Chapter 6
I CONFESS
SIMONE
I’m still tasting him on my tongue three hours later, curled up in my tiny dorm room and pretending to study.
I gave up on the homework two sentences into the reading assignment, my brain auto-erasing every line in favor of the one detail that matters: I swallowed every drop of Liam’s come.
If I close my eyes, the memory rewinds perfectly—me, kneeling on some ludicrously expensive rug in my professor’s home office, his cock heavy and beautiful and so much bigger than I imagined, my hands shaking as I took him in my mouth and then farther, farther.
The groan from his chest as he looked at me, blue eyes ablaze.
The grip on my hair. The way he cursed, not even trying to hide it, when I deep-throated like a girl who’d practiced in the mirror.
The aftertaste is half salt, half sweetness, and all mine.
I set the spiral-bound diary on my thigh, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm.
My room is blue-lit and fake-cozy, the air sharp with the ghost of microwave popcorn, and through the thin wall I can hear my next-door neighbor blasting some true crime podcast about murdered Midwesterners.
It’s almost midnight, but the hallway outside is full of distant laughter, random feet thudding, some couple making up and breaking up all at once.
I try to focus on the page, pen in hand, but my mind slides everywhere except the words.
My flannel pajama bottoms are soft and loose, a pattern of red and black checks that looks wholesome from the outside, but I keep catching myself rubbing my thighs together under the covers.
The skin there is oversensitive, like my body can’t stop remembering every detail from earlier, the constant, throbbing ache I brought home as a souvenir.
I turn on my tiny lamp. Its yellow glow doesn’t warm the room, but it makes me feel less naked in the dark.
I lick my lips again. There’s nothing there, but Liam’s taste lingers.
I want to say it’s gross, but honestly, it’s not.
It’s yummy, to be frank, and I lick my lips sensuously again.
I think of him - his broad shoulders, the dark flush on his sharp cheekbones, and my nipples go hard under my t-shirt, the fabric doing nothing to hide how turned on I still am.
I write:
“Dear Diary, today I sucked off my professor. There’s not a how-to guide for this, but I feel like I nailed it. In more ways than one.”
I snort, immediately hate the joke, scratch it out, and start over. The pen leaves a tiny black trench on the page.
I write again:
“It’s not like the porn I’ve seen, but maybe better. He tasted like male musk and clean sweat. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to lose control. I made him come so hard he forgot where he was. I swallowed every drop.”
The words look a little silly on the page, but I keep going, because I’m suddenly hungry to relive the whole thing.
“His cock was huge. Like, I get it now, the rumors about porn stars and mouthfuls. I could barely fit him in, but when I gagged he groaned and said ‘good girl.’ I never wanted anything more in my life than to be good for him. Afterwards, he called me baby, and I almost died.”
My hand shakes. I shift on the bed, the fabric of my pajamas damp between my thighs. My clit pulses with every heartbeat. I want to touch myself, but I’m afraid to, like it’ll break the spell, or make it real in a way I can’t handle yet.
Instead, I write:
“I think I’m addicted. I want to see him again, now, tonight, even if it means he’ll use my body and never talk to me again. I want to make him lose control every single time.”
My hand slows. The campus night is very quiet, except for the scraping of my pen and the harsh sound of my own breathing.
I rest the pen, stare at my hands. They’re slim and dainty, the nails a shiny pink. I close my eyes and remember the size of Liam’s hand engulfing mine, the heat of his palm on my bare back. He could have broken me in half.
I want that. The utter ruin.
The urge is physical, so raw it’s almost pain. I run my tongue along my teeth and imagine it’s him, his thumb in my mouth, his fingers curling under my jaw. My body answers his call automatically: nipples hard, pussy clenching, a fresh wetness blooming between my thighs.
I write, messier this time:
“I can still taste him. I love it. I’m disgusting. I love that, too.”
A courtesy knock at the door and then the sound of the key in the lock.
I snap the diary shut, shove it under my pillow, and pull the covers up high. The sudden adrenaline blast flattens my libido, for a second anyway. The door opens a crack.
“Simone? You up?” It’s Andie, my roommate. Her voice is sticky with laughter and whatever she’s been drinking.
“Yeah. Come in,” I say, trying for normal, but my voice cracks on the first syllable.
Andie slides into the room, hair wild and cheeks flushed.
She’s in a huge Century College sweatshirt and a cute denim miniskirt, her feet in white sneakers with hearts on the sides.
She flops onto her own bed, sighs dramatically, and flings an arm over her eyes.
“Fucking Christ, Pam and I just closed down the the Tavern. You should’ve come, babe. I texted like three times.”
I pretend to yawn. “Was dead to the world. Sorry. I have a headache.”
She snorts. “You? You never get headaches. You get existential crises and weird essay assignments, but not headaches.”
I shrug, keeping my face carefully blank. “It happens.”
Andie narrows her eyes, then sits up and stretches, her back arching so her boobs strain the faded college logo. “What did you do all night? You’re glowing like you just spent three hours in a spa, but your hair’s a rat’s nest.”
I run a hand through my ponytail, and feel the tangled knots from earlier, when he fisted it and fucked my mouth until I cried. My cheeks flare. “I studied,” I lie. “And then I napped. Not a whole lot, just a quiet night in.”
She gives me a look, skeptical and soft at the edges. “You know you can talk to me, right? Like, if you’re dying inside or whatever.”
“I’m fine, I swear.”
She collapses back onto her bed, and then rolls so she’s facing me, propped on an elbow. “Did you finish your Melville essay? How was the so-called private tutoring with Professor Thomas? Was it helpful?”
At the mention of his name, a lightning bolt goes through me. I squeeze my thighs together and try to breathe normal. “Yeah. I went over there. He was very helpful.”
I want to laugh at my own understatement, but it catches in my throat.
Andie sighs, rolling her eyes. “You’re so lucky. Half the girls in class would kill for his attention. I mean, I get it. He’s like a sexy Robert Pattinson but not annoying. Did you know his wife left him for the milk man?”
I shake my head, half-listening.
“The milk man? Seriously? Does that even exist?”
Andie shrugs.
“I heard she was some raw foods devotee and that included not just raw vegetables, but also raw milk. So they were getting deliveries of milk daily from some organic farm, and she left Professor Thomas for the milk dude.”
I squinch my eyes.
“I thought raw milk was dangerous though. Like Pasteurization kills bacteria.”
Andie shrugs again and grins.
“I have no idea, but that’s just what I heard. It was the milk dude.”
I shake my head.
“Oh my god that’s so crazy.”
Andie merely grins.
“Yeah. Poor guy.” She sighs again, more theatrical this time, and then sits up suddenly, looking right at me. “Oh my god, did you blow him? Your lips are glossy.”
I freeze.
“No, it’s just my lip balm—”
She cackles. “You totally did! You have that ‘I just got railed’ face. Oh my god, Simone, you slut!”
“I did not,” I say, but my voice is so tiny it might as well be a confession.
Andie launches a pillow at me, giggling. “If you didn’t, you wanted to. And that’s basically the same thing.” She falls back, staring at the ceiling. “I want to be you in my next life. I’d give anything to have that kind of confidence.”
I stare at my hands, then at the tiny shadow of my diary under the pillow. Confidence isn’t what I feel. More like a hunger that never ends, a need so deep it’s almost a wound.
“Hey, Simone?” Andie says, voice small. “You’re not in trouble or anything, right? I mean, you can tell me. If a professor is being weird, I’ll go full DefCon 3 on his ass.”
I laugh, for real this time, and the tension breaks. “No trouble,” I say. “Professor Thomas isn’t like that. He’s just a good teacher.”
She seems hesitant.
“But do you feel like you’re losing control? I mean, he’s so much older and maybe you’re brainwashed?”
I giggle.
“No, I’m not brainwashed. I don’t think he’s that old either. Like thirty-five, not sixty.”
Andie nods, satisfied. “Okay, good. Just don’t fall for him, okay? That never ends well.”
I nod, but my throat is thick with all the things I can’t say.
She yawns, then pulls her blanket up and closes her eyes. “Night, babe,” she murmurs.
I watch her breathing for a while. The campus is finally quiet, the world soft and blurry around the edges.
When I’m sure she’s asleep, I slide the diary out and open it to the fresh page. The pen is warm in my hand.
“I want to have sex with Liam,” I write. “I want him to fuck me until I forget my name. I want him to fill me up and ruin me for anyone else. I want him to own me, even if it destroys us both.”
My hand trembles as I put the pen down.
Outside, the moon is a thumbnail above the quad, thin and sharp and dangerous.
I close my eyes, and the need swallows me whole.
I sleep like shit, which is a miracle because I thought swallowing a quart of come would put me out like a hibernating bear.
Instead, I toss and turn all night, the sheets wound around my legs, my thighs wet and sticky with need that won’t cool down no matter how many times I roll over and try to forget about it.