Chapter 7 #2
He sets the carrot down and rifles for a paring knife from his lunch kit—serrated, with a handle he probably stole from the campus cafeteria. He peels off the dirt, drops the curls of orange skin into a paper towel, all while never taking his eyes off me.
“You know what’s wrong with men?” he says, slicing the leafy crown off with a crack. “They chop everything down. Make it small, bite-sized. Easy to swallow. Like they can’t handle the real thing.”
He wipes the carrot clean on his sleeve.
“I get a CSA box every week. Ex-wife’s idea.
Still paying for it even years after the divorce, and I still hate every fucking radish that comes with it.
But these—” He breaks the carrot in half, then holds the longer piece up.
“I never cut them. I eat them whole. Like a fucking animal.”
He steps forward, carrot in one hand, the other pushing my knees apart until I’m open to the world. My heart is a hummingbird, my mouth dry.
“Oh my god,” I gasp, eyes wide. “Are you going to—?”
“Shhhh,” he hums. “As soon as the CSA box came, I knew this was for you, my horny fuckslut. So shhh, let Daddy take care of you.”
He strokes the carrot over my inner thigh. Cold. I flinch, but he shushes me, pinning my thigh to the desk with one big hand.
“Trust me,” he rasps, and the way he says it, I do.
He runs the carrot up and down, from my knee to my pussy, slow and deliberate. Then he dips the tapered end in, just grazing my slit, and it’s so cold and so foreign and hard that I gasp.
He grins, baring his teeth. “You like that?”
I want to say no, but my body says otherwise. My hips roll toward him, greedy.
“That’s my little cock hungry whore,” he moans. “I knew you’d love this.”
He slides the carrot in, just a little, then draws it out.
The sensation is wild—hard and smooth and unyielding, but with just enough give to make me feel everything.
He fucks me with it, shallow at first, then deeper, the root scraping the walls of my cunt in a way that makes me blush to the tips of my ears.
“See how it disappears?” he says, feeding it in until only the bulbous end shows. “Even things that grow in dirt can end up somewhere beautiful.”
He twists it, pulls out, then shoves it back in, harder. My body clamps around it, fluttering, the angle hitting a spot his tongue couldn’t reach. I claw at the desk, moaning. I’m sure the echo will bounce around these cinder blocks for days.
“Mmmph!” I cry out. “Mmph, mmph!”
He watches, fascinated, as he fucks me with the carrot. The orange rod glistens with my slick; he pulls it out, admires the shine, then takes a bite from the end, chews it loud enough for me to hear.
“It’s good for your eyesight,” he smirks, then plunges it into my pussy again.
I can’t take it, not the look on his face or the humiliating, perfect fullness in my cunt. I’m losing my mind, babbling nonsense, but I never want him to stop.
“Oh Liam,” I cry out, my pussy already beginning to spasm. “Mmmm!”
He shifts the carrot to the other hand and uses his free fingers to rub my clit, fast and mean.
The friction is too much, too sharp, and when I come, it’s not gentle.
I scream, knees high up in the air, back arched so violently my hair sweeps the desk.
My pussy is spasming so violently that Liam has to fight to keep the carrot inside, and he moans as he eats up the sight, my cunt pulsing so wildly that he literally has to brace the carrot inside me.
“Fuck,” he rasps. “Your pussy spasms are so strong. Goddamn, what a hungry little whore.”
Finally, my climax ebbs a little and I lie back, panting as my breasts heave, completely worn out.
Liam, meanwhile, slips the carrot out of my vag slowly, watching as the orange monster reappears from between my pink lips, slick and glistening.
Then, he strokes the tip along my throbbing, twitching twat before lifting it to his mouth.
He bites off another inch, chews with a smirk.
“A carrot has never tasted so good, nor as nutritious,” he smirks, eyes locked to mine.
I want to hate him, want to be offended, but all I can feel is the warm echo of my orgasm, and the total domination of the handsome, fucked up man.
He tosses the rest of the vegetable back in his lunch bag, wipes his hands, then kisses me, deep and dirty, not caring that I taste like vegetables and utter shock.
When I finally sit up, he’s already gathering his things, like nothing happened.
I pull my shirt down, waddle to where my panties are strung across the radiator, and stuff them in my backpack.
He glances at the clock. “The next class starts in ten minutes. You should run.”
“Asshole,” I mutter, but there’s no bite to it.
He grins, then leans in, mouth close to my ear. “You want to play, sweet girl? I have a cucumber with your name on it at home. We could try that in your asshole. Would you like that? Would your dirty asshole like getting stretched out by a vegetable?”
I flush, every cell in my body raw.
“You’re sick,” I say.
He laughs, then opens the door, his bag already slung over his shoulder. But before he steps out, I speak.
“Liam,” I say.
Something about my tone makes him pause, and he turns back to me.
“Shut the door,” I command. He does and waits. I take a deep breath.
“I, um, really enjoy our study sessions,” I say, pitching my voice playful, like maybe I’m the one holding all the cards. “My roommate’s kind of jealous. I told her you’re the best tutor I’ve ever had.”
The older man stiffens. The muscle in his jaw ticks. “What exactly did you tell her?” he asks, too flat.
I smile, all sugar and plausible deniability. “Just that you were helping me with the Moby Dick paper. Swear to god, that’s all.”
He narrows his eyes, then nods. “Good,” he says, and for a second he almost looks relieved. But then he grabs onto the edge of the doorframe and his knuckles go white. “Let’s keep this professional, Simone. You’re a smart girl. You know how dangerous this is.”
“Of course,” I say, and it lands in my chest like a dart. I want to ask if he always does this—if every girl who can’t write a decent essay gets to be his dirty little secret—but I bite my lip until the need passes.
He adjust his bag, throws it over his shoulder. “We’re just having fun, Simone. This isn’t anything serious, just two consenting adults enjoying one another. By the way, I expect to see a first draft of your essay by next week,” he says, before opening the door. Then, he strides out and is gone.
I stand there, suddenly alone, not sure if I’m about to cry or set the place on fire. I pull out my phone, check it out of habit, then remember I’m not going to get a text from him. Not now, maybe not ever because this isn’t anything real. We’re just “two consenting adults.” Right.
I pick up my bag, and adjust my clothes, trying not to let the humiliation show on my face.
This is what I wanted, right? I asked for it. I took the risk. What did I expect—a wedding ring? A monologue about how I changed his life?
He’s a professor. I’m just another dumb blonde in a school full of dumb blondes.
I’m practically failing my classes, and there’s a 99.
9% chance I’m going to lose my scholarship and get thrown out of school.
Tears brim in my eyes, but I wipe them away with a dash of my hand and make myself stand straight.
Right. I mean nothing to Liam. This is just “fun” for him.
I step into the hallway, and the world resumes its normal volume: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, a couple of band kids giggling down by the trophy case.
I try to shake off the sting, walk like nothing’s happened, but every nerve in my body is still high-voltage, skin humming with aftershocks.
I make it as far as the stairwell when I almost collide with Dylan Tourneau.
The jock is huge, with chestnut hair and mesmerizing green eyes.
He looks a bit like the actor Jacob Elordi, and a lot of girls at Century are in love with him.
He’s got a duffel slung over one shoulder, and the logo of Century College’s swim team stitched onto every article of clothing he owns.
Today it’s a quarter-zip and athletic shorts, and his thighs look like they could break a watermelon.
“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping back. His voice is deeper than expected, a little shy.
I try to sidestep, but he grins and blocks my escape, all affable jock confidence. “You’re Simone, right? From American Lit?”
“Yeah,” I say, wary. My mind is still racing with the carrot and the way Thomas never even said goodbye.
“I saw you in class. You asked about the Hawthorne thing,” he says, and I realize he’s been watching. Maybe not as closely as Professor Thomas, but close enough.
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I say, fidgeting with the strap of my backpack.
He smiles, softening the hard edges of his jaw. “I’m Dylan. Dylan Tourneau.”
“I know,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Everyone knows.”
His cheeks go a little pink, and for a second he looks younger than me, despite being a senior and probably old enough to drink beer with actual adults.
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway—” He stops, runs a hand through his hair, and then holds out a flyer for some campus event.
“I’m supposed to invite people. The whole team is, like, required. ”
I take the flyer, but don’t look at it.
“It’s at the pool,” he adds. “There’ll be food, and stuff.”
I look up. His green eyes are actually pretty nice—gentle, no calculation. He’s nothing like the professor.
“Maybe,” I say. “I’m not really a party person.”
He grins, showing perfect teeth. “It’s not a party. It’s more like…a mixer? You can just watch. You don’t have to swim.”
I fold the flyer, tuck it into my bag. “Thanks, I’ll think about it.”
He shifts on his feet, then blurts, “May I see you?”
The words hang in the air, formal and awkward, like he’s reading from a script. “I mean—would you want to go, with me? On Friday?”
I stare at him. Honestly, the words “may I see you” were just so awkward and weird. Where did he get that from? Wasn’t it the billionaire Bill Ackman who recommended that pick-up line?
Nonetheless, Dylan’s cute, and I know at least five girls in my dorm who would murder me for this chance. But all I can think about is the way Liam told me we were “two consenting adults,” like he was making change at a gas station.
Dylan waits, nervous. I realize he has no idea what happened in the classroom, no idea that I’m ruined, that there’s a mess inside me still leaking onto my thighs.
I force a smile. “Yeah sure,” I say. “I’d like that.”
His face splits into a grin, and I want to be happy for myself, but mostly I just feel hollow.
“Great!” he says. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Um, what dorm?”
I tell him my address. He repeats it, like he doesn’t want to forget, and then backs away, almost tripping over his own feet. “See you, Simone!” he calls, and disappears around the corner, leaving a faint trail of chlorine and Axe body spray.
I stand in the hallway, alone, flyer in hand.
I want to laugh. I want to text Andie and tell her I finally did it, that I’m going on a real date with a real, non-homicidal guy.
But I don’t. I just stand there, breathing in and out, wondering if anyone will ever look at me the way Professor Thomas did, if anyone will ever want me enough to risk everything.
I touch my lips, still swollen from his mouth.
I close my eyes, and for a split second, I can taste him again.
Maybe I’ll never be special.
But for a moment, I was.
And that will have to be enough.