Chapter 2: Office Hours
The red eye of the camera stared back, an unblinking modern gargoyle. Ingrid’s smile didn’t falter; it hardened into something more deliberate, a dare cast in concrete and shadow. The panties, a sad, sodden scrap of black lace, clung at her knees for a moment before she stepped out of them, leaving them in the puddle. She straightened up, ignoring the chill air on her bare skin, and looked directly into the lens.
She gave a small, sharp nod.Acknowledgment. Not apology.
Then she turned on her heel, her wet shoes making a soft squelch on the concrete, and walked back inside. The dampness on her legs was already cooling, tightening her skin. It was a secret she wore, a stark contrast to the crisp, grey wool of her dress.
Her class was waiting.
The lecture hall was a symphony of low chatter and shuffling papers that hushed as she strode in. A few latecomers scurried to seats. Her heels clicked on the polished oak, each step a little whisper against the floor, the sound of the only person standing, the only person who knew what she’d just done. She felt the curious, fleeting glances. A normal junior professor, a bit windswept, perhaps.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice clear, slicing through the air as she placed her bag on the lectern. “Laplace transforms. They govern dynamics.Prediction. Control.”
She began to write on the board, her movements fluid, the chalk a precise instrument. The damp patches on the hem of her dress were already fading. Beneath it, she was completely bare. The knowledge was a fire in her belly, hotter than the tea. Every shift of her weight, every stretch to reach the top of the board, was a private, delicious awareness.
The hour passed in a fugue of mathematics and memory. The red light.The hiss. The golden pool.
As she concluded the final theorem, the clock read 11:28. Students began packing, the rumble of voices rising. One figure didn’t move.
Ava.
She sat in the third row, her dark hair framing a face of deliberate, beautiful concentration. She was meticulously arranging her notes, slow and methodical. Her knuckles were white around her pen.
Ingrid knew that look. It was the look of someone working up the courage.
“Any questions on the material?” Ingrid asked the room, her eyes sweeping over the departing students before settling on the stationary girl. The last few bodies filtered out, the door thudding shut with finality. The air conditioning hummed.
Silence.
Just the two of them.
Ava stood up, clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield. She was slender, dressed in worn jeans and a soft-looking sweater. Her gaze was fixed on Ingrid’s face, a fierce effort of will to keep it there.
“Professor Olsen? I had a question about the application to boundary-value problems. It’s… I’m a little lost.”
Her voice was low, a tremor in it. It wasn’t about the homework.
Ingrid leaned back against the broad, scarred desk, the edge pressing into her thighs.“Of course. Come on up.”
Ava moved forward, her footsteps soft. She smelled like green tea and clean cotton. She stopped a respectful distance away, but her eyes betrayed her, flicking down to Ingrid’s mouth, to the line of her throat where her dress was unbuttoned at the collar.
“Show me where the confusion is,” Ingrid said gently.
Ava unfolded her notes, her hands trembling. “Here.The third step. I don’t understand the transformation.”
Ingrid glanced at the paper. The equations were neatly, perfectly solved. There was no confusion.
“Hmm,” Ingrid said, a soft, knowing sound. She pushed off the desk and came around it, closing the space between them. Less than a foot. She could feel the heat coming off Ava’s skin. “I see.”
“Do you?” Ava breathed. Her eyes were wide, pupils dark and dilated.
“I think your work is excellent, Ava.” Ingrid’s voice was a murmur now. “Impeccable. I think you’re here for something else entirely.”
Ava’s cheeks burned crimson. She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out.
Ingrid reached out, not touching, just letting her hand hover near Ava’s arm. She saw the goosebumps rise. “Tell me.”
“I…” Ava swallowed. Her gaze dropped, flitting over Ingrid’s body, stopping at the front of her dress. Her eyes widened further. “You’re… you’re wet.”
The front of the grey wool was undeniably stained. A large, irregular shadow of dampness darkened the fabric between Ingrid’s thighs, from the hem almost to her mid-thigh. In the stark fluorescent light, it was unmistakable.
Ingrid didn’t look down. She held Ava’s shocked, fascinated gaze. “Am I?”
“You are,” Ava whispered. Her breath hitched. “What… how?”
The pressure from the thermos of tea was back. It had been building steadily throughout the lecture, a slow, relentless refill. It was now a demanding, urgent presence. A beautiful, familiar ache. Ingrid felt it, a throbbing, liquid weight begging for release.
She smiled. A slow, predatory smile.
“Do you want to see how?” she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum.
Ava simply nodded, her lips parted. A strangled, “Yes,” escaped her.
Ingrid turned her back to the girl, walking the few steps to the edge of the large wooden desk. She swept a stray piece of chalk aside. The linoleum floor of the lecture pit stretched before them, a dull expanse of clean, speckled tile. She turned back to face Ava, leaned against the desk, and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her dress. In one smooth motion, she hitched the fabric up to her hips.There was no barrier. No lace.Nothing. The wet curls between her legs were exposed, and beneath, the source of the stain became horrifyingly, thrillingly clear.
“I had a need,” Ingrid said, her voice calm, steady, as if explaining a theorem. “A physical equation with a very simple solution.”
And she slowly, deliberately, squatted down right at the edge of the desk, her feet planted on the floor, her thighs open wide. She maintained perfect, unbroken eye contact with the stunned student.
Her gaze locked on Ava’s, Ingrid let go.
The sound was profound in the silent hall. A powerful, steady hiss, a rushing golden torrent that arced out and down, splattering noisily onto the linoleum. It was a loud, undeniable declaration. The smell, ammonia-bright and musky, instantly filled the still air. Ingrid’s face was a mask of serene, shameless release. She moaned, low and guttural in her throat, not just from the relief, but from the act, from the raw exhibition of it.
Ava made a sound like she’d been punched. A sharp gasp. Her notebook fell from her hands, clattering on the floor. She didn’t move to pick it up. Her hands flew to her mouth, but her eyes were wide, glued to the sight of her professor’s body violently purging itself. The steam rose faintly from the quickly spreading pool that splattered against the legs of the desk, droplets catching the fluorescent light.
The stream seemed endless, a forceful release after her morning humiliations. It was a loud, messy truth performed just for this one captivated witness. When it finally dwindled to a trickle, and then to a few last drops that pattered softly into the puddle, Ingrid rose. She let the damp hem of her dress fall, the fabric clinging unpleasantly to her skin. She was wet again, properly soaked.
For a long moment, the only sound was Ava’s ragged breathing.
“Fuck,” Ava finally whispered, her voice raw with awe.
“Come here,” Ingrid commanded, her voice husky.
Ava moved as if in a trance. She stepped closer, around the growing puddle, her shoes squeaking. Ingrid grabbed the front of her soft sweater and pulled her in, crushing their mouths together. The kiss was all teeth and clashing tongues, a collision of shock and raw desire. Ingrid tasted the girl’s gasp, felt her tremble.
Ingrid’s hands were at her own waist, hiking the wet dress up again. “Touch me,” she growled against Ava’s mouth. “Put your fingers in it. Feel what I did.”
Ava’s hands were clumsy, urgent. She slipped a hand between Ingrid’s slick thighs, her fingers sliding through the wetness, a mixture of the tea and her own arousal, her own piss. Ingrid groaned, arching into the touch.
“On your knees,” Ingrid ordered, shoving Ava down.
Ava dropped, her knees hitting the hard floor, ignoring the wet patch, its edge inches from her jeans. She didn’t hesitate. She pressed her face into the soaked curls, her tongue finding Ingrid’s swollen clit. She licked with desperate hunger, lapping at the salty, tangy mess, her moans vibrating through Ingrid’s core.
“Yes,” Ingrid hissed, her head falling back, her hands gripping Ava’s dark hair. “Taste it. All of it.”
Ava’s tongue worked harder, delving inside her, drinking her in, the filthy intimacy of it making Ingrid’s legs shake. It was obscene, and the sheer audacity of it, in this room of pure intellect, sent shivers of pure electricity up her spine. She rocked her hips, grinding against the girl’s mouth. The puddle on the floor, the vivid testament of what Ava was tasting, shimmered beside them.
“Get up,” Ingrid gasped, pulling Ava’s hair to drag her to her feet.“Against the board. Now.”
Ava stumbled back, her mouth glistening, her eyes glazed. Ingrid pushed her until her back hit the massive green chalkboard, sending a tremor through the rail. The unfinished Laplace transform smeared against Ava’s sweater. Ingrid didn’t care.
She fumbled with the button of Ava’s jeans, yanked them and her underwear down in one rough pull. Ava kicked them aside. She was shaved, smooth, already slick.
“Hold on,” Ingrid said, and slid a finger inside her, then two, finding her dripping wet.
“Oh God,” Ava whimpered, her head thudding back against the slate.
“Now you,” Ingrid demanded, her voice a tight wire. She spun them around, putting Ava’s hand between her own legs. “Do it. Make me come. Do it while everyone in this goddamn building could walk in.”
Ava’s fingers were frantic, searching, pushing into Ingrid with a clumsy, urgent need. She thumbed her clit, circled it, her breath hot and ragged against Ingrid’s neck. Ingrid matched her rhythm, fucking Ava’s hand with her own, her three fingers working deep, scissoring the tight heat. The smell of chalk dust and sex and spilled tea rose around them. The sound of slapping, wet skin and bitten-off moans echoed in the cavernous room.
Ingrid came first, a sharp, clenching orgasm that ripped through her like a seizure. She bit down on Ava’s shoulder to stifle a scream, her hips bucking wildly against the thrusting hand. The force of it made her knees buckle.
As she rode the last waves, she felt Ava stiffen, a high, desperate whine escaping her lips as her own climax hit, triggered by the feel of Ingrid pulsing around her fingers.
They slumped against the board, breathing harshly in the silence. The chaos of their bodies was written on the smeared chalk, in the pool on the floor, in their flushed skin.
Then, a voice in the hallway. Laughter, getting closer.
They froze, panting.
Ingrid was the first to move. She pulled her hand free, wiped it on her own ruined dress. “Get dressed,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
Ava scrambled, yanking up her jeans, shaking. Ingrid smoothed her own dress down.She was a mess. There was no hiding it. The wet patch was immense now, spreading from her own soaked state and the contaminated puddle she’d knelt near.
The door handle rattled.
Ingrid acted on pure instinct. She pushed Ava gently towards the opposite door, the one that led to the small prep closet at the side of the hall.“Go. Out the back stairwell.” She snatched Ava’s fallen notebook from the floor and shoved it into her hands.
Ava disappeared into the closet just as the main door swung open.
A janitor, an older man with a rolling cart of supplies, stepped in. He stopped short, his eyes taking in the scene: the professor, disheveled, standing near a huge, suspicious-looking puddle. The smell.The general disarray.
His eyes widened.
Ingrid didn’t flinch. She stood straighter, her chin high.
“Spilled my tea,” she said, her voice carrying a surprising strength, an echo of authority left from the lecture. “An entire thermos. Clumsy of me.”
The janitor’s gaze flicked from the puddle to her soaked dress.He said nothing. His face was unreadable, a mask of practiced neutrality.
Ingrid gave him a tight, apologetic smile. She picked up her bag from the lectern, her movements unhurried, owning the space. She walked past him, head high, her wet shoes leaving dark, explicit prints on the clean linoleum as she strode out.
The walk back to her office was a straight line through a gauntlet of potential eyes. She felt the cool air from the damp dress against her skin, a fresh, thrilling vulnerability. She didn’t look back.
In her small, cluttered office, she locked the door. She leaned against it, finally letting the breath shudder out of her. Adrenaline was a fading song in her veins.
She went to the window. Across the quad, on the façade of the humanities building, she could see it. A small, dark plastic dome. A new security camera, just like hers.
They were everywhere.
A slow, shivering excitement replaced the fading nerves. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a system. And she had just fed it a spectacular piece of data.
He didn't call her out. He didn’t even speak.
Carl, that was his name on the embroidered patch of his grey uniform. His eyes, a flat, watery blue, held hers for just a second too long. They traced the dark stain on her dress, absorbed the smell in the air, glanced at the precise arc of the splatter pattern on the floor and desk legs. The complete picture. Then they settled back on her face with a weariness that felt heavier than accusation. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
“Happens,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Stain’ll set, you don’t get to it.”
And that was all. He simply unhooked a mop from his cart, rolled it through the puddle, and turned his back to her, starting his work as if she were already gone.
The dismissal, his utter lack of shock, was more disorienting than outrage. She walked, the wet wool chafing her thighs, her mind racing faster than her heart. He’d seen. He knew. And his silence was a vault, not a pardon.
Her office door clicked shut, a fragile barrier. Leaning against the wood, she could still smell Ava on her skin, a sweet-pungent ghost beneath the sharper, chemical tang of her own release. The clock on her desk ticked loudly in the quiet. Three hours until her next obligation, a departmental faculty meeting.
Her body, now a hollowed vessel, began its familiar, relentless signal. The emptiness wouldn’t last. It was already a thirst.A demand. She filled her ceramic mug at the small sink, drank it down while staring blankly at a framed print of Riemann’s zeta function. She filled it again.
The liquid was a cold, internal weight she was consciously, meticulously constructing. This was a different kind of calculus. Known variables: two eighty-minute lectures bracketing the meeting. Unknowns: the scrutiny of her colleagues, the eyes of Carl the janitor, the location of every new camera. The solution was a private, pressurized ritual.
By the time she finished the second mug, the earliest tingles of need were sparking in her pelvis. She dressed for the meeting with deliberate, sensual care. A knee-length charcoal pencil skirt, fitted and severe. A silk camisole the color of bone. No underwear, ever. The brush of the skirt’s lining against her bare skin was a constant, promising whisper.
The walk to the conference room was a study in containment. Each step sent a soft, liquid slosh through her abdomen. She held herself with a lecturer’s poise, nodding at passing students, her smile a practiced curve. Inside, she was a gathering storm.
“Ingrid, you’re looking… focused.” Mark fell into step beside her, his briefcase bumping his leg. He smelled of stale coffee and ink.
“Budget forecasts, Mark,” she said without looking at him. “They require a certain clarity of mind.” A sharp, sudden pang made her breath catch. She slowed her pace infinitesimally. It was a clench, deep and sudden.
The conference room was a tomb of polished mahogany and hushed, competitive air. She took her usual seat near the window, crossing her legs slowly. The motion shifted the pressure, sending a warm, warning pulse through her core. She kept her face neutral, her hands folded on the table, as Dean Whittaker launched into a drone about alumni donations and interdisciplinary silos.
The pain was a live wire now. Not an ache, but a bright, insistent burn. Her bladder was a taut, straining balloon. She visualized its walls thinning, the volume expanding against the confines of her pelvis. She shifted subtly in the leather chair, the seam of her skirt pressing into just the right spot, a sweet, agonizing counterpoint. A bead of sweat traced a cold path down her spine.
Across the table, Professor Evans droned on about grant applications. Ingrid watched his mouth move, the words dissolving into meaningless sound. Her universe had shrunk to the roaring pressure in her lower body. The meeting stretched, a grotesque exercise in torture. Her knuckles were white where she gripped her pen.
“...your thoughts, Ingrid?” Whittaker’s voice cut through the fog.
All eyes turned to her. She felt the collective gaze like a physical touch. The pressure spiked, a white-hot needle. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, a gesture that drew attention to them.
“The metrics seem sound,” she heard herself say, her voice miraculously steady, detached. “But the variable you’re not accounting for is waste. The runoff. The unmeasured spillage from inefficient systems.”
A beat of silence.Evans blinked. “I’m not sure I follow.”
She gave a thin smile. “It’s a matter of fluid dynamics. Resources are consumed.Pressure builds. Eventually, they find a release. Planned or… otherwise.”
She let the statement hang, a cryptic pronouncement. Then, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, the new posture sending a wave of agony so intense she saw stars. A tiny, traitorous gasp escaped her. Mark looked at her, concerned.
“Are you alright, Ingrid? You’ve gone pale.”
“Fine,” she breathed. The word was a feather. “Just a… concentrated problem.”
She needed out.Now. The meeting was adjourned with a sudden, merciful rap of Whittaker’s gavel. She stood, her movements stiff, controlled. Any sudden jarring would be catastrophic.
“Ingrid, a word?” Mark was at her elbow, his hand hovering.
“Can’t.” The syllable was brittle. She walked, a measured, excruciating march towards the door. Each footfall was a calculated risk. The hallway stretched, a corridor of polished tile leading to the distant sanctuary of the stairwell. To the right was the faculty restroom, a door marked with a placid, stylized figure.
She passed it. Her heels clicked a frantic, steady rhythm on the tile.
She hit the stairwell door, pushing into the cool, concrete echo. Up was to her office. Down led to the basement storage, to the disused boiler room she’d discovered during her first week. It was a cathedral of neglect, all dripping pipes and crumbling brick.She went down.
The air grew thick and warm. The hum of machinery swallowed all other sound. She stumbled the last few steps into the cavernous space, a dim bulb casting long, monstrous shadows from the boilers. The pain was a shrieking, singular entity now. There was no elegance left, no calculation.
She barely made it to a rust-stained drain set into the concrete floor. Sinking to her knees, she fumbled with the button of her skirt, yanking it down over her hips as her muscles gave way.
It wasn’t a stream. It was a violent, uncontrolled eruption. A guttural cry tore from her throat as hot piss surged out of her in a furious, gushing torrent. It hit the metal drain grate with a deafening, metallic roar, spraying back up onto her thighs, her skirt, her hands braced on the filthy floor. The relief was so intense it was a kind of pain, a seismic unraveling that left her shaking and gasping. She sagged forward, the smell of hot rust and her own release filling her nose.
“Jesus Christ.”
The voice echoed from the shadows behind a massive, dormant furnace.
Ingrid flinched, the flow cutting off abruptly, a final trickle soaking into the wool of her skirt bunched at her knees. She didn’t scramble to cover herself. She turned her head, slow, exhausted.
Carl stepped into the meager light, a large wrench hanging loosely in his hand. He wasn’t looking at her face. His gaze was fixed on the steaming puddle spreading from the drain, on her bare skin glistening in the damp, subterranean gloom.
“Following me?” she asked. Her voice was ragged, but held no fear.
“Boiler’s acting up,” he said, his eyes lifting, finally meeting hers. They were different now. The weariness was gone, replaced by a flat, dark hunger. “Looks like it’s not the only thing.”
He didn’t move. He just watched her, the wrench hanging between them like a question. Ingrid stayed on her knees, the cold concrete biting into her skin, the heat of her own piss radiating from the grate beneath her.
“Got a problem that needs fixing?” she breathed, the challenge clear.He dropped the wrench. It clanged against the concrete, a loud, final sound in the humming room. “Seems I do.”