Christelle is a French teacher. She's 45, married, and the mother of two teenagers. A little sexually frustrated because her husband, Sébastien, isn't very good in bed, she loves him nonetheless and remains faithful. In her class is Nolan, a 22-year-old Black student who has repeated several years and is a rather poor student. But Nolan is handsome, muscular, and has an impressive physique. The girls find him attractive, and he knows it. Since the beginning of the year, Nolan has constantly sought the center of attention in class, which annoys Christelle. But the young woman can't say that Nolan leaves her indifferent. She's always fantasized about Black men and the legend surrounding the size of their penises. One day, Nolan stays after all the other students have left the classroom. Alone with Christelle, he makes it clear that she's the kind of woman who excites him. In response to his remarks, Christelle told him to leave or she would report him to management. Nolan left, but Christelle felt aroused.

Chapter 3: The Teacher's Secret

The phone felt like a live coal in Christelle’s palm. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum echoing the phantom click of the classroom door that had never actually opened. It had been a trick of the old building settling, or her own guilt screaming in her ears. She was alone. Utterly alone with the device and its damning contents.

She closed the phone. The screen went black, reflecting her wide, frightened eyes back at her.

She couldn’t go on. She mustn’t.

The sensible part of her, the teacher, the wife, the mother, screamed to drop it into her desk drawer, lock it, and walk away. To report him. To delete everything. To go home to Sébastien and her children and the quiet, sterile safety of her life.

Her thumb hovered.

Then, with a tremor that began in her wrist and shot up her arm, she tapped the screen. It glowed back to life, a rectangle of pure sin. She didn’t open the ‘Teachers’ folder. Not yet. That was a cliff edge she wasn’t ready to peer over. Instead, she returned to the main photo gallery. It was perfectly organized, a digital catalogue of conquests. Folders were labeled with names, sometimes just first names, sometimes full names. A cold, administrative efficiency to his carnality.

Seemingly each folder was related to a girl Nolan had slept with.

Her breath came in shallow pulls as she selected the first one. The name, LÉA, had already appeared in the text messages. She opened it.

The first photo was a close-up, stark and unforgiving. A blonde girl, her face flushed, her mascara slightly smudged. Her lips, glossed and parted, were stretched obscenely around the thick, dark head of Nolan’s penis. Christelle could see the blonde’s tongue pressed flat against the underside, her cheeks hollowed with effort. The next image was taken from slightly further back. Christelle could see the girl was on her knees in what looked like a messy bedroom. Nolan’s hand was fisted in her blonde hair, guiding her head forward. Christelle’s own mouth went dry. She swiped.

Another photo. A different angle. The girl, Léa, was on her back now on a rumpled duvet, her legs splayed and hooked over Nolan’s muscular shoulders. Christelle stared, transfixed. The girl’s pink, neatly trimmed vagina was stretched impossibly wide around the girth of his shaft, buried to the hilt. The caption, in crude lowercase, read: filling her up.

Christelle felt a hot, liquid pull low in her own abdomen. A treacherous warmth spread between her thighs. She pressed her knees together under the desk, a feeble attempt at containment. She shouldn’t be looking. This was a violation of every professional and personal boundary. Yet her finger moved of its own accord, swiping to the next folder.

The name made her freeze.

CLARISSE.

But it couldn’t be her Clarisse. Clarisse Vincent was her best student, a serious, soft-spoken brunette who wrote exquisite essays on Flaubert. She had a sweet, gentle boyfriend from the chess club. She wore cardigans and kept her head down. This was a mistake, a different Clarisse.

The first photo dispelled the illusion instantly.

It was her. Unmistakably her. Clarisse, her earnest, intelligent Clarisse, was on all fours on a tile floor that looked like a bathroom. Her school skirt was pushed up around her waist, her white cotton panties pulled down to her knees. Nolan was behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other braced against the wall. The photo was slightly blurred, as if taken hastily. Nolan must have propped the phone on a shelf or a table. He was seen fucking her from behind, his cock a brutal, penetrating line disappearing into her from behind. Clarisse’s face was turned towards the camera, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth a silent ‘O’ of what could have been pain or overwhelming pleasure.

“Oh, God,” Christelle whispered into the silent classroom. The shock was a physical slap, but beneath it, under the layer of professional horror, that same dark heat throbbed. She imagined the feel of it. The relentless, stretching fullness. The power in those young hips driving forward. She pictured Nolan’s enormous cock pounding their pussies, the wet, filthy sounds it must make, the grunts, the cries.

She swiped faster now, a hungry, shameful voyeur. A folder named ANNA showed a redhead bent over a couch, her freckled ass reddened from what looked like sharp slaps. A folder named INÈS contained a video thumbnail; Christelle didn’t dare press play, but the still frame showed a girl with her ankles behind her head, completely open and vulnerable. Another, named SOFIA, had photos of a girl on her stomach, Nolan’s hand pinning her neck down into a pillow as he took her from behind.

Each image was a lesson in a anatomy of surrender. Each girl was different, but their expressions held a common thread: a dazed, overwhelmed pleasure, a submission to something more powerful than themselves. Christelle’s silk panties were soaked through, a damp, shameful evidence plastered against her. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, the friction a feeble, pathetic mimicry of what she saw.

He was a collector. An archivist of his own virility. And with every photo, Christelle felt herself not just seeing, but feeling. The ghost of that massive cock stretching her, filling a void she had refused to name for years. It was crude, it was wrong, it was profane. It was the most alive she had felt in a decade.

Her thumb moved on, slick with nervous sweat. Names blurred past. PAULINE. CHLOÉ. EMMA. A universe of young, willing flesh. She was nearing the bottom of the alphabetical list.

Then she saw it.

A folder, separate, sitting below the others.

The label was in all caps, a cold, simple declaration:

TEACHERS.

Christelle’s blood turned to ice water. The throbbing heat between her legs vanished, replaced by a nausea that climbed her throat. Madame Dubois’s image from the previous chapter flashed in her mind—bent over her own desk, a professional woman undone. She was not the only one.

Her thumb, now trembling violently, hovered over the folder icon. The classroom was utterly silent, the last of the sun’s rays stretching long, accusing fingers across the floor towards her desk.

She tapped it.