The fluorescent lights buzzed with a eerie electrical sound in the class. They cast a stark, white hospital glow over the exhausted seniors, a group of AP English students whose collective energy had been consumed hours ago.
Boredom, exhaustion, and that specific, heavy nostalgia of a dark, late-day class during the final stretch of winter.
Ms. Clair, their English teacher, took a deep sigh before putting her book down on her desk. The thud on the table woke up Bruce, a ginger athlete dozing off. He looked around confused, blinking and taking a few seconds to register his surroundings.
When he realized he was still in school, he audiably groaned and put his head back down into a nap in an exaggarated manner. This elicited a few giggles from his friends in the back.
This is why Bonnie hated teaching last period. As a recently graduated 23 year-old, she was still navigating the challenge of commanding respect from her students. Because of her age, the kids barely respected her as is, and they sure did not care about literature when they were in their seventh dream of the day.
But Bonnie Clair was young and motivated, her heart still firmly devoted to literature. She brought her hands together in two crisp claps that cut through the weary silence.
She noted the class, already nodding off at various angles or fighting back deep sleep, and decided that a lazy, yawn-filled 'pop-corn reading' of the remaining minutes would be entirely unproductive.
A determined smile touched her lips. "Let's talk about it," Bonnie said, her voice gentle but firm. "Let's talk about this poem."
Her green eyes held a soft gleam in their depths even as she raised her voice. She might have been a bit soft to them, but she didn't want to be a pushover.
The poem they were discussing was a romantic piece, a poem about consuming devotion. Ms. Clair pointed to the final lines projected onto the whiteboard:
"Every detail of me is restless.
My tranquility is due to my madness.
Vow of silence, I dare not speak.
'Love is to vanish.' someone says,
But my beloved, I already don't exist.
Drunk and feverish,
All my particles dissolved into you.
If love is to vanish,
My love,
I already don't exist."
"What is the author trying to convey here?" Ms. Clair asked, her tone motivating.
"There are no wrong answers. Let's get that participation grade up, shall we? This is an easy five points."
She couldn't help but add, "-and God knows you guys need those," under her breath, before giggling, proud of her jab.
She spun on her heel, swaying her long skirt. Her clothes were a bit worn out and old-fashioned in earthy tones, as expected from an English major. She locked her hands behind her back, waiting for the first student to bite. If she could just get one student to talk, she knew she could handle the rest.
Sally, a blonde girl whose head was leaning slightly on her hand, reluctantly raised her fingers. She suggested the poem was about feeling invisible in a relationship.
"Like to be loved is to be seen kinda thing, I think..."
Ms. Clair knew that wasn't the core of the poem, but she smiled at Sally's answer, genuinely pleased with the engagement.
"Can you elaborate on why you think that is?" She asked for clarity.
Sally thought for a moment to gather thoughts. When she finally spoke, it was in a more confident tone.
"Maybe the author didn't feel seen by their partner much? Hence the disappearing metaphor."
Another student quickly agreed, adding that it sounded like a metaphor for an abusive or deeply unhealthy relationship. Their takes were wrong but interesting. Ms. Clair thought of correcting them after she got a few more students to voice their opinions. She called on several more people, eager to hear their takes.
"I think, uhh, the author might be drunk." Bruce added in a serious manner, seemingly awake from his nap now.
"No, that's a metaphor dumbass." his friend corrected him, frustrated.
Ms. Clair quickly stepped in
"Language!!"
"But- Right, yes! Mark is correct. Thank you, Bruce, for the participation, but the poem is referring to an emotional state, a passion so intense it feels like intoxication—not a literal night out on the town." She gave an awkard laugh, trying not to demotivate Bruce over wrong answers.
Then, Bonnie's eyes caught the only person in room hadn't slumped into sleep since the beginning of class, James. Tall, pale, and usually quiet, the boy sat perfectly straight behind his desk, occasionally pausing to elegantly note her words in a small notebook.
And James had raised his hand, an unusual sight. When Bonnie called upon him, his voice was monotone but carried absolute assurance.
"They are mistaken," he stated flatly. "It is not a metaphor for an abusive relationship. 'Love is to vanish' is a suitable metaphor for love in general."
The class exchanged strange, tired glances. They weren't happy with the class nerd's interruption, ready to tell the class how they're wrong all the time.
Ms. Clair's eyes, however, widened, a flicker of surprised excitement in them. "Expand on that, James," she urged. "Tell us why."
James looked at his teacher with a straight gaze, his black eyes clear and sharp. They reflected a mix of fierce confidence and innocence only an adolescent could possess. Despite knowing nothing in practical about the world, those who felt ten times more deeply than adults, had those eyes. Bonnie always thought his eyes sucked people in without meaning to.
James spoke in a steady voice when he supported his claim. "The human default is to be selfish, to place the self above all else."
He kept the eye contact with Ms. Clair only, seizing if she was understanding what he was saying truly, but Bonnie just smiled and nodded in encouragement, thinking he was nervous to speak.
James quickly averted his gaze to the corner of the room before continuing "-and love is described as consuming, like a flame, because it forces us to willfully obliterate that priority. Our will and identity must feel threatened by the beloved. If you are not afraid of losing your selfhood, you haven't truly vanished. You haven't fully loved."
Ms. Clair's eyes shone with awe and proud recognition—a teacher who had found the one student who truly understood and listened to the material. "Bingo," she exclaimed in excitement.
She spun the topic back to the class material and continued off where James clarified.
"As your friend said, the author is describing a feeling of loss here. A loss of selfhood. It's quite melancholic actually!"
Bonnie tried to look at each student's eyes for at least one second, when she spoke,
"Have you guys ever felt the pressure to change yourselves for a crush? Stop eating, change your hair, get better grades, or get worse grades! Pick up new hobbies, listen to their music?"
"The human brain craves the validation from people we love, it's natural. But one should notice how that effectively changes who we are as a person! Even when we don't mean to, we merge and shape ourselves in the image of our favorite people."
"…Okay, so tomorrow's assignment will be the next chapter in the anthology." Bonnie smiled, the pride in her eyes unwavering, satisfied with her class conclusion.
The bell rang, and the room emptied with the speed of uncorked pressure. Most students rushed out without a glance back, chatting amongst themselves, suddenly lifted with energy when it was time to go home.
Bonnie didn't move. The light reflecting off the whiteboard caught her eye, reminding her of the vanishing act described in the poem. The words on the board felt heavy now, personal. She slowly gathered her papers, the realization settling in that she enjoyed the intensity of that single conversation enough for the rush to stay with her for the rest of the day.
Some kids just made the job worth it, she thought. When she glanced at the empty desk in the corner, she realized James had already left.
"Oh bummer, I was going to offer him to join debate club."
Bonnie murmured to herself in disappointment as she strutted in the empty coridor. Her low heels made soft echoed thuds in the empty halls.
Bonnie held onto the books on her chest as she opened the teacher's office door.
The faculty lounge was a place usually characterized by the smell of lukewarm coffee and the sound of stressed sighs, but tonight it was silent and dark.
The overhead fluorescents lights were off, replaced by the soft, ethereal glow of the winter moon, streaming through the large window overlooking the garden.
The moonlight cut across the room, illuminating rows of identical, cramped cubicle desks.
Bonnie flinched in shock when she saw an unfamiliar figure standing by her cubicle.
"Excuse me, sir?"
As she took a step closer into the dimness, the vague silhouette began to resolve into familiar edges. It was the silhouette of a slouched man against the blue light, leaning casually against the edge of Bonnie's small desk. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him, and his tall, slender frame was entirely bathed in the silver-blue moonlight.
The light sharpened the lines of his pale face and the dark frames of his glasses, combined with his messy black hair; it gave him an intense, almost sculptural quality.
"Hello, Ms. Clair," he said, his voice flat and low, carrying a strange intimacy in the empty room. "I waited."
Bonnie took a deep sigh of relief, putting the books down to her desk before taking a dramatic breath.
"James, you scared the daylights out of me!!"
Bonnie slipped the bag off her shoulder and took brisk steps to gather her things, all the while murmuring complaints under her breath about how he had startled her. She was visibly relieved now, knowing there was no intruder in the office.
"What is it, James? Why didn't you just ask whatever you needed in class? The office isn't really the best place for student questions after hours."
James's eyes unconsciously followed her movements, his ink black gaze trailing her with precision, watching how her lips formed into a small pout when she spoke quickly, how the tote bag slid down her slender wrist.
He didn't move from his post by the desk. "I came to ask about the assignment, but... I've changed my mind," he replied, his voice shy and quiet now that it was just the two of them together.
He kept observing the delicate way her pale fingers slid across the papers as she anxiously shuffled through documents, the gentle sway of her hips that made her long skirt ripple as she crouched down near her seat, and the distracting jingle of her childish accessories—a sound he had come to adore.
He didn't realize a small smirk had already settled in the corner of his mouth until Bonnie caught his gaze. They made eye contact. Bonnie registered his smile and she immediately returned his look with a bright, easy smile back. Not a single trace of suspicion in her eyes.
Bonnie stopped shuffling her papers, confusion momentarily overriding her urge to leave. "Oh. Alright then. See you tomorrow."
Just like that, she disregarded him, ready to end her work day. James didn't feel like a child around Ms. Clair despite how blatantly clear she made it that she saw him as one.
It was excruciating and freeing at the same time. He could watch and observe her all day without her noticing, elusively flirt through phrases; but all of it would go unnoticed, simply returned with shallow friendly acknowledgment or beign academic encouragement.
It wasn't enough.
James gave an unenthusiastic dry chuckle. When he dropped his head forward, black curls of hair shadowed his expression.
"Ready to get rid off me, huh?"
James's self-deprecating smile grew, slow and almost cruel, pulling at the corners of his mouth. He pushed off the desk and took a slow, deliberate step toward her.
Bonnie took a half-step back, her casual demeanor dissolving into sudden uncertainty. "James, I don't think I follow. You sound upset?"
He closed the remaining distance between them, invading her space so completely that Bonnie had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his gaze.
He straightened up, towering over her as if to prove something, and then, with a deliberate slowness that felt almost predatory, he leaned down, his face inches from hers.
His breath, warm and shaky, ghosted across Bonnie's lips, and she could almost feel the subtle tremor in his body, a barely contained energy that hummed beneath his calm exterior.
The moonlight reflecting off his dark glasses rendered his eyes entirely invisible, masking his expression and amplifying the unnerving intensity of his uncertain behavior.
Behind his glasses, his eyes searched hers with an intensity that was strangely captivating, a desperate, longing plea hidden beneath the surface; he hoped for an ounce of desire from her. Just a little would be enough, and he would handle the rest.
"I'm sorry, Miss Clair, I didn't mean to be a nuisance." he whispered, his voice a low, husky murmur, the words laced with shameful sincerity that made his own stomach clench.
James stopped speaking. His focus dropped from her eyes to the side of her head. He slowly lifted his hand, his fingers pale and long. His touch was unbearably delicate as he let his fingertip brush against a loose, curly blonde strand of hair near her temple. Then, with excruciating slowness, he began to gently wrap the curl around his index finger.
That small, intimate, inappropriate contact was the breaking point.
A wave of pure panic surged through Bonnie. She reacted instantly, pushing him away from her chest with all her strength. The force was far greater than she intended; James, caught off guard, lost his balance.
He stumbled backward, the movement awkward and sharp, and collided hard with the back wall, sending an entire poorly stacked tower of heavy textbooks crashing down.
James stood there, frozen amidst the scattered chaos of paperbacks and hardcovers, his face in an expression of shock and betrayal. He looked utterly weak and innocent when discarded on the floor like this.
The air in the office crackled, thick with unspoken tension. James' glasses, dislodged by the impact, slid down his nose, resting uneven on the tip.
A moment stretched, taut and agonizing, filled only with the frantic thumping of Bonnie's heart beat.
Shame, hot and immediate, washed over her, dousing the flames of her shock and fight or flight.
Bonnie hadn't meant to hit him, not really. It was an impulsive, uncontrolled reaction, a visceral response to his audacious flirtation.
She turned her back to him, unable to meet his gaze, her shoulders slumping in a gesture of defeat. "I... I'm sorry, James," she stammered, her voice barely a whisper, thick with a mixture of regret and lingering indignation. She stared blindly at the cubicle wall, trying to gather her thoughts together.
"I lost my composure… But you were inappropriate. That was not a joke, and you absolutely cannot do that again. Do you understand?" The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the soft thud of his feet as he got up and took two deliberate steps closer.
Bonnie felt his presence behind, then a sudden warmth against her back, and then his arms, strong and surprisingly gentle, wrapped around her waist.
He pulled her back against his lean, muscular frame. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his breath warm against her ear.
"Shhh, it's okay," he murmured, his voice low and comforting. The rumble of his voice was so close to Bonnie's ear that it sent an unexpected shiver down her spine.
Bonnie was tongue tied. She wasn't sure what was the right thing to say or do in this situation. The longer her silence streched, the more it fuelled James to take action.
His hands, initially resting innocently on her waist, began to move, slowly, deliberately, tracing the curve of her hips. A subtle pressure, a feather-light touch, began to explore the contours of her body, inching upwards.
Bonnie felt his fingers brush against the sensitive skin of her stomach, then higher, until his palms, warm and firm, cupped the soft swell of her breasts. A gasp caught in her throat, a sudden, sharp intake of breath as the realization of his intentions slammed into her.
She broke out of her frozen state with a flinch, a jolt of alarm shooting through her body. She instinctively tried to pull away, to fight against his embrace as her hands pushed against his.
But James's grip tightened, surprisingly strong, holding her firmly against him. 'How could a highschooler have such strength?' She thought in the terror of the moment, still unable to believe any of this was actually happening.
His red lips brushed against her ear, his voice a husky whisper that sent a tremor through her entire being. "Shhh, don't fight it."
A strangled cry tore from Bonnie's throat, muffled against his mouth, as James's lips crashed against hers with a desperate, bruising force. She tried to scream, to shout for help, but the sound was swallowed by his relentless kiss, his tongue forcing its way past her lips, claiming her with a possessive hunger as he held on tighter to her waist, afraid of her escaping. Bonnie managed to break free just enough to turn around and face him straight.
"LET GO-"
Her fists pounded against his chest, a frantic, futile effort to push him away, but he was immovable, a wall of lean muscle and obsessive desire. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her skin through the thin fabric of her blouse, anchoring her against him.
"I don't want to." His voice was deep and monotonous just as it always been when he answered questions in class, only a bit more breathless.
One would think he was stating something obvious and completely reasonable. Only the shakiness of his eyes and the fingers ever so slightly digging into Bonnie's soft flesh revealed the true form of his insanity.
The contrast between the student she once knew and what she saw infront of him now froze Bonnie still in her tracks. She searched his eyes for an answer to this, but James, catching her deer in headlights look, just leaned down and tasted her lips instead.
A low, guttural groan rumbled from deep within his chest, vibrating against Bonnie's lips. His sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure sent a nausea through Bonnie. He wasn't relenting, wasn't backing down, his eyes squeezed shut as if savoring every stolen second, every forced touch.
"God... you taste even better than I imagined." James breathed against her mouth, his voice thick with desire, his words a sickening parody of affection.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead pressed against Bonnie's, his breath hot and ragged against her face, before diving back in, his lips moving against hers with a fervor that bordered on worship.
Bonnie felt it then, a hard, insistent pressure against her stomach, pressing through the layers of fabric—his erection, straining against his school pants, a physical manifestation of his obsession. It was hard and undeniable, and the realization sent a fresh wave of terror through her. He shifted his hips, grinding against her, a slow, deliberate movement that made him shudder, another groan escaping his lips.
Before Bonnie could renew her struggles, his hand, strong and unyielding, captured her wrist. He dragged her hand down, down between their bodies, until her palm was pressed flat against the thick bulge in his pants.
The heat of him, the sheer size of his arousal, burned through the fabric, and she tried to yank her hand away, but his grip was iron. He forced her fingers to curl around him, to squeeze, and the moment she did—involuntarily, desperately trying to push him away—a sharp, shuddering gasp tore from his throat. "Fuck... yes, just like that,"
He groaned, his hips bucking instinctually into her hand, his entire body trembling with a barely contained ecstasy. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, locking with hers, dark and glazed with lust, a desperate, almost pleading look within their depths, as if begging her to understand, to accept the twisted affection he was forcing upon her.
"You're acting insane… you- you're acting like a pervert" Bonnie managed to get the words out, despite still being in shock.
James didn't say anything back. Instead he squeezed her hand tighter around his cock, making her feel every throbbing inch of him, his breath coming in short, ragged pants. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this... How long I've dreamed of you touching me..."
James's hand, still imprisoning hers around his throbbing cock, began to move, forcing her fingers to slide up and down his length through the fabric of his pants. The friction, the heat, the sheer obscenity of it made Bonnie's stomach churn, but he whimpered, a breathless, shuddering sound.
James pressed himself harder against her, his hips rocking in time with the movements he was forcing her hand to make, using her hand to pleasure himself.
A sharp, breathless laugh escaped his lips, his eyes glinting with a perverse amusement as he stared down at his traumatized teacher. He thought he would regret this, being selfish enough to hurt the one he loves, just to be noticed– but looking at her shaking green eyes and her cardigan slipping of her shoulder now, her reaction only seemed to fuel his arousal.
She finally realized the intensity of his feelings, and instead of those feelings burdening him, they burdened her.
James felt entitlement ripple through him with each movement. If she only saw him as a child who could do no wrong, then who could blame him for doing whatever he wants to get her attention? It was her fault for never seeing him for who he truly was, and now, she was just a poor teacher who reaped what she sowed.
He decided to tease Ms. Clair throughly for that.
"Look at you," he panted, his voice thick and husky, a mocking edge cutting through the raw desire. "A pedophile, huh? That's what they'd call you if anyone knew. A teacher... getting off on her student's cock. Except..." He thrust harder into her hand, his breath hitching, a whimper escaping his lips. "Except I'm the one in control here, aren't I? I'm the one who's stronger... The one who's taking what I want. God, you feel so good... even just like this."
His entire body tensed, a sharp, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he shuddered violently. Bonnie felt the hot, wet pulse through the fabric of his pants, the warmth seeping through to her palm as he came, his hips twitching, forcing her hand to milk every last drop of his orgasm.
He slumped against her for a moment, his breath ragged against her neck, before straightening up, his eyes dark and glazed with a sated, yet still hungry lust.
James didn't release her hand immediately, instead holding it there, pressed against the cooling wetness, a sick trophy of his violation. "Fuck... maybe I am just a pervert Miss Clair," he whispered, his voice rough.
Then, with a renewed surge of energy, he grabbed the front of Bonnie's blouse, his fingers curling into the fabric. The buttons popped free with sharp, staccato snaps, scattering across the floor like fallen petals as he ripped it open, exposing the delicate lace of Bonnie's bra.
His pupils, fogged behind his glasses, dialeted, a sharp intake of breath, and he reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her breast through the thin fabric.
Bonnie lashed out, her nail raked across his face, leaving angry red welt on his cheek, a desperate attempt to stop him. He hissed a sharp intake of breath, but the pain only seemed to inflame him further.
A dark, twisted smile spread across his lips, a trickle of blood welling up from one of the scratches and painting his freckles red. "Sure... fight me if you want,"
he spoke sweetly, his voice thick with a twisted pleasure. "I'll accept anything from you, even if its violence."
James shoved Bonnie back, her body hitting the edge of the desk with a jarring thud. Before she could react, his hands were at her waist, yanking at the zipper of her skirt, tugging it down her hips with a rough, impatient urgency.
The fabric pooled around Bonnie's ankles, leaving her exposed and vulnerable in her underwear. He kicked her legs apart, positioning himself between them, and she felt the hot, rigid length of his bare cock—he must have freed himself while Bonnie was reeling—pressing insistently against the thin barrier of her underwear.
A choked sob tore from Bonnie's throat as he began to grind against her, his hips moving in slow, deliberate circles, the friction sending a sickening jolt through her body. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place, his breath hot and ragged against her ear.
"Such a dirty teacher," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper laced with a perverse adoration. "A fucking seductress... preying on your poor, top scoring students. You wore those skirts, those blouses that hugged your curves... You knew what you were doing. You wanted this, didn't you?"
His hips bucked harder, the head of his cock catching on the fabric of her panties, dragging against her sensitive spot and making him whimper, a high, breathy sound.
"I'll be such a good student for you... I'll do anything you want... just let me... ngh... let me fuck you and be mine. Please... please, Miss Clair... I- I only need you."
His movements became frantic, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, his entire body trembling with a barely contained need as he rutted against Bonnie, lost in his own twisted fantasy.
"You- you won't get away with this…" Bonnie's voice came out in a cry, shaken and angry, almost convincing herself.
Her words didn't seem to get through him. James continued his relentless rhythm, grinding his bare cock against her panties with an increasingly desperate, almost frantic pace. But his breathing grew ragged, punctuated by high-pitched whimpers that seemed to contradict the violence of his actions.
His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her pinned against the desk, his entire body trembling with a twisted mixture of lust and theatrical distress. He thrust his hips faster and faster, out of control, until tears welled up in his eyes.
The soft moans escaping James's mouth and the tortured expression on his face made Bonnie feel conflicted with terrifying emotions in her chest. How could a top student of hers, a boy with a promising future… do something like this? Grinding his erection on top of his teacher's panties like a feral animal.
His adolescent and boney facial structure, his reserved behavior that Bonnie had always interpreted as innocent introversion; they all hid an obsessive shadow in his eyes, a seed of twistedness far beyond his age.
James leaned down, his forehead pressing against Bonnie's, his eyes squeezed shut as if in agony, a parody of reluctance playing across his features.
"Ah... P-please, Miss Clair... Please don't make me do this," he whimpered, his voice breaking with a terrifyingly convincing false sob that made Bonnie's blood run cold. His cock twitched against her, betraying the lie in his words.
Then, without warning, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, yanking them roughly to the side. In one brutal, swift motion—he slammed his veiny, overstimulated cock into Bonnie, tearing through her hymen with a sickening squelch.
A scream tore from Bonnie's chest, high-pitched and agonizing, as hot pain exploded through her core. James's entire body went rigid, his head thrown back, a long, shuddering breath escaping his lips as he bottomed out inside her.
"Oh fuck... oh fuck... you squeeze me so tight... nnngh..." He moaned his sentences, his voice thick with pleasure; even as theatrical, manufactured tears began to roll down his cheeks. His pale expression gained a red flush across his cheeks as he fake cried.
He began to move, his hips pulling back and thrusting forward in deep, punishing strokes, each one accompanied by a choked sob, as if he were the one being violated. The veins on his forearms became apparent as he firmly held Bonnie's hips to the desk like his life depended upon it. Closing her escape in between her adorable squirms.
His glasses slipped down his nose then to the ground, his black hair disheveled. He looked down between their bodies, his gaze catching on something that made him freeze mid-thrust.
Blood. Dark, crimson blood, coating his veiny cock, smeared across Ms. Clair's inner thighs, staining the edge of the desk. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating without even noticing.
"Oh my… God... you're a virgin?"
He breathed, his voice suddenly sharp, cutting through the pretense of distress. A slow, predatory haze spread across his eyes, the fake tears drying instantly, replaced by a look of pure, possessive triumph.
His dark, disheveled hair fell across his brow, framing his unnervingly reflective obsidian eyes. The dried tracks of tears, now streaked with the earlier scratch's blood, marred his pale skin. The blue moonlight catching the side of his face sharpened his features when he smiled, he was transformed into a veritable, haunting demon.
His hips began to move again, faster now, harder. The loud, ryhtmic slaps of skin against skin echoed obscenely in the small office.
"A virgin at your age? Fuck, that's pathetic. How sad is that, huh? All those years, and I'm the first one to fuck you... the first one to ruin this tight little cunt."
His thrusts became brutal, enthusiastic, driven by a newfound fervor. James's 'helpless victim' act crumbled entirely, replaced by the raw, dominant aggression of someone who knew they'd claimed something irreplaceable. He leaned down, his lips brushing against Bonnie's ear, his breath hot and ragged, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper as his cock pounded into her with merciless precision.
"You know what the best part is?" he whispered, his hips snapping forward with a particularly vicious thrust that made Bonnie cry out. "No one's going to believe you. Not a single fucking person. A teacher... accusing her student of rape? They'll call you the predator. They'll say you seduced me, that you took advantage of a poor, innocent boy. You'll be the predator, the one who gets locked up and put on a registry. And me? I'll be the victim. The traumatized student who was groomed by his teacher."
His cock twitched inside her, his entire body tensing as his orgasm built, his voice growing more breathless, more frantic. "God, I'm going to come... I'm going to fill you up, and you're going to remember this forever. Remember that I was the first... the only one who truly conquered you. Fuck... FUCK!"
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his body convulsing as he came, hot spurts of his release flooding her violated core. He groaned long and low, his hips jerking erratically, milking every last drop of his orgasm into her.
His fingers bruised her hips as he held her in place, claiming her completely.