Chapter 2: The Professor's Submission
The click of her glass was the only sound for a full, suspended second. Then the fire popped, sending a cascade of sparks up the chimney, and the spell broke.
Taylor’s legs carried her forward. They felt like someone else's legs, made of wood and wire. The distance from the armchair to the hearth was only ten feet, but it felt like crossing a canyon. Her skin was hyper-aware of the air, the heat from the fire, the weight of three sets of eyes tracking her. Catriona’s were cool and assessing. Freya’s were wide, dark pools of reflected flame and excitement. Aidan’s were pure, unfiltered panic.
She stopped behind Freya, looking down at the scene. The intimate, shocking geometry of it. Aidan, braced against the mantel. Freya, kneeling, her hand still wrapped around the base of him, her knuckles white. Him, jutting persistently, insistently between them. A stark, physical question.
“I don’t know how,” Taylor whispered. The admission was torn from her, honest and terrified.
“Just open your mouth,” Freya said, her voice a low, rough instruction. She didn’t turn around. “Stop thinking.”
Catriona shifted slightly, leaning back on her heels to get a better view. “Don’t worry about technique. The enthusiasm is what matters.”
Taylor’s academic mind, always her shield, her fortress, finally shut down. There was no theory for this. No peer-reviewed articles on the social dynamics of group infidelity in a mountain cabin. There was only heat, and want, and a curious, destructive freedom in having the choice already ripped away.
She lowered herself to her knees. The rug was rough against her skin. The smell here was different—musky, salty, intimate—overlaying the pine and woodsmoke. Her shoulder pressed against Freya’s. She could feel the tremor in Freya’s arm.
She looked at him, up close. It was daunting. The thick vein pulsing along the length, the angry red head, the sheer presence of it. Her stomach clenched with a primal vortex of fear and attraction.
“Go on, professor,” Catriona murmured, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “Field research.”
Taylor closed her eyes. Then she opened her mouth and leaned in.
The first touch of the head against her lips was searing hot. She flinched. Freya’s hand guided her, a firm pressure on the back of her neck. “More,” Freya breathed.
Taylor opened wider, taking him into her mouth. The taste was foreign, slightly bitter, overwhelmingly male. She gagged instantly, a violent, involuntary convulsion of her throat. She pulled back, coughing, her eyes watering.
Aidan made a pained, guttural sound. “Taylor, you don’t have to—”
“She wants to,” Freya interrupted, her voice fierce. She tightened her grip on Taylor’s neck. “Try again. Don’t fight it. Just let it happen.”
Humiliation and a strange, burgeoning defiance burned through Taylor’s tears. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, glared at the formidable thing before her, and dove back in. This time, she pushed past the initial shock. She took him deeper, focusing on the simple mechanics. Open. Take. Breathe through your nose.
She gagged again, but stifled it, her body shuddering. Her jaw ached with the strain. She could feel him hitting the back of her throat, a firm, unyielding pressure. She heard Aidan’s sharp intake of breath, felt his thighs tense under her probing fingers. She’d instinctively reached out to steady herself, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his legs.
“There you go,” Freya whispered, her praise a hot breath against Taylor’s ear. Freya’s own hand began to move, stroking what Taylor’s mouth couldn’t accommodate. “Just like that. Fuck, look at you.”
Taylor couldn’t look at anything. Her world had narrowed to the stretch of her lips, the salt-bitter taste, the rhythmic pressure in her throat, the sound of Aidan’s breathing growing more ragged. It was obscene. It was degrading. And a part of her, a part she’d locked away beneath books and tenure committees, was thrilling to it. She was doing this. She was good at this. The gagging lessened, replaced by a wet, rhythmic sound she was somehow creating.
Freya’s lips found the sensitive skin behind Taylor’s ear. “My turn,” she murmured, and then she was shifting, nudging Taylor aside with her hip, taking her place at the center.
Taylor fell back onto her heels, gasping for air, strings of saliva连接ing her lips to him for a moment before breaking. She watched, dizzy, as Freya took over with none of her hesitation. Freya engulfed him with a confident, hungry ease, her head bobbing with a natural rhythm, a soft moan vibrating in her throat. It was a performance, but it was also genuine hunger. Aidan’s head thumped back against the wood. His hands, which had been gripping the mantel, now tangled instinctively in Freya’s dark hair.
Catriona watched it all, her expression unreadable. She had retrieved her bourbon and was sipping it slowly, like someone at a particularly engaging theatre production.
Freya pulled off with a wet pop, gasping. “Your turn again,” she said to Taylor, her voice wrecked. “Together.”
They moved like that, in a ragged, desperate relay. One would take him deep until their eyes watered, then pull back for air, and the other would immediately lean in to take their place. There was no more gentleness, no more exploration. It was a frantic, shared mission. Taylor’s earlier technique vanished, replaced by a messy, choking abandon. She wanted to conquer the feeling, to master the reflex that made her eyes stream. She wanted to prove she could.
Aidan was murmuring a stream of fragmented, helpless words. “Oh god… fuck… I can’t… Freya… Taylor… stop…” But his body was begging them to continue, his hips thrusting shallowly into the warm, willing cavern of whoever’s mouth was on him at the time.
Taylor surfaced again, coughing, dragging the back of her hand across her wet chin. She saw Catriona stand up. For a wild moment, she thought Catriona would put an end to it. Instead, Catriona walked around behind Aidan. She wrapped her arms around his chest, pressing her front against his sweat-slicked back. She kissed his shoulder, then looked over it, making direct, searing eye contact with Taylor.
“He’s close,” Catriona said, her voice a calm, intimate counterpoint to the ragged breaths. “You should finish what you started. Don’t let him come in your mouth unless you want to.”
It was the final boundary, presented as a casual option. Swallow, or pull away. The clinical consideration in the midst of the frenzy was jolting.
Freya heard it. She pulled back, her lips swollen and gleaming. She looked at Taylor, her chest heaving. The dare was in her eyes again, but it was softer now, a shared question. What do you want?
Aidan was trembling, on the precipice. His eyes were screwed shut, his face a mask of agonized pleasure.
Taylor didn’t think. She acted. She pushed Freya gently aside and took Aidan back into her mouth, taking him as deep as she could, until her nose was pressed against the wiry hair at his base. She held him there, suppressing the gag, letting him feel the constant, tight pressure of her throat.
Aidan cried out, a sharp, broken sound. His body locked, every muscle rigid. Catriona held him tight from behind, whispering something into his ear that was lost in the roar of the fire.
Taylor felt the first hot, pulsing burst hit the back of her throat. The taste was stronger, more biological than she’d imagined. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. She stayed, taking each successive pulse, a strange, profound accomplishment settling over her amidst the chaos. She’d done it. She’d seen it through.
When he was spent, she released him slowly, sitting back on her heels. She swallowed. The act felt more significant than any that had preceded it.
Silence descended, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the heavy, tortured sound of Aidan trying to catch his breath. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. Catriona stayed with him, her arms still around him, her face hidden against his back.
Freya was staring at Taylor. There was no triumph in her face now. Just a shell-shocked wonder, and a dawning anxiety. She reached out and touched Taylor’s cheek, her thumb wiping away a stray tear or a drop of sweat—Taylor couldn’t tell which.
“Hey,” Freya whispered.
Taylor looked at her, then at Aidan and Catriona in their tangled, post-climax heap, then down at her own trembling hands. The fever had broken. The room was just a room again. The fire was just a fire.
And what they had done was now a permanent, ugly, beautiful scar on the night.
She didn’t answer Freya. She just stood up on legs that felt boneless and walked, unsteady, towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She needed to be gone from this room, from the scent and the sight of it.
Behind her, she heard Freya scramble to her feet. “Taylor, wait.”
She didn’t wait. She kept walking, the taste of him still on her tongue, a salty, bitter ghost that she knew, with a cold, clear certainty, would never truly leave her.
She kept walking, the taste of him still on her tongue, a salty, bitter ghost that she knew, with a cold, clear certainty, would never truly leave her.
“Taylor, stop.” Freya’s hand closed around her elbow in the shadowed hallway.
Taylor shook her off but halted, her forehead pressing against the cool wood of the bedroom door. She could hear her own blood rushing in her ears, a chaotic rhythm mirroring the frantic beat of her heart. From the living room, there was only the low murmur of Catriona’s voice, a soothing, possessive sound.
“Look at me,” Freya said, softer now.
“Why?” Taylor’s voice was a raw scrape. “So you can see how well I followed your script?”
“It wasn’t a script.” Freya stepped closer, her body a warm line against Taylor’s back. She could smell the bourbon on Freya’s breath, the scent of sweat, and the peculiar, intimate odor of what they’d just done. “That was real. You were… breathtaking. You lost yourself in it.”
“I lost something,” Taylor corrected, a hollow ache blooming in her chest. She finally turned. The dim light from the main room caught the sheen on Freya’s flushed skin, the wild darkness of her eyes. “What did we just do, Frey?”
“We tasted something new.” Freya’s gaze was unapologetic, fervent. Her thumb stroked Taylor’s lower lip, a gesture that felt obscenely tender after everything. “And you were a natural. Christ, Taylor.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial, heated whisper. "Taylor you looked so hot deep throating Aidan's monster cock.”
Taylor recoiled as if slapped. The crude praise, the vulgar specificity of it, ignited a fresh wave of shame. She tried to pull away, but the wall was behind her.
Freya pressed closer, ignoring the flinch. Her hands came to rest on Taylor’s hips, her lips nearly touching Taylor’s ear. “I think you’d look even sexier letting it stretch out your tight little pussy.”
The words weren’t just a suggestion. They were a detailed, devastating fantasy, delivered in the tone Freya used to describe a painting she loved. They painted a picture, one that Taylor’s traitorous mind immediately projected. Her body, pinned beneath Aidan’s. The impossible, stretching fullness. A sharp, unwelcome lance of pure, physical want shot through her, merging with the guilt and disgust into one unbearable static.
“Stop it,” Taylor choked out.
“Why?” Freya breathed, her mouth hovering so close. “You’re thinking about it right now. I can feel you thinking about it.” One of her hands slid from Taylor’s hip, fingertips skating along the waistband of her shorts. “Your head is always so loud. But your body isn’t lying.”
Taylor’s breath hitched. Her mind was a screaming chorus of wrong, wrong, wrong, but her skin was alight under Freya’s touch. The sickening, thrilling accomplishment of swallowing him was still a live wire in her veins. Freya’s words were just fanning the embers.
“Catriona is right there,” Taylor managed, a weak, practical protest.
“Catriona won,” Freya murmured, her teeth grazing Taylor’s earlobe. “She got exactly what she wanted. She proved a point. Now it’s our turn.” Her hand slipped lower, palm pressing flat against Taylor’s lower stomach. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like? Not just… service. But to be taken by it?”
From the living room, they heard a low laugh—Catriona’s—followed by the heavy thump of a log being placed on the fire. Life was continuing. The world hadn’t ended. It had just twisted into this new, dark shape.
Taylor closed her eyes. The image was there, waiting. Aidan over her. The strain, the burn, the absolute surrender. Freya watching. Always watching. Her two deepest intimacies colliding.
“He’s Catriona’s,” Taylor whispered, a last feeble fence.
“He’s a person, not a possession,” Freya said, pulling back just enough to search Taylor’s face. Her expression was earnest, impossibly so. “And he’s right there. And he’ll say yes. He’s hard again already, I’d bet anything. They’re probably talking about us right now.”
The logic was absurd, amoral, and electrifying. Taylor felt the last of her resistance corrode. It was already done. They had already shattered every rule. What was one more? What was the actual, physical conclusion to the path they’d already sprinted down?
She opened her eyes. She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak.
Freya saw the surrender. A slow, devastating smile spread across her face. She took Taylor’s hand. Her grip was sure, final. She led her back down the hallway, not towards the bedroom for privacy, but straight back toward the living room, toward the firelight, toward the point of no return.
Aidan was sitting on the floor now, his back to the sofa, a fresh towel around his waist. Catriona was perched on the arm of the sofa above him, one hand idly playing with his hair. They fell silent as Freya and Taylor re-entered, a loaded, expectant quiet.
Freya didn’t hesitate. She walked Taylor across the rug until they stood before Aidan. She let go of Taylor’s hand.
“Aidan,” Freya said, her voice clear and bright as a bell in the hushed room. “We have a request.”
Aidan looked up, his face a complex map of spent pleasure and fresh anxiety. Catriona’s fingers stilled in his hair.
“Do you now?” Catriona asked, her tone lightly amused, but her eyes were sharp.
Freya knelt down, putting herself at eye level with Aidan. She rested her hands on his towel-covered knees. The firelight carved the confidence in her smile. Taylor remained standing, a silent statute behind her, the taste of him still a phantom on her tongue.
“We do,” Freya said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “It’s a scientific inquiry, really.” She glanced back at Taylor, including her. “A follow-up to our… practical exam.”
Aidan swallowed. “What kind of inquiry?”
Freya leaned in closer. Her playful tone didn’t mask the serious, hungry intent in her eyes. “Well, we managed the initial fieldwork. The oral presentation, let’s call it.” She smiled as Aidan flushed. “But now we’re curious about the main event.”
Taylor felt the words coming before Freya said them. Her stomach tightened.
Freya’s gaze never wavered from Aidan’s. Her voice was clear, casual, and utterly devastating. “We want to see if a cock as long and thick as yours can even fit in our tight little virgin pussies.” A playful, challenging smirk. “And if we can take every single girthy inch like good girls.”
The fire popped. Aidan stared at Freya, his mouth slightly agape, as if her words had physically stunned him. Catriona’s fingers tightened momentarily in his hair, then relaxed. A slow, dazzling smile spread across her face, erasing the cool assessment from before.
“Oh, hell yes,” Catriona said, her voice rich with genuine excitement. She slid off the arm of the sofa and knelt beside Freya, her eyes luminous. “That’s the next logical experiment. A proper clinical trial.” She looked past them, her gaze landing on Taylor, who stood frozen. “But we need a controlled environment. Proper preparation.”
Taylor felt her skin prickle under that focused look. Catriona rose to her feet with a predatory grace. She walked toward Taylor, stopping so close Taylor could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes, smell the bourbon and smoke on her.
“Taylor,” Catriona said, her tone surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. “Can I be the one to do it?”
Taylor’s tongue felt thick and useless. “Do what?”
“Strip you,” Catriona whispered, her hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from Taylor’s forehead. The touch was shockingly intimate. “I want to see you. All of you. Before he does. I want to be the one to lay you bare.” Her eyes dropped to Taylor’s shirt, then back up, holding her captive. “Let me open you up. Let me be the one to spread your legs and get you ready for him. For Aidan’s monster cock.”
The vulgarity, paired with Catriona’s soft, intent delivery, short-circuited Taylor’s mind. It was a confession, a claiming, and a offering all at once. Catriona wasn’t just permitting this; she was demanding a starring role in the degradation of her own boyfriend and another woman. She was an architect, and she wanted to lay the final cornerstone herself.
Taylor’s breath shuddered out. She couldn’t look at Freya. Couldn’t check for permission or solidarity. This was between her and Catriona now, in this painful, narrow space. She gave the faintest nod, a movement so small it was almost inhalation.
Catriona’s smile bloomed, warm and terrifying. “Good girl.”
Her hands, which were so capable and sure in a courtroom, came to the hem of Taylor’s simple cotton tank top. They were steady. There was no fumbling hesitation. She lifted the fabric, and Taylor, moving like an automaton, raised her arms. The cool air of the cabin kissed her stomach, her ribs. The top was gone, tossed aside to the rug.
Catriona didn’t rush. She appraised Taylor’s plain black bra, her gaze clinical and appreciative. Her fingertips traced the line of Taylor’s collarbone, then moved to the clasp at the back. The snick of it releasing was obscenely loud. Catriona eased the straps down Taylor’s arms, letting the garment fall away.
Taylor stood, half-naked, shivering though she wasn’t cold. She kept her eyes on the far wall, on a knot in the pine wood. Catriona made a soft, humming sound of approval. “So perfect,” she murmured, almost to herself. Her hands settled on Taylor’s hips, thumbs rubbing circles on the sharp bones.
Then they moved to the button of Taylor’s shorts. The denim was old, soft. The zipper rasped down. Catriona hooked her fingers into the waistband of both shorts and underwear and pushed them down in one smooth motion. Taylor stepped out of the puddle of fabric, now completely exposed.
The firelight danced over her skin. She’d never felt so visible, so utterly without context. She wasn’t a professor here. She was just anatomy. Potential.
“Look at her,” Catriona said, her voice pitched to carry to the others, but her eyes never leaving Taylor’s body. “Aidan. Look at what we’re giving you.”
From the floor, Aidan made a choked sound. Taylor dared a glance. He was staring, his face pale, his knuckles white where they gripped his towel. His gaze was a physical heat, scanning her, lingering. Freya was watching too, her expression unreadable, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
“Now,” Catriona said, her hands guiding Taylor backward, toward the thick, soft rug before the hearth. “Let’s get you ready.”
Taylor let herself be lowered. The wool was scratchy against her bare back. The ceiling beams swam above her, the fire casting moving shadows that looked like grasping hands. Catriona knelt between her legs, her posture reverent, her face a mask of focused intent.
She gently pushed Taylor’s knees apart. The air was cool on her most intimate skin. Catriona didn’t touch her there, not yet. She just looked, her head tilted, studying Taylor as if she were a fascinating, complex canvas.
“So beautiful,” Catriona breathed. She finally reached out, but her touch was feather-light, tracing from the inside of Taylor’s knee, up her inner thigh. Taylor jumped at the contact, a gasp escaping her. Catriona shushed her gently. “Just getting you acclimated. You need to be soft for him. Open. He’s… a lot.”
Her fingers crept higher, a torturously slow ascent. Taylor squeezed her eyes shut. This was worse than anything with Aidan. This meticulous, worshipful preparation by the woman whose life they were gutting. It was a violation so profound it circled back to feel like a twisted form of grace.
Catriona’s fingertip finally made contact, a soft, exploratory brush. Taylor flinched, her whole body tensing. “Shhh,” Catriona soothed, her other hand coming to rest on Taylor’s trembling stomach. “Relax. Breathe. Think about it. Think about that thick, aching length trying to push inside this tight, unused little space. Think about the stretch. The burn.”
She was narrating the future, her voice a hypnotic tool. As she spoke, her touch became more confident, circling, pressing. Taylor whimpered. Her body was betraying her utterly, responding to the skilled, knowing fingers and the devastating promise in the words. Wetness gathered, a humiliating, undeniable signal of arousal.
“There we go,” Catriona cooed, feeling it. “Good. You’re getting ready for him. You want it. You want to see if you can take it all.”
She worked with a surgeon’s precision, drawing out slickness, loosening tense muscle, all while murmuring a filthy, encouraging commentary. Taylor’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock. A sharp cry lodged in her throat.
“Freya,” Catriona called, her voice steady though her breathing had quickened. “Come hold her hand. She’s doing so well.”
Taylor heard movement, then felt Freya’s familiar presence at her side. Freya’s fingers laced through hers, squeezing tightly. Taylor opened her eyes. Freya was looking down at her, her expression fierce, proud, and scared all at once.
“You’re amazing,” Freya whispered, bending to kiss her forehead.
Catriona withdrew her hand. She looked over her shoulder at Aidan, who hadn’t moved, who was watching the entire procedure with a kind of horrified rapture. “She’s ready,” Catriona announced, her voice ringing with finality. “She’s wet and open and ready for you, Aidan.” She patted Taylor’s inner thigh. “Come claim your hypothesis, professor.”
She stood up, moving back to the sofa, a spot of relative darkness, to watch. The stage was cleared. Aidan was still on the floor, the towel tented obscenely. He looked from Catriona’s expectant face to Freya’s encouraging one, then to Taylor, splayed and glistening on the rug before the fire.
He swallowed, hard. “I can’t,” he rasped, but it was a plea, not a refusal.
“You can,” Catriona said from the shadows, her voice calm and absolute. “You will. She’s waiting.”
Aidan’s resolve, already fractured, shattered. He pushed the towel away. He was fully, intimidatingly hard again, the evidence of their earlier acts still gleaming faintly on him. He crawled the short distance across the rug on his knees, moving like a man in a dream, or a nightmare.
He loomed over Taylor, blocking out the firelight. He was huge, all shoulders and tension. His eyes were dark pools of conflict and hunger. He looked at the place Catriona had prepared, then back to Taylor’s face.
“Taylor,” he breathed, her name a question, an apology, a prayer.
Taylor looked up at him, at the man who was not her lover, who belonged to the woman watching from the couch. She felt Freya’s grip crushing her fingers. She felt the cool air on her wetness, the terrible, empty ache of anticipation. She thought of Catriona’s words: the stretch, the burn.
She lifted her hips, just a fraction, in silent, definitive answer.
Aidan’s control snapped. He positioned himself, the broad, heated head of him nudging against her. It felt impossibly wide, a blunt, staggering pressure. Taylor cried out, a short, sharp sound of pure alarm.
“Easy,” Freya murmured, her free hand stroking Taylor’s hair. “Just breathe into it. Let it happen.”
Aidan pushed, a slow, inexorable invasion. The initial resistance was profound, a burning, tearing sensation that made Taylor see white behind her eyelids. She gulped air, her body seizing up, trying to reject the massive intrusion.
“Relax, Taylor,” Catriona’s voice floated, cool and instructive. “You have to relax or you’ll hurt yourself.”
Taylor tried. She forced a breath out, willed her muscles to unclench. Aidan groaned, a sound of pained ecstasy, and sank another impossible inch inside. The fullness was dizzying, overwhelming. It felt less like sex and more like being split open, remade.
He stopped, buried perhaps halfway, both of them trembling violently. Tears leaked from the corners of Taylor’s eyes. Freya was whispering nonsense, praise and filth, her own breath hot and fast.
“All of it,” Catriona said, her voice a low command from the dark. “You promised her every inch, Aidan. Don’t make a liar out of her.”
Aidan’s face was a mask of agony and need. He looked down at where they were joined, then met Taylor’s tear-filled gaze. He mouthed I’m sorry, and then he thrust forward, a final, brutal surrender.
Taylor screamed. The sound was raw, torn from the core of her. The pain crested in a sharp, white-hot spike as he fully sheathed himself inside her, as his hips met hers, as she was impaled completely. The stretch was an absolute, conquering fact. She could feel him, every throbbing inch, a presence so total it felt like he was in her lungs, in her throat.
She went utterly still, just trying to survive the sensation. To contain it. Aidan was frozen above her, panting, his eyes wide with the shock of her tight, searing heat.
For a second, there was only the sound of the fire and their ragged, synchronized breathing. The world had narrowed to this single point of excruciating, transformative connection.
Then, from the sofa, Catriona let out a long, shuddering sigh of pure satisfaction. “There,” she said. Her voice was thick, guttural. “Now you know.”