Ariana Grande Goes To The Prom

Ariana Grande rolled into the video village to find Chloe Bennet and Rose McIver already there. Unusual for all of them to be together; the project had all of them scattered to different subplots. She got killed in the opening, Rose was only in flashbacks, and Chloe was the lead.

They were filming the movie mainly in a nowheresville Georgia town, so there’d been a lot of intermixing with the natives. The crew were like sailors on shore leave, going to the local bars and sharing stories about Harrison Ford or stuntwork. Chloe had played laser-tag. Rose had made an effort to fit in, going shopping at the outlet mall and signing autographs whenever asked—pretty shameless. Ariana had stayed in her trailer. A few more days for reshoots and she would be history. No point in putting down roots.

Producer Jerry Osgood, the point-man on the movie, pressed play on a Youtube video. “Watch this,” he said.

It was a pretty standard Youtube video. Three siblings, African-American, two brothers and a sister. Asking her, Chloe, and Rose to go to prom with them. For every one of those that got answered, Ariana knew there were a hundred that didn’t. It all depended on whether your PR agent decided whether the risk of being seen with some stranger from the internet outweighed the reward of butting into the news cycle.

“So?” Ariana asked when it was over and the hashtag had flashed. “They’re not Marines or anything.”

“They are black,” Jerry replied.


Rose spoke up. For a New Zealander, she was pretty abreast of these things. “Jerry’s worried about how people are perceiving the movie. A bunch of white people go to Egypt, get cursed, and then start getting killed back in America—which is full of white people.”

“My father’s Chinese,” Chloe said.

“It’s still a movie about an Egyptian curse with no Egyptians in it.”

“But oh, the cast went out with some black guys, that makes it all better?” Ariana asked. “I mean, not that I have anything against that—”

“You know one of them’s a girl, right?” Chloe asked.

“You just have to go to a dance with them, not get married,” Jerry said. “It’s one night.”

“My contract doesn’t say anything about going to prom,” Ariana insisted.

“It says you have to promote the film. And this is good promotion! It’ll get people talking—”

Ariana crossed her arms. “If I do this, no Jimmy Kimmel.”

“You have to do Jimmy Kimmel, he’s the kingmaker!”

“I’ll do a musical performance, no interview.”

Jerry countered, “I want this prom going viral. Selfies, snapchats, the works. Whatever the hell hashtag that is, it’d better be trending!”

“Oh, it’ll trend,” Ariana said, putting on her sunglasses. “I’ll make sure of it.”


Ariana dressed faux-casual: nice, but like she was not trying to look nice. To go with—or rebel against—the school days theme, she wore a short tartan skirt, a gray crop top, and long white stockings up from her pretty polished Mary Janes. With the little bob of her ponytail trailing behind her, she looked like the most Catholic schoolgirl to ever grace an Aerosmith video.

The date was like pressing the flesh anywhere. After letting their people handle the details, they showed up on the night in a limo. Had a little meet and greet, everyone doing a few pictures and vids for social media. They were all old hands at it, though the triplets—the Randalls were their names—seemed to have fun playing it up for the camera, showing them the house, laughing at all the right jokes. After some cooing over how cute everyone looked in their prom outfits, they headed out.

Ariana’s date was named Mags. He was shaved bald, with six tattooed dots on his forehead. Besides that, he was tall and slender, a runner’s body; exceedingly, almost painfully polite. Ariana forced herself out of her shell to talk to him, trying to keep pace with the animated conversations Rose and Chloe had going.

Finally, they arrived. The prom was being held in the lobby of the local high-class hotel—Ariana thought Chloe and Rose were actually staying there. And whoever was in charge of decorating the place, either students or some hired professional, had done a good job turning the place into a decent imitation of a nightclub. It was a madhouse, in fact, electricity in the air, music pounding, lights shattering the atmosphere, everyone both dressed to the nines and dancing like a fool.

Ariana grabbed Mags’s hand and led him deeper into the grind. “Let’s see what trouble we can get into,” she said with a giggle—relaxed now that the fraughtness of the limo ride was over. Now she just had to dance, play along, and she could do that almost automatically.

She, Rose, Chloe, they all strutted. This movie was their big break and they were out to show they deserved it. Ariana saw Chloe with her date, the sister, Ariana forgot her name. They cut into the seat of hot bodies just like she and Mags were doing, the dancers parting for them as if to the beat of the throbbing music. There was a lighted platform waiting and Chloe climbed onto it with the sister, the two women grinding their hips together, dragging their hands up each other’s thighs as they rocked their hips to the demanding bass of the Caribbean beat.

Chloe wore black hotpants, cut a few inches above her thighs. A silver zipper ran down the high-waisted shorts, down the front of her flat belly, between her legs, the tab hanging like a tail at the apex of her buttocks. An untanned portion of her breasts showed underneath the silk blouse that flowed freely from her shoulders to just below her jutting cleavage. Every man in the room was eyeing her and her writhing date. Even Ariana watched in a little astonishment, barely distracted by the dance she was doing with Mags.

“Let’s get a drink,” Ariana said, intending to go with him, but Mags hurried off without a word, returning in a moment with a loaded Dixie cup. Ariana took it with a thanks and drank. “Who spiked this, anyway? I’ve tasted Kool-Aid that’s more bitter.”

“Oh, it’s not spiked,” Mags assured her. “The school has sensors that detect the alcohol content in the punch bowl.”

“Ain’t technology grand.”

The next song started. Ariana glanced at the lighted platform. Chloe and the sister were still at it. Grinding their breasts against each other, running their hands over their own curvaceous thighs, buttocks, breasts, in searing symmetry with the other. The women feigned disgust, but Ariana thought it was just jealousy—knowing that at that moment, either of the two ladies could’ve had any of their boyfriends.

Mags’s brother approached, Rose on his arm, both of them sweaty from their own dancing. The brother bore two drinks, one of which he gave to Ariana, who was running on empty.

“Thirsty work, huh?” Rose asked, grinning shyly.

They eagerly started in on the conversation, Ariana grateful that Rose did most of the work. She was something of a party animal, and was quick to praise the hotel, the music, what everyone was wearing, how everyone was dancing. All Ariana had to do was chime in now and then and enjoy her drink.

Were the Randalls local boys? Yes, born and bred. Mags was on the swim team, his brother headed the debate club. What were Ariana and Rose up to? Ariana was next headed to a shoot for a fashion magazine, while Rose would be recording voiceovers for an upcoming cartoon.

As they talked, lined up against the far wall of the dance floor where the music wasn’t so oppressively loud, Ariana noticed she was being eyed. Every eye in the place seemed to be on the provocatively dressed celebrities and their local boy dates. Rose seemed to play to it, chatting coquettishly, sliding closer to her date. Ariana was tired of being the odd man out, though, the second fiddle, not as hot as Chloe or as charismatic as Rose. She reached out to Mags and touched his arm, emphasizing the point she’d just made in their conversation.

A moment later, Mags confidently reached out and put his arm around her, almost touching her well-displayed cleavage. Ariana leaned herself against him encouragingly, discreetly rubbing her breasts on his arm. He may have been on the swim team, but he was tall enough for basketball.

“Hey, Rose, isn’t your room up there?”

“Yeah,” Rose answered, batting some of her hair back behind her ear. “Why?”

Ariana shrugged. “Thought maybe I could get a real drink.”

“Minibar? I’m on the CW, not a network, Ari.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Ariana promised. “So how about it, Mags? One drink?”

“Sure,” Mags said. “I could go for a drink. Bro?”

His brother shook his head. “I’m good. Rose, how about another dance?”

Rose smiled widely. “Sure!”

Rose and Ariana hugged and kissed each other goodbye before parting, then Ariana led Mags out into the nearly deserted hotel proper, finding an elevator just waiting for them…


Up in Rose’s room, Ariana stepped out of her pumps first thing. “You mind if I get a little comfortable?” she asked.

“Go right ahead.”

Sighing with relief, Ariana went into the bathroom, wagging her finger to admonish Mags not to snoop around. He stayed by the doorway, hands in his pockets, and was still there when Ariana came back out, seeming to wear not much more than an oversized St. Mark’s sweatshirt and large horn-rim glasses. Her long bare legs pillared to the floor, pocket flaps jostling over her thighs, so she had to be wearing some kind of shorts underneath the hanging hem of the sweatshirt…

“Sorry,” she said, bare feet padding on the carpet. “I just can’t stand being all dressed up and having my contacts in and all that. I’ll put it all on again before we go back out, but for now, I just want to sit down and have a drink.”

She went to the minibar, helping herself to a bottle of Grey Goose, and jauntily swung it over to the couch. Mags followed her, undoing his bowtie, and sitting down beside her on the couch.

“I know you wanted more from this evening than just watching me drink—you can get that from TMZ…” Ariana bounded up from the couch, wincing a little as her feet came back in contact with the floor. “How about we make a game of it?”

“A drinking game?” Mags asked.

“Yeah, why not?” Going to the suite’s kitchen, she quickly returned with two shot glasses, parceling them out on the coffee table for her and Mags. Next, she poured for both of them. “Truth or drink?”

Mags shrugged. “I’m game.”

“Okay. Who’s idea was the whole prom thing?”

“Like, historically?”

“No. Inviting all of us to your prom.”

Mags considered his drink. “My brother. He really has a thing for Rose… for Ms. McIver… and he thought it was more likely this would work if it were all three of us. More of a… social media profile or whatever.”

“Alrighty. Your turn.”

“Why’d you lick those donuts?”

Ariana smirked and drank, then poured herself a new shot. “See? It’s that easy. Now, my turn. Have you ever jerked it to me?”

Mags was shocked for a moment, staring at Ariana as she playfully let her glasses slip down her nose, looking at him. Then she helpfully mimed stroking something invisibly phallic to demonstrate the concept.

Mags drank. He needed it.

“You have!” Ariana cried happily.

“Maybe I just don’t want to flatter you.” Mags poured himself another shot, embarrassing himself by sloshing a little over the side, shit. He wiped it up with the cuff of his sleeve. “Have you ever jerked it to me?”

“No. People like you, maybe.”

“People?” Mags asked.

“You know… dark meat. Is that offensive?”

Mags smiled. “Not if it’s true!”

Soon, they’d been through half the bottle. Ariana felt warm, loose, a little giggly. She normally didn’t drink this much, but she felt comfortable around Mags. The balminess of being around him, a little tipsy, was a fun feeling.

“Whose turn is it?” he asked her.

“Doesn’t matter. Bottle’s half-empty.”

“I thought it was half-full.”

“Either way!” Ariana exclaimed, grabbing the bottle and pouring for both of them again, even though their glasses were full. Mags laughed as the excess puddled on the glass. “Now we play drink or dare. And I dare you to kiss me.”

“What?” Mags asked, taken aback once again, shocked back to the stiffness of himself pre-shots.

“If you can’t kiss a girl when she’s daring you to, when can you?”

She was on the love seat, he was on the couch, the two of them flanking the coffee table. So he stood up, then she stood up, blocking him as soon as he straightened. She reached up, stretched her arms around his neck and shoulders, and pulled his head down to hers.

His wide lips touched her slender, candy-pink ones, and she felt overwhelmed by his masculinity. Her hands sweep across his face, down his chest, over his belly. His arms wrapped around her body and he stiffly lifted her up as they continued to kiss, lewdly, open-mouthed. Ariana extended her toes to keep in contact with the floor—she wiggled her legs around, trying to get a better grip and Mags shifted, loosening his grip on her, and she got her feet back under her by she slipped on a wet carpet doused by a spilled shot and fell back onto the love seat, fwumping deep between the cushions. They laughed. Ariana slowly spread her legs, letting the oversized sweater lull deep between her thighs.

“Your turn,” Ariana said.

Dazed, Mags busied himself with the bottle and the shot glasses. The vodka seemed to be hitting him all at once. “So I just dare you to do something?”

“Or I have to take a drink,” Ariana replied.

“What if I dare you to take a drink?”


“Alright, alright—I dare you to… put your shoe on your head.”

“C’mon, Mags. Give me a real dare.”

“What’s a real dare?”

“You know. Something I might not want to do. Or maybe something I want to do. Whichever.”

“That’s not narrowing it down.”

Ariana stole her glass back and raised it to her lips. “I’ll drink! I swear to God, I’ll do it!”

“Okay, I dare you—to stand on your head.”

As it turned out, Ariana was wearing pants.

But not much of them.


“Why don’t you finger my ass?”

The bottle was three-quarters empty. Mags had taken off his jacket. Ariana had dared him to.

“What?” Mags asked.

Ariana pulled her sweatshirt up off her thighs, to her midriff, displaying the short-shorts she wore—a little brushstroke of black between her thighs and along her waist. “You know. Two in the pink, one in the stink? Just without the pink.”

“I can’t do that!” Mags protested, waving his drink around, not noticing that the vodka was sloshing out onto his fingers. “I’m just some guy! And you’re, ya know—you.”

“I’m daring you to,” Ariana insisted. “If you won’t, ya have to take another drink…”

“Can’t do that,” Mags reasoned. “Gonna have one fuck of a hangover already…”

“I just wanna know what it’s like,” Ariana continued. Now she was skimping her pants down her legs, though the sweatshirt fell in thick folds around her legs, keeping Mags from seeing anything as she stepped out of them. “I’ve always wondered how people can like it. I mean, it’s your butt. But everyone does seem to like it. I thought I’d try it myself, but I can never bear to… you know… to myself. But you can. Just one little finger? Please? Just so I know what it feels like? I dare you, Mags. I double-dog dare you.”

She took his hand, the one holding the shot glass. Pliantly, he let her slip the glass away, drop it to the carpet, then lick his hand. Her tongue probed between his fingers, sucking the spilled liquor away; then her lips sucked at his fingertips. She took his pointer finger into her mouth, wetting it with her saliva and her whipping tongue. And as she sucked—fellating his finger like it was a cock—she pirouetted around, turning so her head was twisted over her shoulder, her body facing away from him.

She bent over, drawing her mouth off his finger with a slurp, using her hands to pull her sweatshirt over the dimples of her back. Suddenly, Mags could see her ass. As pert and spry as the rest of her young body, with little markings of tanlines where a very scant thong had gone. It wasn’t plump or bootylicious, but more like some small, ripe, piquant fruit. Just looking at it had a tart taste, a sweet taste… it whetted his appetite.

He extended his hand, his spit-slick finger catching the cool of the air conditioner, and cupped the center of Ariana’s buttocks in his palm, his finger extended inward. Ariana was bent over the coffee table now, her hands locked around its edges, the bottle under her face like some glass phallus. She teasingly blew on the bottleneck as she waited…

Then she winced forward, jumping a little as she felt Mags’s finger prodding in between her buttcheeks. Ariana now knew he would go through with it, and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that. All of a sudden she felt obscenely naked, unprotected, her whole body the strained skin around her tiny asshole that was being pulled open. Then—

She thought it would hurt, but it didn’t. There was pressure, an intensity, but no pain. Instead, there was a sensation of muted heat… good heat… that swelled inside her.

Mags, too, had expected her to cry out in pain, been prepared to yank his finger out, but instead, Ariana quaked with excitement. Actually squeaking like a cartoon mouse or something, she began wiggling to take his finger deeper inside.

“Do you like it up the ass, Ariana?” Mags asked, wondering how he would get his finger out. Her ass seemed to actually be getting tighter.

“Oh yes!” Ariana squealed, affectionately clenching her cheeks on his hand. Despite himself, Mags enjoyed the pert, firm feel. A nice juicy grape, that’s what she was. Just needed to be plucked off the vine…

Mags moved his finger around in the tight hole, fucking it in and out, widening her more and more. He was surprised how arousing he found it to make her expand, stretch her out, turn something so tight and virginal and new into something that fit. And Ariana liked it too, wiggling her hips back against it, her nails clicking on the underside of the coffee table. Apropos of nothing, Mags forced a second finger in. Ariana winced aloud from the pain and tried to bounce further down the coffee table, mounting it so she was on her hands and knees, his hand right behind her like a slow-motion spank.

“Oh!” Ariana gasped. “You… you daring me to take two fingers?”

“Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

Ariana gasped again. Crawling forward had made her brush against the bottle of Grey Goose, its cool mouth tingling down the hollow of her throat.

Mags misinterpreted the sound. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it feels good!” Ariana responded.

As naughty and taboo as the idea had seemed to her before she’d done it, it seemed even dirtier now that it was actually happening. The minute he’d put his finger in her ass, she’d felt misty between the thighs, the sleek liquid layer of a spray of perfume…

She affected a profoundly innocent voice, reminiscent of her character on Victorious. “Do men really put their cocks up there?”

Something about the question made Mags’s balls feel like they were full of molten lead. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “when the girl likes it. Would you like it, Ariana?”

“I think so,” Ariana teased haltingly. “I have a lot to learn—you’ll teach me, right? Teach me how to take it up the ass…”

“Oh yeah, baby girl. Here’s lesson one!”

Mags lowered himself to her kneeling body, putting his other hand on her shoulder and pinning her down. Ariana could feel that he was warming to the task, and a spike of adrenaline ran through her as she realized she was completely at his mercy. His fingers began to work inside her violently clenched asshole.

Her mouth fell open, uncapping excited groans, as she writhed on this obscene invasion of her virgin ass. A strangely appealing subjugation was upon her. She could feel him looming over her, deliberately stretching her. She could feel herself getting ready to take him, in her ass, her cunt, her mouth—it didn’t matter.

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