Chapter 76: The Sincere Apology
The philosophy section on the third floor of the university library was a tomb of forgotten arguments. Becca loved it here. The dense, quiet air smelled of dust and binding glue, and no one ever bothered her between the stacks of Kant and Nietzsche. It was the perfect place to hide, to process the seismic shift that had occurred in her bedroom, to try and reconcile the memory of Chloe’s mouth, Zoe’s tremors, and Maya’s clever fingers with the vanilla fantasy that still, stubbornly, played on a loop in her head.
She was tracing the spine of a worn copy of Beyond Good and Evil, her finger collecting a fine layer of dust, when a shadow fell across the text.
“Hey.”
The voice was familiar. It sent an instant, cold trickle down Becca’s spine, followed immediately by a hot flush of shame. She turned.
Elise stood there, leaning against the bookshelf. She wore a thin, low-cut tank top with no bra, her long, deflated D-cups swaying gently with the motion. Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun, green eyes looking at Becca with an unnerving directness.
“Hi,” Becca managed, her voice a squeak. She instinctively hunched her shoulders, making herself smaller.
“Look,” Elise began, pushing off the shelf and taking a step closer. The space between the stacks was narrow. Becca could smell her: a mix of laundry detergent and faint, sweet sweat. “About what happened. At the bar. I’ve been feeling like shit.”
Becca just stared, her mind blank. The training hadn’t covered this.
“I get… blunt. My mouth works faster than my brain,” Elise continued, her gaze dropping for a second before locking back on. “I laughed. It was an asshole thing to do. It’s just… you’re so pretty, and you were so nervous, and then I saw it and it was just… not what I was expecting. I’m into shemales, you know? I watch Claire Dearing’s stuff all the time. She’s amazing. But she’s, like, packing. So I had this… expectation.”
Each word was a little hammer blow. Becca’s face burned. She wanted to melt into the Aristotelian corpus. Yet, beneath the humiliation, a strange, defiant spark flickered. You’re not a joke. You’re just unskilled. Chloe’s voice, in her head.
“It’s fine,” Becca whispered, not meaning it.
“It’s not,” Elise said, and she sounded genuinely frustrated with herself. She ran a hand through her hair. “It was cruel. And the thing is, after you ran off, I kept thinking about it. About you. How earnest you were. How fucking cute you looked when you were trying to be all… suave.” A faint, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. “And I felt like a monster. So. I’m sorry. A real, proper sorry.”
The apology hung in the dusty air. Becca’s heart was a trapped bird in her ribs. She didn’t know what to say. Thank you? Go to hell?
Elise took her silence as an invitation to keep talking, filling the awkward void as she always did. “I like you. I’m attracted to you. I’m also a bit of a size queen, which is my problem, not yours. And I have these,” she gestured vaguely at her chest, which swayed again with the motion, “sad deflated balloons, so I’m hardly in a position to throw stones about… unconventional equipment.”
It was the most bizarre, brutally honest speech Becca had ever heard. The spark inside her grew. Training. This was just a different kind of training. A live scenario.
“You don’t have to say that,” Becca said, her voice gaining a fraction of strength.
“Say what? That I have saggy tits? It’s true. They’re pathetic.” Elise said it with a weird, charged defiance. Her eyes challenged Becca to agree, to confirm it.
And Becca, in a moment of clarity that felt both terrifying and powerful, understood. It wasn’t just bluntness. There was a current running underneath Elise’s words, a need that mirrored her own. A need to have her perceived flaw acknowledged, even criticized, to make it real, to make it a part of the transaction.
“They’re not pathetic,” Becca heard herself say. “They’re just… big. And soft.”
Elise’s green eyes widened slightly. A faint pink tinged her cheeks. “They flop around like dead fish.”
“I like them.” The words were out before Becca could stop them. They were true. The way they moved was hypnotic, profoundly, vulnerably feminine. “I like that you don’t wear a bra.”
The air between them changed. The quiet of the library was no longer empty, but thick, charged. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder. Elise’s blunt apology had carved out a space, and now something else was rushing in to fill it.
“Yeah?” Elise’s voice dropped to a whisper. She took the final step, closing the distance. Their bodies were almost touching in the narrow aisle. Becca could see the fine hairs on her arms, the faint freckles across her nose. “Prove it.”
Becca’s hands were trembling. She willed them to stop. Don’t panic. Just feel. She raised one hand, hesitantly, and let her fingertips brush the side of Elise’s breast, just below the curve of the tank top. The skin was warm, incredibly soft. It yielded under her touch.
A sharp, quiet gasp escaped Elise. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. “See? No structure. Just… mush.”
“It’s not mush,” Becca whispered, her own courage growing. She cupped the weight of it fully in her hand. It was heavy, fluid, alive. “It’s beautiful.” She leaned in, her lips finding Elise’s ear. “They’re perfect for this.”
“For what?” Elise breathed, her head tilting back, exposing her throat.
“For making me this hard.”
Becca guided Elise’s hand down, pressing it against the front of her jeans. The denim was strained, tight over the modest but rigid length of her. It was nothing like Claire Dearing’s, but it was real, and it was aching, and it was for Elise.
Elise’s fingers curled, feeling the shape of her through the fabric. Her blunt, insensitive mask was gone, replaced by a raw, fascinated hunger. “Oh,” she said, a simple, stunned exhalation. Her other hand came up to clumsily unbutton Becca’s jeans. “I want to see it. Now.”
“Here?” Becca’s training warred with a lifetime of caution.
“No one comes here.” Elise’s fingers worked the button, then the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the silence. “It’s a philosophy graveyard.”
The cool library air hit Becca’s exposed skin. She was fully erect, her 7cm cock standing straight up from its thatch of brown hair. She felt a wave of dizzying vulnerability. This was the moment. The laugh. The rejection.
Elise looked down. Her expression was unreadable for a long, heart-stopping second. Then she sank to her knees right there on the thin industrial carpet, between the books on existentialism and moral relativism.
“It’s so little,” she murmured, not with cruelty, but with a kind of awe. Her breath ghosted over Becca’s skin. “It’s like a fucking acorn.”
And then she leaned forward and took the entire length into her mouth without hesitation.
The heat was explosive. Becca’s head thumped back against a shelf, rattling the books. Elise’s mouth was hot, wet, and wildly enthusiastic. She had none of Chloe’s tentative inexperience; she was all greedy suction and swirling tongue, treating Becca’s modest size not as a limitation, but as a novelty to be consumed whole.
“Elise…” Becca choked out, her fingers tangling in the blonde hair of the bun.
Elise pulled off with a wet pop. Her lips were slick. “I was wrong,” she said, her voice husky. “I’m an idiot. This is… it’s so sensitive, isn’t it? I can feel every fucking pulse.” She wrapped her hand around the base, squeezing gently, and looked up. “You’re still a virgin, aren’t you?”
Becca, trembling, nodded.
“Good,” Elise whispered, and the word was a vow. She stood up, her movements fluid, and quickly shimmied out of her own jeans and underwear, letting them pool around her ankles. She guided Becca down to the carpet, the rough fibers scratching against Becca’s bare thighs. The world narrowed to this single, dim aisle, the towering shelves creating a private canyon of knowledge and now this.
“It’s okay,” Elise said, her voice softer than Becca had ever heard it. She positioned herself over Becca, one hand braced on a bookshelf for balance, the other reaching between them. Her fingers, slick with her own arousal, found Becca’s straining cock. “Just relax. Let me.”
Becca’s breath hitched as she felt the hot, incredible pressure of Elise guiding her inside. It was a tight, wet heat so profound it blurred her vision. The sensation was utterly foreign, a completeness she’d only fantasized about in the most vague, theoretical terms. This was reality, overwhelming and messy and real.
She lasted two thrusts.
A choked, guttural sound tore from Becca’s throat as her hips stuttered upward. The climax was a short, violent detonation that left her shuddering, her tiny cock pulsing helplessly inside Elise. She went utterly still, mortification crashing down over the fading waves of pleasure.
Elise burst out laughing.
It wasn’t the cruel, sharp laugh from the bar. This was a rich, startled, genuinely amused sound that echoed softly off the books. She leaned forward, her sagging breasts brushing Becca’s chest, her body shaking with mirth. “Two seconds!” she wheezed, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Oh my god, Becca. A new record.”
“I’m sorry,” Becca mumbled, her face aflame. She tried to pull away, but Elise settled her weight more firmly, keeping her close.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Elise said, her laughter subsiding into warm, breathless giggles. She shifted, lifting herself off, and Becca’s spent cock slipped free. A thin, clear trickle of semen followed, dripping down onto Elise’s thigh. “See? You marked your territory. In the philosophy section. That’s kinda punk rock.”
Before Becca could process the absurdity of that, Elise was sliding down her body. “My turn. And you’re going to help.” She positioned herself over Becca’s face, one hand on the shelf above. The mixed scent of their encounter, salt and musk and her own unique sweetness, filled Becca’s senses. The evidence of her own premature finish glistened there.
The training kicked in. This was just another form of practice, another way to learn a body’s geography. Becca pushed her shame aside and leaned in, her tongue finding Elise’s clit with a focus she’d learned from watching Maya. She listened, adjusting to the hitches in Elise’s breath, the subtle tensing of her thighs.
Elise’s fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Yeah,” she hissed, her bluntness returning as a stream of fragmented praise. “Just like that. Don’t stop. Your mouth is… fuck… it’s really good.”
Becca lost herself in the rhythm, in the taste that was now partly her own, in the powerful feedback of Elise’s mounting pleasure. It felt like an act of reparation, a way to reclaim the moment. Elise’s climax was a silent, shuddering event, a long, tense freeze followed by a slow, trembling release. She sagged against the bookshelf, then carefully lowered herself to the carpet beside Becca.
They lay there for a moment in the silent, post-cataclysm wreckage, their breathing the only sound. Elise turned her head, her green eyes soft. She leaned over and kissed Becca, a deep, slow, tasting kiss. “So,” she said, pulling back just enough to speak. “You’ve got a pretty pathetic dick.”
Becca flinched, but Elise’s thumb stroked her cheek.
“But you,” Elise continued, a genuine, lopsided smile on her face, “are surprisingly good in bed. Or in the library, I guess.” She nodded, as if confirming it to herself. “We should do this again. Maybe somewhere with a bed next time. I have a lot to teach you.”
She got up, began gathering her clothes with a practical efficiency. Becca lay there, staring at the fluorescent lights above the shelves. The words swirled in her head—pathetic, good, again. They didn’t cancel each other out. They coexisted, a confusing, thrilling algebra. The humiliation was real, a sharp stone in her gut. But it was wrapped in a warm, glowing ember of pride. She’d done it. She’d finally done it. And someone, this brilliant, blunt, beautiful girl, wanted to see her again.
Mostly, she realized as she pulled her jeans back on, her body aching and sticky, she was happy.