Chapter 1: The Lab Assignment
The chemistry lab always smelled like regret and cheap cleaning products. Bleach fought with the ghost of burnt rubber, losing. The fluorescent lights buzzed, a high-pitched whine that felt like it was drilling into the back of my skull. I dumped my backpack on one of the warped metal tables, the sound echoing too loud in the mostly empty room.
“God, could this place be any more depressing?” Felicia slid onto the stool next to me, her perfume—something sweet and summery—cutting through the chemical haze. She crossed her legs, the short skirt of her sundress riding up her thigh. A guy at the next table over dropped a pen. She didn’t notice, or she was used to it.
“It’s a state school, Fi. Depressing is part of the curriculum.”
The door swung open and Cynthia walked in. She moved like she owned the hallway outside and was just checking on her new investment. Thick, dark hair fell over her shoulders, and those sharp green eyes scanned the room, landing on us with a smirk that never seemed to fully disappear. She wore tight black jeans and a simple tank top that did nothing to hide her curvy frame.
“Of course,” I muttered under my breath.
“Play nice,” Felicia whispered, elbowing me gently. “We’re stuck with her all semester.”
Cynthia dropped her lab manual on our table with a definitive thump. “The dream team, huh? Try not to blow us up, Michael. I hear you still have nightmares about the Bunsen burner incident from Gen Chem.”
“It was a small fire,” I said, my ears getting hot. “And it was mostly your fault.”
“Mostly.” She shrugged, unbothered, and took the stool opposite Felicia. Her gaze slid over to my girlfriend. “You look cheerful. Someone’s enjoying the view.”
Felicia blushed, a pretty pink spreading up her neck. “It’s just a nice day.”
“It’s Tuesday in a basement lab,” Cynthia said, her voice a dry, amused drawl. “But sure.”
Professor Grisham droned through the safety briefing. I focused on arranging our equipment, lining up the beakers and checking the gas valves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cynthia lean forward, her elbows on the table, listening with an expression of rapt interest I knew was completely fake. Her foot, clad in a heavy boot, bumped mine under the table. I moved my leg away.
“Okay, people. You’re synthesizing aspirin today. Procedure is in your manual. Don’t die, don’t sue the school. Go.”
We got to work. I measured the salicylic acid, my tongue poking out in concentration. Felicia handled the acetic anhydride, her brow furrowed adorably.
“You’re holding that pipette like it’s a live spider,” Cynthia commented, not looking up from where she was calibrating the scale.
“Shut up, Cyn,” Felicia laughed, but her hand wobbled.
“Here.” Cynthia stood and came around the table, leaning over Felicia’s shoulder to guide her hand. Her front pressed against Felicia’s back. “Steady. Like this.”
I glanced over. Felicia’s blush was deeper now. Cynthia’s hand covered hers, long fingers adjusting her grip. The position held for a beat too long before Cynthia returned to her seat. Felicia let out a small, shaky breath.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Just… nerves. Don’t want to mess it up.” She gave me a quick, bright smile that didn’t fully reach her eyes.
We heated the mixture, the sickly-sweet smell of warming chemicals filling our little corner. I stirred, focused on the color change. The table was low, a bank of drawers separating us. Our knees were all in the same cramped space underneath.
Cynthia was narrating the next steps in a low, confident monotone. Felicia was listening, nodding, one hand resting on her own thigh. As Cynthia gestured, explaining the crystallization process, her own hand dropped below the tabletop, out of sight.
I saw Felicia’s breath hitch. Her eyes, fixed on Cynthia’s face, widened just a fraction. Her playful blue gaze went slightly glassy.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked again, pausing my stirring.
“What? Yeah. Fine. It’s just hot in here.” She fanned herself with her free hand. The other one remained in her lap, under the table. Cynthia’s hand was down there too, I realized. Probably brushing by accident. It was cramped.
I went back to the beaker. “It’s always hot in this dump.”
“You’re just jealous you’re not the center of attention,” Cynthia said, her voice smooth. Her eyes flicked to me, then back to Felicia, holding my girlfriend’s look with an intense, unreadable green stare. Her arm shifted slightly, a movement of her shoulder. Under the table, out of sight.
Felicia’s lips parted. She swallowed. Her hand, the one in her lap, twitched. Then, as if moved by its own curiosity, her fingers drifted from her own thigh, across the short gap between our stools.
It happened in a frozen second. Her fingertips, seeking the source of the casual, persistent pressure against her leg, brushed against the denim of Cynthia’s jeans. And then they trailed inward, past the seam, and encountered not the expected softness, but a pronounced, firm, and unmistakable bulk straining against the tight fabric.
Felicia jerked her hand back as if burned. A small, choked sound escaped her throat—not a gasp, but a stifled, surprised exhale. Her face went from pink to stark white, her eyes wide with a shock so total it looked like vertigo.
“What?” I said, alarm cutting through my lab focus. “Did you get a burn? A splash?”
Felicia just stared at Cynthia, who hadn’t moved a visible muscle. Cynthia’s smirk had softened into something else—a knowing, patient stillness. She held Felicia’s terrified, fascinated look, a predator watching its prey realize the fence was unlocked.
“Fi?” I reached for her.
“It’s nothing,” Felicia blurted, her voice too high. She looked at me, then quickly down at the table. “I just… thought I forgot a step. I’m fine.” She picked up her pen with a trembling hand, pretending to consult the manual.
But she wasn’t fine. The air around us had changed. It was charged, thick with a secret I couldn’t decipher. Cynthia casually adjusted her position, recrossing her legs under the table. A slow, deliberate smile spread across her face as she watched Felicia struggle to compose herself, watched her try and fail to process the impossible, startling discovery her own wandering hand had just made.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across her face as she watched Felicia struggle to compose herself, watched her try and fail to process the impossible, startling discovery her own wandering hand had just made.
The silence at our table was a live wire. The clatter of glassware from other groups, Grisham’s bored monotone, it all faded into a dull hum. Felicia’s pen shook over her notebook. She wrote nothing.
“The solution should be cooling for crystallization,” Cynthia said, her voice perfectly normal. Calm. Instructive. “You want to encourage slow crystal growth for purity. Rushing it makes a mess.”
Felicia just nodded, staring at the beaker of hot liquid as if it contained a ghost.
“Here, let me see your setup.” Cynthia pushed back her stool, the legs screeching on the linoleum.
I was focused on my own notes, trying to remember the molar calculation. I heard Cynthia move behind Felicia, but I just assumed she was getting a better angle.
“Your water bath is too shallow, Fi.” Cynthia’s voice was close, right behind my girlfriend’s ear. “You’ll get uneven cooling. Here.”
I glanced up. Cynthia was standing directly behind Felicia’s stool, leaning over her, one hand on the table to brace herself. Her front was pressed against Felicia’s back. It looked like a standard lab correction, a bit too close for my liking, but Cynthia had always had lousy boundaries.
Felicia went rigid. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the table.
Cynthia’s other hand came around, guiding Felicia’s fingers to adjust the hot beaker in its water bath. “Gently. You don’t want to shock it.”
But the real shock wasn’t in the water bath. Cynthia shifted her hips, settling her weight. The tight denim of her jeans, and the formidable, undeniable bulge they contained, pressed firmly into the curve of Felicia’s behind.
Felicia’s breath left her in a soft, shuddering sigh. Her eyes slammed shut. A flush, deep and crimson, bloomed from her chest all the way up her neck to her hairline. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. She was trapped between the table and the solid, insistent pressure against her.
“See?” Cynthia murmured, her lips almost brushing Felicia’s earlobe. Her voice was a low, confidential thrum. “Slow and even. It’s all about control. You have to let the reaction happen at its own pace. Fighting it just makes things… volatile.”
Felicia gave another tiny, helpless nod. Her body was trembling. I saw it in the delicate line of her shoulders.
“You getting this, Michael?” Cynthia asked, turning her head slightly to look at me. Her expression was all academic concern, but her green eyes glinted with a private, vicious amusement.
“Yeah, slow cooling. Got it.” I went back to my calculations, the numbers blurring slightly. A faint, uneasy prickling ran up my spine, but I dismissed it. Cynthia was just being her usual, overbearing self. Fi was just stressed about the grade.
For a long, endless moment, Cynthia held the position. The pressure was constant, a blatant, physical fact that Felicia, stunned and motionless, was being forced to accept. Then, with a final, almost imperceptible grind of her hips, Cynthia pushed back from the table.
“There. Should crystalize nicely now.” She returned to her stool as if nothing had happened.
Felicia exhaled, a ragged sound she tried to mask as a cough. She kept her head down, her platinum hair a curtain hiding her face. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap now, as if praying or holding herself together.
“You look flushed,” I said, finally tuning back in. “You sure you’re not coming down with something?”
“It’s hot,” she repeated, her voice thin. She finally looked at me. Her blue eyes were huge, bright with a chaotic mix of panic and something else—a dazed, feverish curiosity. “And this lab coat is stupid.” She fumbled with the buttons, her fingers clumsy.
“Just a few more minutes,” I said, offering a smile.
Across the table, Cynthia picked up her pen and began neatly recording data. Her smirk was gone, replaced by a look of serene, superior satisfaction. She had planted a seed in the dark, fertile soil of Felicia’s curiosity, and she had felt it take root. The rest of the lab passed in a blur of procedure and notation. Felicia was quiet, abnormally so, speaking only in monosyllables. She wouldn’t look at Cynthia. She barely looked at me.
When the bell rang, she shot up from her stool like it was electrified.
“I have to go. I told Sarah I’d meet her,” she stammered, shoving her notebook into her bag without closing it.
“I’ll walk you,” I said, starting to pack up.
“No! It’s fine. I’m… I’m late.” She leaned in, gave me a peck on the cheek that missed and landed near my ear, then hurried for the door, her long legs carrying her away from the lab, from Cynthia, from the lingering, impossible heat pressed against her.
I watched her go, confused.
“Women,” Cynthia said, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She looked at me, and the full, unfiltered arrogance was back in her grin. “Moody, right? See you next week, partner. Try to keep up.”
She sauntered out, leaving me alone with the cooling beakers and the buzzing lights and a slow-dawning, formless dread I couldn’t begin to name.
The clatter of glassware in the sink was too loud in the empty lab. I rinsed our beakers, the water steaming my hands. She’s just stressed about her midterm in Poly Sci, I told myself. That’s all. But the image of her wide, glassy eyes, the tremor in her hands, it stuck. It felt like I’d missed a step in an equation, and the whole solution was about to turn the wrong color.
I dumped the paper towels, wiped down the metal table. The ghost of Felicia’s perfume was gone, swallowed by bleach.
Felicia’s heels clicked a frantic staccato on the linoleum of the main hall. She just needed air, space, to get the buzzing out of her head and the… the memory of that firm, impossible pressure out of her body. She pushed through the heavy doors into the dim, concrete stairwell at the east end of the science building. It was always empty, a shortcut to the library.
“Running away from the reaction, Felicia? That’s not like you.”
The voice, smooth and familiar, came from above. Felicia froze, one hand on the cold railing. Cynthia leaned against the wall on the mid-landing, a shadow detaching itself from the gloom. How did she get here so fast?
“I’m not running. I’m late.” Felicia’s voice sounded small, swallowed by the cavernous stairwell.
“Sure.” Cynthia took a step down, then another, until she was on the same step, blocking the way down. The emergency exit light above them cast a hellish red glow, cutting her face into sharp planes of light and shadow. “You felt it. Didn’t you?”
Felicia’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t lie. Her body had already betrayed the truth with its tremor, its flush. She took a step back, up toward the landing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” Cynthia advanced, a slow, predatory climb. “Your hand. Your adorable, curious little hand. It went exploring. And it found a secret.”
“Stop it.” The words were a whisper.
Cynthia stopped, a foot above her now, looking down. The power dynamic was physical, absolute. “Or what? You’ll tell Michael? What will you say? ‘My hand brushed your frenemy’s crotch in chem lab and I felt a big, hard cock?’ He’ll think you’re crazy. Or drunk. He’ll pity you.” She chuckled, a low, warm sound. “You don’t want his pity, do you? You like his admiration. His wanting.”
“You’re sick,” Felicia breathed, but her eyes were locked on Cynthia’s.
“Am I?” Cynthia’s smile was all teeth in the red light. “You’re the one who’s shaking. Not from fear. From excitement. From wanting to know.” She took the final step, closing the distance. They were on the small, grimy landing now, the door to the third-floor hall to their left, a solid wall to their right. Trapped.
“Let me go.” There was no force behind it.
“In a minute.” Cynthia’s gaze was hypnotic. “You discovered the monster under the bed, Felicia. Don’t you want to see its face?”
Her hands went to the button of her jeans. The snick of the metal was obscenely loud. The zipper purred down.
Felicia should have run. Should have screamed. But her feet were concrete. Her lungs were sealed. A terrifying, magnetized curiosity held her frozen. She watched, heart hammering against her ribs, as Cynthia peeled the tight denim down just past her hips.
There, springing free from the confines of black cotton briefs, thick and heavy and shockingly real, it was.
Felicia’s mind short-circuited. Words like impossible and freak and dream blurred into static. It was a cock. A full, erect, veined, and utterly daunting cock, larger than any she’d ever seen or imagined. It curved slightly upward, the head flushed and prominent. It was absurd. It was terrifying. It was, in the raw, red light, brutally, undeniably fascinating.
“See?” Cynthia’s voice was a throaty whisper. She made no move to touch herself, just let it stand there, a fact. A challenge. “Not a monster. Just… more. Everything you’ve ever wondered about, everything those tame boys can’t give you. It’s all right here.”
Felicia’s gaze was glued to it. Her own body was a traitor, a slow, unwinding heat coiling deep in her belly, a dampness between her thighs that shamed her. This was wrong. This was perverse. This was Cynthia.
“You can touch it,” Cynthia murmured, taking half a step closer. The thick shaft bobbed, now just inches from Felicia’s clenched hands. The musk of her, sweat and something darker, hit Felicia’s nostrils. “You know you want to. Your hand wanted to earlier. Let it finish what it started.”
A whimper escaped Felicia’s throat. Her mind screamed for her to shove Cynthia away, to flee. But her body… her body was leaning in. Her breath was coming in shallow, ragged pants. The part of her that was bored by nice, predictable things, the part that secretly craved stories she could never tell, that part was in total, humiliating control.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Felicia’s right hand unclenched. Her fingers, trembling, rose.
Across campus, I tossed the last of the trash into the bin, the lid clanging shut in the silent lab. I checked my phone. No text from Fi. Just the empty buzz of fluorescence. I shouldered my backpack, turned off the lights, and headed out into the bland hallway, completely unaware that in a stained concrete stairwell, my girlfriend’s trembling fingertips were finally, breathlessly, making contact with the heated, silken skin of Cynthia’s cock.
The contact was electric.
Her fingertips brushed the hot, smooth skin and a jolt shot straight up her arm, spiking her heart rate. It was so hard. Unyielding. Yet the skin itself was like heated satin. Felicia’s breath hitched, trapped in her throat.
Cynthia stood on the step above her, so the cock was almost at eye level. Felicia had had a few boyfriends before me, but she had never seen a cock this large. It was mesmerizing, as she explored it with her hand. Her initial, feather-light touch grew bolder, her palm curling tentatively around the shaft. Her fingers couldn’t fully close around the girth. A faint, salty musk filled the small space between them, primal and overwhelming.
“It’s real,” Felicia whispered, more to herself than to Cynthia.
“Very.” Cynthia’s voice was a low thrum of amusement. She didn’t move, just let Felicia explore, a statue of arrogant patience. “Go on. Get acquainted.”
Felicia’s hand slid down, tracing the prominent vein along the underside. She felt its weight, a heavy, living heat in her palm. Her thumb swept over the flared head, smearing a bead of moisture that had gathered there. A choked sound escaped her—part shock, part awe. This was wrong. This was insane. But a terrifying, thrilling hunger was uncoiling inside her, drowning out the whispers of guilt.
“Michael…” she breathed, the name a weak token of protest.
“Isn’t here,” Cynthia stated, her green eyes gleaming in the red exit light. “This is just you. And what you really want. No one has to know.”
Her free hand came up and cupped Felicia’s jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a contrast to the brutal intimacy of Felicia’s other hand. Cynthia guided her face closer.
“See how it reacts to you?” Cynthia murmured.
It was true. In her hand, it gave a subtle, pulsing jump. Felicia watched, hypnotized, as a fresh pearl of wetness welled from the tip. Her own body was screaming, a throbbing ache building between her legs that made her shift her weight, pressing her thighs together. The friction of her own jeans was maddening.
“You’re so pretty when you’re curious,” Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “All wide eyes and flushed skin. Do you want to taste it?”
Felicia’s blue eyes flew up, meeting Cynthia’s. Horror. Hunger. The war was brief. The hunger won.
Slowly, her lips parted.
Cynthia’s smirk returned, triumphant. She guided herself forward, the broad head nudging against Felicia’s full, glossed lips. The taste was alien, salty, profoundly intimate. Felicia’s tongue darted out, a reflexive taste, and the flavor exploded on her senses. Cynthia let out a soft, approving sigh.
The sound vibrated through Felicia, shattering the last fragile barrier of pretense. She opened wider, taking the head into her mouth. It filled her, stretching her lips in a way that was entirely new. She could feel the iron-hard reality of it against her tongue. Her eyes drifted shut, not in disgust, but in surrender to the sensation.
Above her, Cynthia watched, one hand now tangled gently in Felicia’s platinum hair, not pushing, just holding. “Good,” she coaxed, her voice thick. “So good. Just like that.”
Felicia moaned around her, the vibration drawing a sharper gasp from Cynthia. The sound, that proof of power, ignited something feral in Felicia. Her hand began to move on the shaft in time with the shallow bobs of her head, her inexperience replaced by a desperate, instinctive rhythm.
Down in the bland, fluorescent-lit hallway, I paused at the water fountain. The water was lukewarm. I took a long drink, sighed, and checked my phone again. Nothing. I shrugged, hoisted my backpack higher, and headed for the east doors, deciding to cut through the library to kill some time before my next class. My path would take me right past the door to the third-floor stairwell.
In the red-lit gloom, Felicia was lost. The world had shrunk to heat, and taste, and the sounds of wet, ragged breathing—hers and Cynthia’s. The hand in her hair tightened, just a fraction, guiding her to take a little more. She gagged softly, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. The challenge, the sheer taboo of it, fueled her. She wanted to conquer it. She wanted to please it.
Cynthia’s breathing was becoming uneven, her cool composure cracking. “Look at me,” she commanded, her voice ragged.
Felicia’s tear-filled blue eyes rolled open and up.
“Watch what you do,” Cynthia hissed, holding her gaze. The connection was devastating—Felicia, on her knees metaphorically and nearly literally, submitting, while Cynthia loomed above, fully in control, unraveling because of her.
Felicia increased her pace, her hand twisting, her mouth working. She was acting on pure, desperate instinct now, a slave to the novelty and the shocking power she had over this formidable, terrifying woman.
I pushed open the heavy door to the east stairwell, the hinges giving a faint, familiar groan. I took two steps down, my shoes scuffing on the concrete.
The sound was a bucket of ice water.
Felicia froze, her mouth still full, her eyes widening in pure, undiluted panic. She tried to pull back, but Cynthia’s hand fisted in her hair, holding her in place for one more, deliberate, pulsating second before withdrawing her cock to tuck back into her pants and quickly carrying/dragging Felicia through the doors at the top of the stairs and into the women's bathroom only a handful of feet beside them.