Chapter 2: Walk of Shame
The sharp burn of her climax had barely faded before Ken’s grip on her wrists tightened, and he wrenched her away from the wall. Her legs, shaky and weak, buckled immediately. He didn’t catch her. He let her drop to the rough industrial carpet before his hands fisted in her damp red hair, dragging her upright onto her knees. The swollen, purple head of his cock hovered at her lips, glistening with her own slick. “Open,” he commanded, his voice devoid of the earlier taunting amusement, flat and cold.
She shook her head, a feeble jerk, tears of oversensitivity and dawning horror welling in her eyes. He simply used his grip on her hair to force her mouth open, shoving himself past her teeth before she could muster another protest. The thick intrusion filled her mouth, the salty-bitter taste of herself and him overwhelming her senses as he pressed relentlessly deeper. Her throat convulsed, a violent gag reflex seizing her as the broad head bumped against the back of her palate. He didn’t pause. He held her head still and began to fuck her mouth with short, brutal thrusts, the length of him sliding over her tongue, the stretch of her jaws a screaming agony.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the drool that slicked his shaft. Her choked gags were muffled, wet sounds that only seemed to drive him harder. He found a ruthless rhythm, pulling out just enough to let her gasp a strangled breath of air before plunging back in, his hips pistoning, the base of his cock hitting her lips with each drive. The pressure in her stomach coiled, a nauseating revolt. She retched, a full-body heave, and hot, sour vomit erupted from her, splattering over his thrusting length and her own chest.
He yanked himself out just as the second wave hit, letting the pale mess splash down her tank top. He laughed, a low, dark sound of pure contempt. “Messy bitch,” he grunted, and without hesitation, he shoved his slick, filthy cock back between her smeared lips, fucking her throat through her sobs, the acid-burn taste of vomit now a grotesque lubricant. She could only kneel there, violated and broken, as he used her face, her rhythm reduced to the slap of his balls against her chin and the guttural sounds of his building pleasure. With a final, deep grind that buried his entire length, he groaned, and the first thick, hot pulse of cum hit the back of her throat. He pulled out slightly, painting stripes of white across her cheeks, her eyelids, and into her matted hair before shoving her away with his foot. She crumpled to the floor, gasping and streaked with filth. The door swung open, and a sharp kick to her hip sent her stumbling out into the bright, impersonal hallway. She collided hard with a lanky boy frozen in place, his arms full of moving boxes, his eyes wide with shock as they traveled from her vomit-crusted shirt to the cum gleaming in her fiery hair.
The boy—Matthew—stumbled back, a cardboard box tumbling from his grip. Lina didn’t speak; a ragged, wet sound escaped her as she shoved past him, fumbling with her key. She burst into her room, the door slamming shut behind her, locking out the world and his stunned, pitying face.
In the shower, scalding water beat against her skin until it turned bright pink. She scrubbed with a coarse washcloth, scraping at the memory of his hands, his taste, the vile feel of him painting her face. Her throat was raw from gagging, her jaw ached, and a deeper, trembling humiliation had rooted itself in her bones.
She dried off with rough, frantic motions, not bothering with underwear before pulling on a loose t-shirt and soft grey sweatpants. The fabric felt alien against her sensitive skin, a poor barrier. A soft, hesitant knock at the door made her freeze, the towel clenched in her fists.
She opened it a crack, just enough to see the lanky freshman from the hall shifting his weight. “Hi,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’m Matthew. I just moved into 7D. Across the hall.” He glanced down at his shoes, then back up, his expression painfully earnest. “I, uh… I just wanted to say I didn’t see anything earlier. Seriously. Nothing at all.”
A hot, prickling blush flooded Lina’s neck and cheeks. “Thanks,” she managed, the word sticking in her raw throat. She closed the door quickly, mumbling, “I have to study,” before the silence could stretch any further.
The next afternoon, the sterile quiet of the library’s third-floor stacks felt like a sanctuary. She was deep in a thermodynamics text when a movement caught her eye. Matthew sat two tables over, highlighting a dense-looking philosophy book, and when he glanced up, he offered a small, tentative smile. She surprised herself by returning it before looking back down at her notes, her pulse a faint, irregular flutter.
Later, needing air, she escaped to a stone bench outside. The autumn sun was weak but pleasant on her skin. “Mind if I join you?” His voice was closer than she expected, and she looked up to see Matthew holding two paper cups of coffee. He handed one to her. “You look like you could use this. Library coffee is brutal, but it’s fuel.”
She accepted the cup, the warmth seeping into her hands. “It’s a specific kind of awful,” she agreed, taking a cautious sip. They sat for a moment, watching students criss-cross the quad. “So, 7D,” she finally said. “You’re brave. That hallway is… loud.”
“I’m starting to get that,” he said, his tone light but his eyes curiously kind. “First week. Still figuring out where anything is.” He nodded toward the philosophy text he’d set beside him. “And trying to figure out if any of this makes sense.”
“Join the club,” she said, and for the first time in days, her smile felt slightly less like a crack in something brittle.
Over the next few days, their library encounters became a quiet ritual. They’d share that bleak coffee, and Matthew would ask about her physics problems with genuine interest. She found herself looking for his worn jacket on the back of a chair, and the simple predictability of his company became a salve.
After a week of this, as they packed their bags under the library’s dimming lights, he blurted it out. “There’s a bar on Elm that doesn’t card too hard. Want to get a real drink tomorrow?” She agreed, the word “yes” feeling lighter than she expected.
The bar was all dark wood and low chatter, a world away from the dorm’s sterile glare. They took a corner booth, and over a surprisingly decent pint, the conversation flowed easier than it had on any bench. He told her about growing up in a coastal town where everything smelled of salt and diesel fuel, and she actually laughed.
A comfortable silence fell as the waitress took their empty glasses. Matthew traced a water ring on the table, his expression turning cautiously serious. “That first night I saw you,” he began, not looking up. “Was that… is there something with Ken Thornhill?”
The air in the booth turned thick. Lina’s fingers tightened around her glass, the memory a physical shock—the taste of vomit, the sting of her scalp, the warm shame painting her face. She took a sharp, deliberate sip of water, the cold a barrier. “That was a one-time thing,” she said, her voice unnaturally flat and final, a door slammed shut in the quiet room. “A stupid mistake. It’s done.”
“It’s done.”
He watched her, his expression unreadable for a moment, then simply nodded. “Okay.” The subject dissolved. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Instead, they started talking about lighter things—music, bad high school teachers. The past lovers crept into the conversation softly. He mentioned a girl from his hometown who’d moved away for a sports scholarship, leaving him with a collection of sad playlists. She described her ex, Jacob, whose “genius” had become a cage she’d desperately needed to escape, his intellectual arrogance a slow poison. With every shared confession of heartbreak and mismatched expectations, Lina felt a genuine warmth spreading in her chest. She found herself liking him more and more for the quiet way he listened, for the lack of judgment in his eyes.
They walked back to the dorm under a clear, star-speckled sky, their shoulders nearly touching. At her door, he didn't even try to kiss her. He simply pulled her into a brief, tight hug, the scent of his worn jacket and the bar's faint smoke lingering in the fabric, and then he murmured, "Goodnight, Lina," before turning toward his own room across the hall. The simple, unpressured decency of it felt like a gift, something sweet and genuine she hadn't realized she needed. She closed her door and leaned against it, a slow, complicated smile touching her lips.
She changed for bed in the dark, the soft cotton of her nightshirt whispering against her skin. But as she lay there, the stillness of the room became a canvas, and the memory of Matthew’s hug was suddenly overlaid by a phantom, visceral heat. A restless ache began to pulse low in her belly, undeniable and hungry. With a frustrated sigh, she reached into her nightstand drawer, her fingers finding the familiar silicone shape of her vibrator.
She turned it on, a low, insistent hum breaking the silence. She pressed it against herself through the thin cotton of her underwear, a sharp gasp escaping her as the vibrations shot through her. She shoved the fabric aside, bringing the buzzing head directly against her clit. Her back arched off the mattress. Eyes screwed shut, she chased the building pressure, but the face her mind conjured wasn't Matthew's kind smile. It was Ken's cruel, arrogant smirk, the memory of his hands fisting in her hair, the overwhelming, brutal stretch of his cock splitting her open. She pictured him above her, inside her, using her with that same detached intensity. The humiliation of it, the raw power of his violation, twisted inside her, becoming the spark that ignited the fuse. "Fuck," she whimpered into her pillow, her hips grinding against the toy. The thought of his huge cock pounding into her, claiming her, made her climax detonate—a sharp, shocking wave that clenched her entire body and tore a small, choked cry from her throat.
Lying there afterward, the toy buzzing impotently on her stomach, she felt a different kind of shame, cold and heavy, seep into her bones. It was Tuesday. She closed herself into her computer chair, trying to sink back into the complex comfort of chemical bonds and vector calculus. During her library break, Matthew surprised her by materializing beside her carrel, his finger gently catching a loose strand of her hair. “This color in the sun is incredible,” he said, his voice soft as he tucked it behind her ear. His kindness felt like a mirror, reflecting a girl she desperately wanted to be, one untainted by her own violent fantasies. Leaning over to put it there and hold that version of herself down, the pressure much worse than to his guts and mumbled “I just need this,” before crowding him back against the philosophy stacks, crashing her mouth against his in a sudden, desperate act of will. “Oh,” he exhaled into the kiss, a sound of pure, sweet surprise before his lips moved gently against hers, his hands finding a tentative, respectful place on her hips. She broke the kiss and walked briskly back to her seat, her heart a frantic thing she refused to listen to. The fluorescent drone of the library consumed the rest of the day. As evening hollowed out her dorm room, the ghost of Matthew’s shy lips dissolved, replaced by the indelible memory of Ken’s weight pinning her to the wall, the exact dimensions of his possession. She switched off her desk lamp. A final, gritty spark of defiance, or perhaps surrender, propelled her across the silent hallway. Standing barefoot before his door, she knocked, the sound impossibly loud in the hush.
The door opened, revealing Ken silhouetted against the dim light of his room. Before he could form a word, a sarcastic greeting or a mocking question, she shoved past him, the door swinging shut behind her. “Don’t talk,” she said, her voice a strained command in the close darkness. “Just fuck me. I need it right now.”
Her hands went to his chest, pushing him backward until his knees hit the edge of his mattress and he fell onto it with a soft thump. She was on him in an instant, her fingers tearing at the drawstring of his sweats, yanking them down his hips. She took his soft, heavy cock into her hand, then into her mouth, swallowing him down with a desperate, practiced aggression he hadn’t seen from her before.
She worked him ruthlessly, her head bobbing, using her tongue and the tight suction of her throat until he thickened and hardened, pulsing against her palate. When he was fully erect, a rigid, veined weight stretching her lips, she pulled off with a wet pop. Without a word, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her own panties, shoving them down her thighs and letting them fall to the floor.
She turned, bending over the foot of the bed, presenting herself to him. “Now,” she gritted out, the word both invitation and surrender.
He didn’t need telling twice. He moved behind her, his hands gripping the pale flesh of her hips, and drove into her with one deep, brutal thrust that stole her breath. He set a punishing pace immediately, each slam of his hips jolting her forward, the wet, meaty sound of their connection filling the room. One hand tangled viciously in her red hair, yanking her head back, while the other came down in a sharp, stinging crack on her ass.
“You came begging back,” he growled, his voice rough with exertion. He switched his grip, his fingers wrapping around her throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make her vision speckle. He fucked her harder, angling deeper, using the chokehold to hold her still for his thrusts. His other hand slapped her face, a sharp, sideways blow that made her ear ring, before returning to claw at the cheek of her ass, spreading her wider for him.