which foreshadowed his impending thought-projecting.

“Um, Jean,” he stammered, “that… that’s a thong.”

“Navy-blue lace,” I added helpfully, including the color for Scott’s benefit. “I got it on sale at Victoria’s Secret.”

“So… what’s the occasion?” he asked, still staring at my underwear.

“No occasion – they’re just comfortable,” I explained, increasingly amused. “I just love the way thongs highlight the shape of my butt.”

“Thongs, plural.”

“I have more thongs than any other kind of underwear, by a wide margin.” I flexed for his viewing pleasure, savoring the ever-increasing arousal I sensed from him. “What do you think?”

Scott chuckled nervously. “I’m thinking a lot of things right now, most of which I hope you aren’t hearing.”

I rose up somewhat, intent on recapturing his lips. “Nothing specific so far,” I purred, “but I’m getting the gist.”

We resumed making out. Instead of returning to his chest, my hand alighted on his groin, where it rubbed the bulge it found. Scott’s hands grabbed my rear, pulling me close.

Pants of desire, among other noises, escaped our mouths. Both of us were throbbing with arousal. My heart pounded in my ears.

I remember emitting a low moan when his fingers brushed my labia through the lace. I remember how Scott caressed me in earnest, filling my body with these incredible pleasure sensations. When he located my clitoris, I nearly flew off the bed. My hips bucked as he pressed that wonderful little bundle of nerves.

I remember yanking Scott’s shorts and briefs down to his knees so I could rub his penis directly. Groans of pleasure were music to my ears as my hand stroked him. According to my best estimate at the time, he was about the same dimensions as my dildo.

I’m not ashamed to admit that I own one. It’s pale pink and it fits quite nicely, thank you. No, Rogue, it doesn’t vibrate. No, Jubilee, it doesn’t have more personality than Scott. May I continue?

When Scott’s fingers slipped under the fabric of my thong to touch me directly, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Pleasure surging through my body, I rewarded him with a lustful moan. I mustered just enough focus to move my underwear to my knees, out of his way, granting him unfettered access to my genitalia.

“It’s… I mean, you’re really wet,” Scott managed between kisses.

“Don’t you remember… reading about lubrication… in sex ed?” I teased, slowing the strokes of my hand.

“Reading about it and actually feeling it,” he replied with a soft groan, “are very different things.”

“Knowledge versus experience, I guess.” Scott relocated my clit just then, eliciting another moan from me. “I know I’ve never experienced arousal like this before,” I added impishly.

“Me neither,” he admitted. “I just don’t know what we should do about it.”

I grinned wickedly. “I think you do,” I murmured. With yet another application of telekinesis, I worked one leg out of my thong entirely so I could straddle him. My mons veneris pinned his penis between us.

I sensed the slightest hesitation from Scott. “What’s wrong?” I asked, desperately hoping I hadn’t pushed my luck – or Scott – too far. “Don’t you want this? Don’t you want to be my first?”

He flushed but gave me a big grin, as though something I said finalized his decision. “Yeah, Jean, I do. You’ll be mine too, of course.”

I rose up on my knees to maneuver Scott’s penis into position, beaming back at him with excitement. Feeling the glans along my labia minora near my vaginal entrance marked, for me, the point of no return. To prevent his penis from bending uncomfortably, I wrapped it in a telekinetic sheath – almost like a condom – to serve as a brace.

Thanks to hours upon hours of Kegel exercises, I could relax my vaginal muscles enough to slide down on Scott’s rigid penis. Inch by inch he entered me – I made sure the process was slow enough for us to both adjust and savor – until he was inside me to the hilt. Once there, I released the telekinetic brace.

“Oh, Scott, it’s wonderful!” I gushed upon feeling him ‘bareback’ within me.

“It didn’t hurt at all?” he wondered aloud.

I shook my head. “My hymen broke during a soccer game my freshman year.”

“I’d ask, but it’d kill the mood.” He cupped my rear and kissed me passionately, intent on maintaining the mood. He succeeded, too; I began a slow, sensual up-and-down motion with my hips as we kissed.

Picture, if you will, the scene: my lips interlocked with Scott’s as I sit astride his lap in coitus; our bodies begin moving as one; soft noises of purest pleasure fill the room. Both of us are, at best, only half-naked – Scott still clad in his t-shirt, I in my still-buttoned blouse and bra and shoes – and looking like two impatient, horny teenagers, what with Scott’s shorts down but not off and my thong hanging from one leg. Scott sat upright, his back against the headboard of my bed; fortunately, it didn’t bump the wall once as I rode.

Making love to Scott was, by far, the most pleasurable thing I’d ever felt. I knew, deep down in my core, he felt the same way. We fed off each other’s passion, our climaxes building at a dizzying pace, despite the slow rhythm of our bodies.

“I won’t last much longer,” he warned me softly.

“Me neither,” I replied. I felt light, airy, as if I were floating. “Let’s finish… together,” I added, French-kissing him just as we both peaked.

My mind blanked with the euphoric rush of sheer ecstasy. There was no thought, only sensation – heat, moisture, pulsation, wave upon wave crashing over my consciousness. I actually saw stars erupting into life before my eyes, and other images I’m still to this day trying to decipher.

All too soon, the moment ended. Breaking the kiss, I gazed into those ruby-quartz lenses, panting. Scott beamed at me, also panting, his forehead against mine.

Eventually I shifted enough for Scott’s spent penis to slip out of me. To avoid dribbling semen on the bed, I constricted my vaginal muscles tightly as I rolled off him and onto my back. My vagina tingled – whether from leftover sensation or sudden emptiness, I’m uncertain.

Scott rubbed his forehead. “We didn’t… use protection,” he groaned, as if kicking himself for the oversight.

“I’m on the pill,” I soothed, “one that actually reduces both the frequency and intensity of my periods.”

Scott didn’t respond for a moment. “That’s… good to know.”

“Telekinesis plus PMS equals bad news.” I sighed contently and ran my finger along my ‘landing strip.’ I luxuriated in the sensation of Scott’s semen coating my vaginal walls.

My erstwhile lover looked around. “Jean, we’re floating.”

“It does feel that way, doesn’t it?” I answered dreamily.

He looked back at me earnestly. “No, I mean, the whole bed is floating.”

Giggling, I mustered just enough focus to will the bed back to the floor for a soft landing. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm me, but I remained conscious. The soft bed certainly made a compelling argument for sleep, though.

“We’d better get you cleaned up so you can go to bed,” Scott half-suggested, half-ordered. I could sense his mind working, devising a plan. “We’ll use my underwear. I can go commando downstairs, put these in the hamper, and launder them tomorrow.” He swallowed nervously. “If I get caught en route… I’ll claim I had a wet dream.”

Scott placed his briefs against my groin. Hearing him devising a cover story for our illicit activities dispelled the fog of post-orgasmic bliss still clinging to my mind. The color drained from my face while his semen drained from my vagina.

The enormity of what happened crashed down upon me like a ton of bricks thrown by the Juggernaut. “What did we just do?” I muttered.

“We, um, made love – sweet, sweet love,” Scott answered, finishing his cleanup of my genitalia.

I looked up at him, eyes wide. “But we’re not in love! We’re not even together.” I pulled my knees up to my chest. “I cheated on my boyfriend,” I finally whispered, the verbalization triggering the onset of guilt.

“It sounded like you were planning to dump him after tonight,” Scott pointed out.

“Does that justify what we did?” I asked pointedly. “I think I’d feel worse if I dumped him after cheating. That wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“What about fair for me?” Scott asked, his voice rising with anger, something that rarely, if ever, happened towards me. “You can’t just seduce me because you’re mad at him and then stay with him.” He caressed my cheek, his tone softening when he added, “You deserve better than him.”

I rested my chin on my knees, my face now beyond his reach. I wondered if I did, in fact, deserve better. “I feel so confused now,” I admitted. “What we did felt so right at the time; how can it feel so wrong now?”

“I… don’t know,” he replied, now dressed. “I think we need time to process all this.”

I looked over at him again and smiled weakly. “Thanks, Scott, for a wonderful first time,” I told him, infusing my voice with sincerity. I tucked my hair behind my ear, adding, “I hope you don’t think I’m a slut now.”

He shook his head. “You’re not a slut,” he reassured me. “We just got carried away. That’s all.”

“I guess you’d better go,” I nudged. I needed to be alone.

Knowing me so well, Scott could tell. “Whenever you need me, wherever you need me, however you need me, Jean,” he promised, “I’ll be there.”

With that, he left – not forgetting the ice cream bowl either. After he was gone, I prepared for bed without looking in the mirror. I didn’t want to look myself in the eyes yet.

I hardly slept that night, or the next, or for many nights afterward.
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

A/N: Greetings all. I hope everyone enjoyed this installment, and I look forward to your feedback in the reviews and/or the discussion page (see first chapter for link). I especially hope that I portrayed the situation in such a way that the characters come across as flawed but not despicable, that there's enough of a sympathetic element that you the readers could "forgive" them for what they did. I also hope that this chapter can be thought-provoking - for example, did the universally-reviled Duncan deserve for his girl to cheat on him after he was a douche? - as well as erotic (which is, of course, the primary purpose of this fic).
Also, I added a little bit to the last chapter, so I encourage you to reread it if you're so inclined - I didn't add much, just a little extra character interaction.
(Interestingly, there's research out there that shows how we can excuse cheating for ourselves and those close to us, even while looking down on cheating in general. Yay double standards!)
As I mentioned in the last chapter, summer classes are going strong right now, so my updates are going to be erratic at best for the foreseeable future. I hope to be able to write the next chapter by the end of August at the latest, though hopefully sooner.
Remember, kids: Scott Summers does, in fact, have more personality than a dildo! :D
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First Times at Bayville High