Chapter 3: The Library and the Aftermath
The fog on the car windows had begun to thin, revealing the blurred shapes of passing students. Tara lay against him, still connected, her breathing a slow tide against his neck. Her possessive grip had relaxed into a drowsy clasp. The frantic energy was spent, for now.
“You have to go,” she murmured, her voice thick. It wasn’t a question.
“I do.”
She shifted, a wince crossing her face as he slipped out of her. The air in the car was suddenly cold on his wet skin. She fumbled for her clothes, not looking at him. The raw need was banked, replaced by a grim, practical exhaustion. “I’ll text you. Don’t ignore me.”
He didn’t promise anything. He straightened his clothes, the fabric sticking uncomfortably. He opened the car door, and the crisp afternoon air hit him like a slap. The world was jarringly bright, loud, normal. He walked away without looking back, feeling her gaze on him like a physical weight.
He needed quiet. A place to think. The library was a maze of silence, a good place to be unseen.
The third-floor stacks in the old science wing were a relic. The air smelled of dust and decaying paper, of knowledge gone obsolete. The only light came from green-shaded lamps spaced far apart, casting pools of weak illumination on the worn linoleum. He walked between the tall shelves labeled History of Physics – Pre-1900, his footsteps muffled.
He heard it before he saw her: a sharp, hitched breath, the rustle of fabric.
In a dim cul-de-sac formed by volumes on thermodynamics, Tanya Vasquez was waiting.
She wasn’t grading. She wasn’t reading. She was standing perfectly still, her back against a shelf, her big cardigan swallowed by the shadows. Her curly hair was a wild halo around her pale face. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked onto his the moment he turned the corner.
“You came,” she whispered. The shyness was there, but it was cracked, bleeding a frantic energy. “I texted. I didn’t know if you’d…”
“I’m here,” Sherman said, stopping a few feet away. The power in him was a live wire, still warm from Tara. It would take nothing to light it again. He saw her hands trembling at her sides.
“I can’t stop,” she said, the words tumbling out in a hushed rush. “I tried to grade. I stared at the symbols and all I saw was… the way you looked at me over your desk. I smell you on my fingers. I put my head between my legs in the bathroom stall and I could still smell you.” Her confession was guttural, stripped of any academic pretense. “I feel crazy. Am I crazy?”
He took a step closer. He could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat. “No.”
“Then what is this?” A tear escaped, tracking through her freckles. “What did you do to me?”
Instead of answering, he focused. He looked past the tear, past the fear. He saw the full curve of her mouth, remembered the wet, sloppy heat of it. He imagined the body hidden under the layers of wool, the softness of her hips, the desperate grip of her cunt. He stoked the ember in his gut into a targeted flame.
It was instantaneous.
Tanya’s trembling stopped. Her spine straightened. The confusion in her eyes vaporized, replaced by a single-minded, drowning hunger. A low moan escaped her lips.
“Oh, god,” she breathed, and she launched herself at him.
Her hands clutched at his jacket, her mouth finding his in a messy, tooth-clacking kiss. She tasted of coffee and salt. Her tongue pushed past his lips, urgent and unskilled. She ground her hips against his, and he could feel the damp heat of her even through their clothes.
“Need you,” she panted against his mouth. “Right here.Now. Please.”
She sank to her knees on the cold floor, her fingers making quick, frantic work of his belt and zipper. She pulled his cock out, already hard, and didn’t hesitate. She took him deep, her mouth a voracious, wet seal. She gagged, pulled back with a string of saliva, and dove down again, her head bobbing with a desperate rhythm. One of her hands snaked under her skirt, the movement frantic beneath the fabric. The sounds she made—choked gags, wet sucks, her own muffled whimpers—echoed faintly in the silent aisle.
Sherman braced a hand against the metal shelf. The cold rationality was still there, observing: Subject displays significantly reduced latency between stimulus and physical response. Oral fixation is pronounced. But it was being drowned out by the raw sensation, the sight of his TA on her knees in the dust, fucking her own fingers while she tried to swallow him.
She pulled off, gasping. “I want you inside me. I need to feel you. I want to ride you.”
He nodded, his own breath short. She scrambled up, looking around with wild eyes. She dragged him by the hand a few feet to a slightly wider space where a reading chair, upholstery torn, sat abandoned. She pushed him down into it.
The worn fabric smelled of mildew. She hiked her skirt up around her waist, revealing plain white cotton panties, already dark with moisture. She hooked her thumbs in the sides and tore them down, not bothering to take them off, just letting them hang around one ankle. She straddled his lap, her knees on the chair cushion beside his hips.
She guided him to her entrance, her hand shaking. She was dripping wet. She sank down onto him in one slow, breathless slide, her head falling back, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’.
“Fuck,” she hissed, her inner muscles clenching around him in a sudden, violent spasm. “Oh, fuck, it’s so much.”
Then she began to move. It wasn’t the skilled, athletic ride of Tara. This was pure, uncoordinated need. She bounced on him, her curls shaking, her full breasts swaying under her sweater. She gripped his shoulders for leverage, her fingers digging in. The chair creaked a loud, protesting rhythm against the quiet.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, a broken whisper. “Just like that. You’re so deep. You fill me up. I’m your good girl, right? Your good, dirty girl.”
He grabbed her hips, helping her find a deeper, grinding rhythm. He thrust up to meet her. The slap of their bodies together was obscenely loud in the silence.
“Tell me,” he grunted.
“I’m your slut,” she sobbed, her movements becoming more erratic. “I’m your fucking TA and I’m riding your cock in the library. I’d let you fail me. I’d let you do anything.” Her words dissolved into gasps. Her rhythm fractured. She was chasing it, hard, her body coiled tight. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come all over your cock.”
He pinched her nipple through the thick wool, hard. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that seemed to trip the wire. Her body locked, her cunt gripping him in a series of relentless, fluttering contractions. Her climax was silent, a tensed, shuddering paralysis, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth open in a soundless scream.
The pulses milked him, pulled his own orgasm up from his gut. He came with a harsh groan, his hips jerking up, pumping into her as she continued to shudder atop him.
The collapse was gradual. She slumped forward, a dead weight against his chest, her face buried in his neck. He could feel her heartbeat hammering against his own. They sat there, joined, in the dank, dusty silence. The only sound was their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.
Slowly, the change occurred. He felt it in her first: a stiffening. Then a tiny, convulsive shudder that had nothing to do with pleasure. Her awareness seeped back, cold and mortified.
She pushed herself up, off of him. The separation was wet, messy. She stood on shaky legs, pulling her skirt down, fumbling with the torn panties around her ankle. She wouldn’t look at him. She stared at the floor, at the dusty linoleum, her face pale and stricken.
“My thesis advisor is looking for me,” she said, her voice a hollow monotone. It was the voice from lecture, but shattered. “I have… I have a meeting.”
She turned and walked away, unsteady, down the aisle between the shelves. She disappeared around a corner without a backward glance.
Sherman sat in the mildewed chair, tucking himself away. The cold was settling into his bones. He was about to stand when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. A new image loaded.
It was Dr. Evelyn Cross. She was in her office, seated at her clean desk. But nothing was clean now. Her black hair was disheveled. Her tailored blazer was gone, her silk blouse unbuttoned to her navel, pulled open. One hand was shoved inside her sensible trousers, her fingers visibly buried in herself. The other held the phone, capturing her own face.
Her expression was not one of passion. It was agony. Her piercing green eyes were glazed, desperate, red-rimmed. Her mouth was twisted in a grimace of pure, untenable need. It was the face of someone starving.
The text below read: Please. I’m dying. Come fuck me. I’ll be in my office until midnight. I’ll do anything. Anything.
Sherman stared at the photo. He traced the line of her bared throat, the frantic set of her jaw. Tanya had been ashamed. Tara was addictively possessive. But Evelyn Cross… she was in freefall. The professional architecture of her life had collapsed, and she was stranded in the rubble of her own hunger.
He stood up. The chair groaned in relief.
He walked out of the History of Physics stacks, leaving the dust to settle. The message was a new data point, a distress signal from a sinking ship. He wouldn’t ignore it. He needed to see how deep the wreckage went.
He buttoned his coat against the evening chill and headed across the quad, toward Eaton Hall, where a single lamp burned in a third-floor window.
He buttoned his coat against the evening chill and headed across the quad, toward Eaton Hall, where a single lamp burned in a third-floor window. The manicured paths were empty now, just the hiss of sprinklers and the distant groan of a bus shifting gears. His own breathing sounded very loud. He thought of the photo, of her fingers working inside herself at her own desk, and the wire in his blood hummed a high, insistent frequency.
He took the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the concrete well. The third-floor hallway was dark, silent save for the buzz of a vending machine. Light seeped from under her door, a thin yellow line. He didn’t knock.
He turned the handle. It was unlocked.
As soon as he walks through her office door she is on him like a panther snatching its prey. The door hadn’t even clicked shut before her weight slammed into him, a blur of black hair and desperate hands. Her mouth was on his, a hot, starving crush of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of salt and fear.
She drove him backward. His shoulders hit the wall with a thump that rattled the framed degrees. She has him down on the floor and his cock free and her wet cunt wrapped around it so fast his head spins. There was no fumbling, no preamble. Her skirt was already pushed up, her underwear gone. She impaled herself on him in one savage, downward plunge, taking his entire length with a guttural, choking cry.
“Finally,” she snarled, her hands pinning his wrists to the cheap industrial carpet. Her eyes were black pools, all intelligence vaporized by a feral need. She rode him with a furious, grinding tempo, her hips pistoning, her inner muscles clamping and fluttering around him in frantic spasms. “Oh god, oh fuck, right there, you’re right there.”
She came almost instantly. Her body bowed backward, a silent scream twisting her features, her cunt milking him in rhythmic, pulsing waves. She didn’t stop. She used the clenching aftershocks to fuel a deeper, more desperate rhythm, chasing a second peak before the first had even faded. Her breath came in ragged, sobbing gusts.
“Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop, I need it, I need it,” she chanted, her voice breaking. She leaned forward, her sweat dripping onto his glasses, her lips at his ear. “I’ve been touching myself for an hour thinking of you. I came twice just from the thought of your cock splitting me open on this floor. I’m nothing. Do you understand? I’m a hole for you. Use it.”
He bucked up into her, his own control fraying. The analytical part of his mind was gone, obliterated by the visceral reality of her violent surrender. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, and fucked up into her with a matching brutality. The sound was wet, obscene, a slap of skin that filled the tidy office.
Her second orgasm ripped through her with a shriek she muffled against his shoulder, biting down on the fabric of his coat. Her body convulsed, a wild animal caught in a trap of its own making. She rode out the tremors, slowing to a feverish, rocking grind, gasping.
“Again,” she demanded, her voice shredded. “Make me come again. I want to forget my own name.”
He flipped her. It was clumsy, a tangle of limbs on the floor. He drove her onto her hands and knees. He entered her from behind, one hand fisted in her sleek black hair, the other gripping the sharp bone of her hip. He pounded into her, each thrust a punctuation mark in the silence. She pushed back against him, meeting him drive for drive, her ass slapping against his belly.
“Yes! Professor! Fuck! Harder!” The title was a filthy prayer. Her professional façade was atomized, leaving only this raw, begging animal. He felt her tighten, coil, and snap a third time. This climax was a silent, shaking collapse, her arms giving out, her forehead pressing into the carpet as she whimpered through the relentless pulses.
He followed, his own release tearing from him with a groan, flooding into her as she quivered beneath him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing, the hum of the computer. The room smelled of sex, perfume, and carpet dust.
Then she began to cry. Not the hysterical sobs of Tanya, but a quiet, hopeless weeping that shook her slender frame. She rolled away from him, curling onto her side, facing the leg of her desk. Her clothes were ruined, her hair a matted wreck.
She hugged her knees to her chest. “You can’t tell anyone.” The words were muffled, barely audible. “My career. Everything. It would be over.”
Sherman sat up, pulling his clothes together. He looked at her, a broken doll on the floor of her own kingdom. “They’d never believe it.”
“That’s worse,” she whispered. She turned her head, her green eyes red and wrecked. The desperate hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, terrifying clarity. “I would know. I know what I just did. What I said.” She swallowed hard. “What I want to do again. Right now.”
She pushed herself up on trembling arms. She looked at him, her gaze level, utterly defeated. “I have no leverage. No defense. You could ask me for anything. A grade. A thesis. My silence.”
She crawled toward him, not with passion, but with a dreadful solemnity. She rested her head on his knee, a gesture of utter submission. “So I am asking you.Please. Don’t tell anyone.” A shuddering breath. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be your slave if I have to.”
She does.
The words hung in the air, a contract signed in bodily fluids. She meant it. Not as a fantasy, not as dirty talk, but as a bleak, transactional reality. She was trading every scrap of her hard-won authority for the promise of more ruinous bliss.
Sherman looked down at the top of her head, at the part in her hair. He placed his hand there. It was warm. He felt the power settle in him, not as a thrill, but as a cold, heavy certainty. It was no longer just about sex. It was about ownership.
“Get up,” he said, his voice quiet.
She obeyed, moving stiffly. She stood before him, naked from the waist down, her blouse torn, awaiting instruction.
“Clean yourself up,” he said. “We’re not done.”
“We’re not done.”
The words weren’t a promise. They were a clinical instruction. She flinched, a tremor running through her, but her eyes remained fixed on the carpet. She was waiting for the next procedure.
“On the desk. On your back.” His voice held no heat.
Evelyn moved like an automaton. She pushed herself up, her movements stiff, and went to the broad, polished desk. She swept a stack of ungraded finals to the floor with a hollow rustle. She hoisted herself onto the cleared surface, the wood cold against her bare skin. She laid back, her head near her stapler, her knees bent and falling open. The posture was one of shocking vulnerability, an exhibit. The green-shaded desk lamp cast a harsh light across her splayed body, highlighting the sheen of sweat, the redness at her inner thighs.
Sherman approached. He stood at the edge of the desk, looking down. He unzipped his jeans. He was still hard. The sight of her, broken and compliant, was a more potent stimulant than any frenzied attack.
“Put your legs on my shoulders,” he said.
She obeyed, hooking her calves over him, opening herself wider. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of her head. Her breath hitched. He entered her slowly this time, a relentless, inch-by-inch invasion. She was swollen, slick, impossibly tight. A whimper escaped her clenched teeth.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her green eyes, swimming with shame and need, focused on his. He began to move, a deep, measured stroke. This wasn’t about her pleasure. This was about imprinting the lesson. Each thrust was deliberate, a piston driving home his ownership. The desk creaked in a steady, rhythmic complaint.
“Who do you belong to?” he asked, his voice eerily calm.
“You,” she gasped, her head tipping back.
“Say it completely.”
“I belong to you. My body belongs to you.” The words were a ragged chant, syncopated with his thrusts. “My mind. My career. It’s yours. You can have it. Just don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
He changed the angle, driving deeper. She cried out, her hands scrabbling at the empty wood beside her. He could see her trying to fight the gathering climax, to prolong the abject state of being used, but her body betrayed her. It clenched, a series of frantic, internal flutters. She came with a shattered sob, her back arching off the desk, her eyes squeezing shut.
He didn’t stop. He maintained the same brutal, perfect rhythm, fucking her through the convulsions, extending her humiliation. He was close. He pulled out suddenly.
Her eyes flew open, confused, desperate. “No, please…”
“Turn over. On your knees. Head down.”
She scrambled to obey, turning with frantic haste, presenting herself over the desk. He entered her again from behind, one hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back. The other hand smacked her ass, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed. She yelped, then pushed back against him harder.
“Yes! Punish me! I deserve it!” Her voice was guttural, stripped of all pretense.
He fucked her then with a final, driving intensity, his balls slapping against her wet skin. The force drove her chest against the desk, her cheek pressed to the cold veneer. He came with a low groan, emptying himself into her, his vision narrowing to the pale curve of her back, the red mark blooming on her skin.
He stayed there for a moment, buried, before pulling out. He tucked himself away, zipping his jeans. The act was mundane, final.
Evelyn didn’t move. She remained slumped over the desk, her body shaking with silent tears. The room stank of sex and despair. Sherman righted his glasses. He looked at the wreckage of her—the scattered finals, the torn blouse, the woman folded over the symbol of her authority.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it. A text from Tanya: I can’t feel my legs. I think I’m broken. Thank you.
He didn’t reply. He looked back at Evelyn. “Clean up. Go home.”
She slowly pushed herself upright. She didn’t look at him. She tugged her clothes into some semblance of order, her movements slow, pained. She found her underwear in a corner and stepped into them.
“What happens on Monday?” she asked, her voice scraped raw. “In lecture?”
“Nothing happens,” Sherman said. He walked to the door. “You’ll be Dr. Cross. I’ll be a student. You’ll grade my midterm. You’ll give me an A.”
She nodded, a quick, jerky motion. She understood the terms. The compartmentalization was part of the service.
He left, closing the door softly on the aftermath. The hallway was a cool, silent tunnel. He felt… clear. The experiments were yielding consistent, profound results. Tanya offered grateful obsession. Tara provided addictive defiance. Evelyn supplied total, professional surrender. Each was a unique strain of the same virus.
He stepped out into the night. His own dorm was a sterile, quiet place. He needed to think, to document. He took a different path, circling the darkened physics building. As he passed the service entrance, a shadow detached itself from the wall.
“Took you long enough.”
Tara. She leaned against the brick, a cigarette glowing in her hand. She wore a thin leather jacket, shivering slightly. Her eyes were clear, sharp, and locked on him.
“Were you waiting?”
“Obviously.” She took a drag. “I followed you from the library. Saw you go into Eaton. That was, what, an hour and a half? Who was it? The TA or the professor?” Her smile was a slash in the dark. “Both?”
Sherman stopped. “What do you want, Tara?”
“I want to know the rules.” She dropped the cigarette, grinding it under her boot. “This thing. This… whatever you are. I’m not like those other messes. I see you collecting them. They’re weak. They break.” She stepped closer, her scent cutting through the night—smoke and expensive perfume. “I won’t break. I want in. All the way in.”
“In on what?”
“The game.” Her voice dropped. “You’re playing with them. Fine. Let me play too. I can help. I can manage them. Or… I can give you something they can’t.” She reached out, her hand trailing down his chest. “You’ve had the shy one. The strict one. You need a queen. Someone who won’t crumble. Someone who’ll get off on helping you ruin them.”
Her proposition hung in the air, cold and utterly logical. She wasn’t offering submission. She was offering a partnership in predation. The sheer, amoral calculation of it cut through the haze of spent lust. It was a new variable.
“Prove it,” he said.
“My apartment. Now.” She turned and walked, not looking back, knowing he would follow. The challenge was absolute.
Her apartment was in a sleek, off-campus complex, all glass and steel. It was meticulously clean, minimalist. A bottle of vodka sat on the kitchen counter. She poured two glasses, handed him one, and knocked hers back.
“That TA. Tanya.” Tara leaned against the counter, studying him. “She’s a wreck. She’ll crack. Someone will notice. She’ll confess to someone—a friend, a therapist. Then you have a problem.” She took his glass, set it down. “I can fix that. I can befriend her. Corrupt her further. Make her believe it’s her idea. Make her think she’s lucky.”
Sherman watched her. The power in him was quiet, a coiled spring. He hadn’t activated it. This was her, purely her. “And why would you do that?”
“Because I want a front-row seat.” She closed the distance, her body not touching his, but the heat of her was palpable. “And because when you’re done with her, I want you to come tell me every detail while you fuck me over this counter.” Her eyes were alive with a dark, glittering hunger. “I want to be the archive of your sins.”
She kissed him then, and it was nothing like the others. It was possessive, knowledgeable, a claiming. Her teeth caught his lip. Her hands went to his belt with expert efficiency. She freed him, stroked him to full hardness with a firm, knowing grip.
“Tonight,” she whispered, her lips against his ear, “you don’t use your magic trick. You’re just you. And I’m just me. And I’m going to suck your cock until you forget their names.”
She sank to her knees on the polished concrete floor. She took him into her mouth, and it was an act of profound expertise. No gagging, no sloppiness. Her tongue swirled around the head, her lips created a perfect, tight seal, her hand worked his shaft in a synchronized rhythm that made his knees weak. She deep-throated him slowly, swallowing him whole, her eyes looking up at him, triumphant.
She pulled off with a wet pop. “See?” she breathed. “No spell required. Just skill.” She went down again, her pace increasing, her suction becoming ruthless. One of her hands cupped his balls, rolling them gently. The other slipped between her own legs, a faint, rhythmic movement under her jeans.
He couldn’t help it. He tangled his hand in her sharp blonde bob, not to guide her, but to anchor himself. The pleasure was acute, concentrated, a product of technique rather than chaotic need. He felt the pressure build, a tight coil in his gut.
“I’m gonna come,” he grunted.
She doubled her efforts, taking him deeper, humming around him. The vibration was the final trigger. He came hard, his hips jerking forward, spilling into her throat. She swallowed effortlessly, milking him with gentle pulses of her lips until he was soft.
She released him, staying on her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked up, her expression one of cool satisfaction.
“That’s the baseline,” she said. “Now imagine that, but when you do turn it on.” She stood, smiling. “I’m not your victim, Sherman. I’m your upgrade.”
His phone buzzed again on the counter. He picked it up. A new message from an unknown number. A photo of Dr. Evelyn Cross, in her own bed now, the sheets tangled. Her face was pressed into a pillow, but the message was clear: I can’t sleep. The silence is too loud. I need your voice.
Tara looked over his shoulder, saw the photo, and laughed—a low, husky sound. “See? A problem. Let me handle her. You need to sleep.” She took the phone from his hand, placed it face down. “You have a big day tomorrow. Being a god is exhausting work.”
She led him to a bedroom dominated by a large, minimalist bed. She pushed him down onto it. She stripped, her movements economical, and slid in beside him. She didn’t touch him sexually. She just wrapped an arm around his chest, her head on his shoulder, a possessive anchor in the dark.
“Go to sleep,” she murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up. And we’ll make a plan.”
Sherman lay still, staring at the ceiling. The power thrummed in him, a constant, low-grade current. But for the first time, he wasn’t the only conscious thing in the room. He had an ally. Or perhaps a rival. The experiment had just entered its most volatile phase yet. He closed his eyes, the profiles of his three subjects rotating in his mind, now curated by a fourth.