But Kent doesn’t let me flip over right away. Instead, he pulls my ass cheeks open and admires his handiwork. My anal rim is stretched open, gaping, pulsing almost like it’s breathing and filled to the brim with his cream.
“Beautiful,” he moans. “You have a gorgeous gape, sweetheart.”
Then, he leans down and kisses my asshole again, running his tongue around the rim of my stretched anus as I moan at the filthy gesture.
“Oh Daddy,” I sigh. “That feels so good.”
He turns me over, wipes the tears from my face, and kisses me soft and slow.
“I’m only going to make it better for you, sweetheart. This is only the beginning.”
With that, Kent holds me close, tucks me into the curve of his body, and pulls the covers over us. The estate has gone still, the only sound in the room is the twin rhythms of our breathing.
He strokes my hair, voice a rumble against my ear. “You okay?”
I nod, unable to speak.
“You did so good,” he says, pride thick in his words. “My personal little butt slut to use whenever I want.”
I press my face to his chest and breathe him in—cedar, sweat, the raw salt of skin. I think of all the ways he could have ruined me, but all I feel is safe, wanted, worshipped.
I fall asleep like that, curled against him, his hand cupping my ass, his cum leaking out of my tender spot and onto the sheets.
I dream of nothing, and when I wake, I’m still his.
18
SOMETHING FISHY IN THE AIR
MARY KATE
Tuesday on campus always feels like a test of endurance—a parade of faces, a million micro-performances. But this morning, I’m floating. I’m not even sure my boots are touching the salt-dusted concrete. I’ve got Kent’s flannel layered under my own down vest, sleeves rolled back so I can feel the inside wrist where his scent still lingers, and the tote bag slung over my shoulder is extra heavy, crammed with textbooks and a half-eaten croissant. My hair’s still damp from the shower, and every time the wind whips it around my cheek, I get a flash of the night before: his hand buried in my hair, his voice in my ear, the way my body went loose and molten under him.
Kent’s possession is part of the reason why I feel so amazing these days. My body is both mine and not-mine, still sore in strange places, but also singing with a secret. I want to call my lover, or text him some embarrassing heart emoji, but I don’t. He’ll be at the hospital, probably elbow-deep in someone’s urethra, and besides, I want to savor this bubble of afterglow for as long as it lasts.
Meanwhile, the sun’s out and it’s a gorgeous day. I squint at the clean edges of the sky, the way the buildings rise up in slabs of blue and tan, all glass and ambition. The air’s so cold it cracks inside your nose, but the quad is alive—students streaming in rivers between buildings, clusters of smokers braving the last of winter on the library steps, a pack of girls in matching puffer jackets and leggings shrieking at each other over the rattle of iced coffee. Somewhere, there’s the high whine of a drone from the engineering quad, and the cafeteria’s already belching out the scent of fry oil and cinnamon rolls.
It lasts until the moment I cross under the arch by Larson Hall.
That’s when I notice: the world has gone oddly silent. Not everywhere, just in this tight little locus of brick walkway and slanting winter sun. I see it first in the way the girls by the bike rack fall quiet as I pass, one of them ducking her head so fast she nearly brains herself on her own thermos. Two guys by the sculpture bench—one of them from my Italian Civilization seminar—are mid-conversation, but when they spot me, the words just… evaporate. But it’s not in a flattering way. Instead, one of the boys glances at my face, then my chest, then smirks and practically googles his eyes at me. What the fuck?
I slow down. The concrete seems more real now, hard under my boots, each step a little less certain. I scan for something on my shirt, a stain or a bit of breakfast, but there’s nothing. My hair’s a mess, but not worse than usual. My hands are pink from the cold, my nails short and chewed. I check my fly, pat down my hair once more. All good.
But the feeling that I’m being watched doesn’t go away. If anything, it sharpens. The whispering by the library fountain is definitely about me—I catch my own name, said in the way yousay “cancer” or “pregnant” or “caught shoplifting”—and the little shiver that travels down my spine is not from the wind.
At the steps of the humanities building, I spot Emmeline. She’s alone, perched on the lowest stair, scrolling through her phone with a thumb so aggressive I think she might shatter the screen. Her hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she’s got her white earbuds in, but I can tell she sees me. Her spine goes rigid; her whole head tilts half a degree in my direction, but her eyes never leave the phone.
I call her name. Not loud, just enough to pierce the chilly hush.
She pretends not to hear. I call again, waving a little. I’m only ten feet away now, but her face is a mask, a half-smile glued on in a way that says, please, not now, not ever. She stands, tugs her jacket tight at the collar, and pivots toward the door.
I try again, louder. “Emmeline!”
She stops, looks up with a kind of pained resignation, and tugs the left earbud out. “Oh. Hey, MK,” she says, the words brittle as glass. “Sorry, I’m late for class. Can we talk later?”
Her eyes dart past me, scanning the air, the sidewalk, anywhere but my actual face.
I nod, but I can’t make my mouth work. I want to ask what’s wrong, if something happened, if I missed a text, but she’s already turned her back and is pushing through the glass doors. I watch her vanish into the dark corridor, watch the door swing shut, see my own reflection—lost, stunned, ridiculous—staring back at me.
