JENNY & BELLA
Jenny & Bella
My name is Jenny.
I’m nineteen. A sophomore in sociology at Nanterre. Until recently, I was the cliché of the good student: serious, studious, discreet. The kind you don’t notice—unless it’s to raise her hand to answer a question.
I work in the library while others go knock back neon shooters in some grimy downtown bar. I spend my weekends filing notes on Foucault, Bourdieu, and Elias instead of downing vodka shots in a row.
Physically, I’m nothing like the bombshells who turn heads in the hallways. I’m short—five foot three on a good day—with a silhouette still a little adolescent: slim waist, discreet hips, a modest but firm chest. Thin arms, pale legs.
My face is my most noticeable feature: a soft oval, pale cheekbones, and above all, my eyes—light blue, almost transparent in certain lights. They look larger behind my glasses: thin silver frames, discreet, almost schoolish, that I often push up with my finger. My hair is blonde, cut blunt at the shoulders, usually tied back in a messy ponytail with a black elastic.
I still live with my mother, in a suburban house that feels a little too big for just the two of us. Her name is Léa. A beautiful woman, active, modern, always juggling yoga retreats and Tinder dates. She wears her forties like perfectly fitted jeans: effortless, a little insolent.
For the past six months, she’s been with Alexandre. A pretty cool guy, divorced, father of two boys. One of them is older—and he messes with my head in ways I don’t admit yet. But that’s for later. The younger one, Mathieu, sixteen, lives with his mom and only comes over on some weekends.
My room is my territory. Four whitewashed walls, a single bed with the unicorn duvet I got at fourteen and never dared replace. A desk buried under open books, neon post-its, and tangled cables. My computer is almost always on: I type my classes there, watch shows, sometimes game late into the night. Earbuds lie tangled on the pillow.
I’m not a virgin. But let’s say… not far from it.
I was “deflowered” in ninth grade, one night when I’d drunk way more than I should have. The culprit? Some geek from the chess club. Quentin, maybe. Or Thibault. I don’t even remember.
I remember his Pikachu T-shirt, his trembling hands, the smell of sweat and cheap detergent. It lasted five minutes. Not painful, just… boring. No eye contact, no words, no pleasure. I spent the whole time staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over. I went home with damp underwear and a bitter taste in my mouth. End of story.
Since then, I’ve tried a few things. Mostly alone. Videos, furtive touches, sometimes thinking of someone, sometimes just to fall asleep. But I stayed the same Jenny: serious. The good friend. The nice girl everyone forgets at the bottom of the WhatsApp group.
And then there’s Bella.
Isabella, her real name.
Twenty. Fiery brunette. A mouth that looks ready to burst the seams of too-tight jeans, green eyes that scan you as if to know exactly where to press. Her skin is golden, smooth, and her body… a masterpiece. Full, round breasts, always on display, a firm, high ass that pulls eyes like a magnet. Long, sleek legs, always shaved, always ready to show under a short skirt or tight shorts.
We’ve known each other since we were ten. Elementary school, same row, same snack on the bench. She quickly became my best friend, my sister at heart, my perfect opposite. Where I sat reading, she was climbing fences to smoke behind the gym. Where I blushed if a boy spoke to me, she had already kissed half the hot guys in school.
Bella always knew I was… different. Not uptight, but cautious. An observer. She always protected me, encouraged me, but also tested me.
She has this obsession: to “loosen me up.”
“You’re gonna end up a spinster with a PhD,” she often teases, smirking. “You need a body against yours, a mouth, a hand, a dick. And not in theory, Jenny. In practice.”
She says that while sprawling in a chair any old way, legs crossed high, cleavage forward, like her whole body is one constant invitation.
With her, I feel both safe and in danger. She unsettles me. She turns me on, even if I pretend not to notice. And she knows it. Her looks, her smiles, her little “innocent” touches: an arm brushing mine, her hand lingering at the small of my back, her fingers playing with my hair.
Bella lives alone, in a small two-room place decorated Instagram-style: white walls, green plants, colorful cushions, fairy lights. She works part-time in a clothing shop and cycles through flings, some serious, some not. Guys, girls, sometimes both at once. She talks about sex with disarming ease, recounting the details like she’s explaining a recipe.
She teases me:
“One day you’ll realize you have a body, Jenny. And when that day comes, I’ll be there to show you what to do with it.”
I laugh. I look away. And sometimes, I get wet just listening to her.
So what I’m about to tell you isn’t fiction. It’s my journal.
Jenny the serious one, the geek, the over-dedicated student… the one Bella decided to transform.
Not overnight. But step by step.
One evening, lying across my bed like it was hers, she told me:
“Tomorrow we’re going out. Nothing crazy, no tequila shots. Just you, me, and a training ground.”
I heard myself laugh nervously.
“A training ground?”
“Yeah. A bar. Noise, lights, bodies. We’ll put you in the field. Watch, choose, test. Like a sociology experiment—but applied.”
I didn’t dare say no. I don’t think I wanted to.
