Chapter 5: Claiming His Prize
Fortunately, the following weekend allowed Marie to forget Malik and the incident with Nadine for a while. She took advantage of those two days to enjoy her children and husband, baking cookies, watching films, and letting the normal, sunlit rhythm of domestic life wash over her like a balm. However, when she returned to the library on Monday, the sight of Nadine shelving books in the biography section brought the memory crashing back. She saw the petite blonde, her neck bent as she slid a volume into place, and relived the entire scene—the rasp of Malik’s voice, the slap of flesh, the glistening proof on Nadine’s cheek. A flush crept up Marie’s own neck, hot and shameful.
She learned Malik had taken two days off, giving her two days to recover and forget the young giant. She buried herself in cataloguing, in patron requests, in the sterile smell of book glue. But on the third day, surprised not to see his imposing frame moving through the stacks during the afternoon lull, a restless energy took hold of her. She approached a colleague at the circulation desk.
“Have you seen Malik?” she asked, her voice artificially light. “I need him to repair a shelf in the 800s. It’s leaning.”
The colleague, an older woman named Beatrice, glanced up from her computer. “Think I saw him heading towards the old philosophy stacks. Back corner, by the Heidegger.”
Marie’s heart thudded once, a heavy, deliberate beat against her ribs. She thanked Beatrice and walked away, her sensible flats making no sound on the linoleum. The philosophy stacks were a maze of metal shelves, dimly lit and rarely visited, a forgotten cathedral of dense thought. As she neared the section, she heard it again—Malik’s guttural voice, a low rumble that vibrated in the dusty air.
“…that’s it, yeah. Just like that.”
It was the same tone he’d used with Nadine. A coil of heat tightened low in Marie’s belly. Driven by a compulsion she neither understood nor wished to control, she crept forward, her breath shallow. She expected to find Nadine again. She rounded a bank of shelves, hidden behind a towering collection of Kant, and peered through the gap.
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t Nadine.
It was Pauline from acquisitions. Pauline, a married woman with two children in the elementary school Marie’s own children attended. Pauline, with her sensible bob and floral blouses, was on her knees. Malik stood before her, his work pants pushed down to his thick thighs. But what struck Marie, what absolutely arrested her, was his penis. It was erect, jutting out from a thatch of dark curls, utterly massive. Even from several meters away, the sheer scale of it seemed impossible—a thick, veined pillar of dark flesh that made Pauline’s grasping hands look childlike.
Pauline held the shaft with both hands, her tongue flicking out tentatively at the swollen head. She looked both terrified and rapt, her eyes wide. Marie imagined that mouth, that ordinary, polite mouth that asked about weekend plans, could never accommodate such a thing.
Malik’s patience was thin. “Quit playing,” he snarled, his voice dropping. “Open up and suck it. All of it.”
Obediently, Pauline opened her mouth. She strained, her jaw stretching as she tried to take the glans inside. Marie watched, mesmerized, as the broad, purple crown disappeared between Pauline’s lips. A soft, wet noise echoed in the quiet. Malik’s crude remarks, the lewd, visual proof of his dominance over another woman in her pristine world, sent a jolt of pure, illicit arousal straight to Marie’s core. She felt her own pussy clench, growing wet almost instantly.
Malik placed a large, dark hand on the back of Pauline’s head, his fingers splaying through her brunette hair. “Deeper, you stupid bitch. Take it.”
He pushed, and Pauline gagged, a choked glrk sound escaping her as he forced more of his cock into her throat. The contrast was obscene and beautiful—the giant, powerful man and the small, kneeling woman, her face contorted in effortful submission. Marie couldn’t resist. Her hand, moving of its own volition, slipped under her tweed skirt. She pressed her palm against the cotton of her panties, already damp, and rubbed slow circles. She bit her lower lip, hard, to keep from making a sound as the pleasure of the friction and the scene before her began to merge.
A few feet away, Malik groaned. “Fuck yeah. You love this big nigger cock, don’t you? Tell me you love it.”
Pauline made a muff sound, a desperate affirmative around the fullness in her mouth.
Marie slid a finger beneath the cotton barrier, finding her clitoris slick and swollen. She matched her rhythm to the bobbing of Pauline’s head, her own breath coming in quick, silent hitches.
Malik’s hips began to piston, fucking Pauline’s face in short, brutal thrusts. “Gonna come, you filthy slut. Gonna paint your face.”
With a wet, sucking pop, he pulled his enormous cock from her mouth. He gripped himself, his fist a rapid, blurring motion. “Open wide. Show me your tongue.”
Pauline, her lips bruised and wet, stuck out her tongue like an eager, chastised child.
“Uhhnn—fuck!” Malik grunted.
The first jet of semen was thick and pearly, arcing through the air to slap against Pauline’s cheek. The next shot hit her chin, then her forehead. He kept stroking, and the flow was impressive, relentless, several powerful bursts following one another, flooding her face, streaking through her eyelashes, dripping into her hair. Pauline kept her mouth open and her eyes closed, taking it all, her expression one of dazed, debased worship.
Seeing it—the sheer quantity, the utter surrender—unlocked something primal in Marie. Her finger worked faster, urgently, the image of Pauline coated in Malik’s release burning behind her eyelids. Pleasure coiled, snapped, and burst through her. She came with a violence that startled her, a silent, convulsive wave that made her knees buckle. A stifled, choked cry escaped her lips—a sharp “Ah!”
She leaned heavily against the shelf, the metal cool against her temple, panting. She didn’t see Malik turn his head. She didn’t see his eyes, glinting with predatory knowledge, find her shadowy form through the gaps in the books. She didn’t see his smile, a swift, white slash of triumph in the dim light.
As she gathered herself, desperate to slip away before she was discovered, she heard Malik’s voice again, low and coarse.
“Stand up. Turn around, and hold onto that shelf.” A pause, the sound of fumbling fabric. “I ain’t finished with you yet.”
Marie fled then, the sounds of Pauline’s ragged whimper and the heavy, unmistakable thud of Malik’s body beginning to move against hers chasing Marie all the way back to the bright, orderly silence of her office. She closed the door and stood with her back against it, her hand still trembling, the scent of her own arousal and the dust of forgotten philosophy clinging to her skin.