The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“here” I typed out and sent.

I’d been in this library hundreds of times, and still I appreciated just how fucking ugly it was. Monochromatic, cubic, unimaginative. Just a hulking tessellation of granite and plaster, with taupe walls and taupe librarians. But hey—I respected a hustle, and the architect who designed and erected the thing surely had grandiose artistic statements to justify the multi-million dollar “investment.” Here’s hoping he’s on a beach with a cigar somewhere.

I’m not going to tell you exactly which library or which city or whatever, by the way. You’ll know why later.

This library is on my high school campus, which is, like the library, sprawling and unattractive. It’s a private school, meant to model college life, so they do the whole library/studying thing hard. I live where a lot of rich people live, and this is the school they all want to get their kids into—the widest avenues to top universities and whatnot. I’m here because I tested in, which is, incidentally, also why I’m at the library: because the kids who paid to get in need help from the kids who tested in to pass their classes.

I sound bitter. Maybe I am, I dunno. I don’t feel bitter. I was tutoring Miranda Plover today, and I really didn’t feel any resentment towards her. Her folks were both doctors, so they paid well, and her dad has taken me to a Giants game each of the last two seasons as an extra bonus. It wasn’t weird, either: Miranda and I were friends, despite her allegiance to New York teams. She was bubbly in a non-irritating way, spirited about learning even if it doesn’t come easily for her. Her educational goal is a doctorate in occupational therapy, and I was the first betting on her to reach it.

She was also pretty hot, which didn’t hurt. Didn’t hurt her aspirations in a male-dominant field, and didn’t hurt my enjoyment of her company. Shorter and curvier, with long brown hair and dimples behind a big smile, I knew the shape was one she worked for as much as she lucked into. She liked sweaters in the chilly library A/C; I liked them because they were tight over her tits, which were...ample. That’s a non-gross way of saying it.

It was a black turtleneck today, tucked into maroon pants that gripped her waist and flared with her hips. She waved as she approached; I remembered to pick my eyes up.

“88 on the last test, bitches!” She cursed when she was happy.

“That B average is well and alive coming into finals,” I said without mirth—that B was hardfought. “What tripped you up?”

“There was a multi-part word problem where I got the first part wrong and I was screwed the rest of the way.” She riffled through the papers in her hand. “And then there was a volume of revolution where I tried to do slices but I think I was supposed to do shells.”

“Well, most calculus isn’t going to pop back up in your life again, but choosing the right way to attack a problem will. Especially when we get to the final. You don’t want to be wasting your time on the first strategy you think of when you could have just planned your approach. Brute forcing things can take time.”

“Yeah, next time I’ll go real subtle on the word problem, keep him guessing. He’ll never know just where I’ll strike.”

“I just mean—”

“Head on a swivel, integration!”

I leered at her. She grinned at me. She had a nice smile.

We took a desk on the third level, which was usually quiet after dinner, and dug in on the next topic: multi-variable functions. It was predictably frustrating, slow-going. She unpacked a prepackaged vegetable motley with a branded super water while I raided the vending machine for Cheetos; we took over an abandoned study room so I could draw horribly disproportionate diagrams on a smudged whiteboard. After 90 minutes, we both wanted to die.

“...technically, it’s ellipses all up the z-axis. Just, in this case when the coefficients of x and y are equal, it’s circles.” I was describing elliptic paraboloids to my captive audience, to little avail.

Miranda stretched in her chair, and my eyes traced the outline of her bra over her chest. She wore some heavy-duty stuff, and rightfully so. With a final lurch back in her chair, her boobs bounced once, and I gulped, re-crossing my legs in my seat.

“I think I understand most of it. If there’s more to it, though, I’m not going to be able to get to it tonight.” She tapped her temple with her pen. “I’m stuffed.”

It wasn’t really innuendo, but in my current headspace, it felt like it.

“I feel that.” I checked the clock. “If you want to just keep chugging away at your assignment, I’ll hang around for the final 30 minutes, be around for any questions.”

“You don’t have to do that!” She shot me a winning smile. “You’ve got better things to do with your Friday night.”

“I assure you, I don’t.” I was swinging for a ‘would rather spend time with you’ angle, but didn’t realize the actual implication until the admonition was hanging between us. Miranda, to her credit, waved it off with a laugh.

“If you just asked out Rachel, you would have something to do with your Friday night, you know.” Rachel was another test-in at our esteemed institution—mousy, sweet, motherly. She didn’t have soft, round cheeks for the light to bounce off of; pink lips to receive a careful reapplication of gloss in a compact mirror.

“I would have something else, yes. But again—wouldn’t be better than this.” Got the message across this time, but now it just felt hackneyed. Miranda beamed at me anyway.

“You’re sweet.”

“Nah, it’s mostly cause you’re paying me. This ass ain’t free.”

“And magic’s gone.” She sighed dramatically, reaching into her bag and fishing out her AirPods. “I’m taking you up on your offer though. 28 minutes of homework with my own personal WolframAlpha? Too good to pass up.”

“Fair’s fair.” I gestured to her AirPods. “Since when do you have study jams?” Miranda, like me, always enjoyed studying to the white noise of the library—though at this time of night, there weren’t many studiers to generate that ambiance.

“It’s something my mom worked on for a study, actually.” She turned her phone around to show me the app: FocusTunes. “There’s a developing field called ‘brainwave entrainment’—it’s like training your brain to activate to certain sounds when you want it to do certain things. So this app has these songs you can listen to”—she scrolled through a list of mp3s, faster than I could read the names—“that are supposed to increase your brain’s sensory response, make it easier to capture new information, get memory neurons activated before a test, calm down after a test. That sort of thing.”

I sent her a sideways glance. Dr. Plover was a smart lady—and pretty hot in her own right—but she tended to get too excited about emerging trends in her field of neuroscience. One friendly dinner at the Plover residence ended in an unnecessarily detailed conversation about new pheromone regulatory drugs in post-pubescent males. Miranda had been wearing a pretty low-cut dress that day, too.

“Shut up.” She rolled her eyes, plugging her earbuds in and selecting a track. “I’ve only just started trying them out, but if they help me get through this and the fucking transcendental movement in Scharping’s class, I’ll buy the premium version.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” I shrugged, reaching for my latest sci-fi novel. “If you have a question, just let me know.”

I couldn’t get through a paragraph without glancing back up to Miranda. I knew she brought up Rachel as a deterrent to me asking her out—something I had only once tried and failed to do, after tutoring her for a few months. What better way to discourage a potential suitor than constantly pointing him in other directions? And frankly, I didn’t so much want to date anybody as much as I wanted to fuck somebody—you just had to go through one to get to the other. I don’t mean to be crude, but I was a high school senior with two sexual experiences lasting a total of four minutes, with the intermittent “fuck!...sorry...” and “...are you okay?” comprising the dirty talk and blind groping in the darkness the totality of my memorable visuals. Those were both a while ago, before I was emphatically branded as a low rung on the social ladder. In some way, I suppose my Friday nights were spent with Miranda, or another from a glut of other malleable and eager fabrications of a lonely imagination, the darkness of my own bedroom, and a Kleenex.

I glanced up again. Miranda had her pencil eraser between her lips in concentration, her tongue occasionally darting out from behind it and wetting her glossed lips. That was enough for me.

“Bathroom,” I said as I rose, making my way out of the study room while fumbling for my phone in my pocket—had to give her a reason for the bulge in my pants. They were all gender-neutral single bathrooms for this modern school, so I picked the one furthest down the hall and slid in quickly. I had my phone out before the door closes behind me, but before I can even get to Reddit or Google or the folder buried in my apps titled “Catan Strategies”—listen, it works, okay—I realized I probably didn’t need it. I’m rock hard as it is, and there’s only one girl on my mind.

I tossed my phone onto the sink and ripped my pants down to my knees—fuck, I don’t know how she does it to me. She knows she’s sexy, but if she were just overtly teasing me, I’d be as pissed as I am horny. It’s how casually she throws it around with me now, how comfortable she is with me ogling her when she bends or stretches or walks or fucking anythings. It’s how comfortable she is knowing I’m wrapped around her little finger.

“Fuck, Miranda...” I mutter as I stroke.

She’s such a good fantasy because she’s so effortlessly sexy. Erotic power oozes off of her curves, sinking its tenderhooks into the unfortunate males who watch her bounce her tits across their gazes, only to wag her ass in her wake. But in my fantasy, that easy sexuality is bridled, funneled, captured and stored and oriented and beamed towards me. All that she exudes passively, and everything she can muster actively, she dedicates to me and to my pleasure.

“You want to suck my cock, Miranda?...”

I see her on her knees now, in my mind’s eye, nodding earnestly with her soft tongue extended. She leans her weight forward onto her hands so I can see her ass swaying with the rhythm of her head as she wraps her lips around my cock and sucks me down. Her green eyes never leave mine, locked in on my face, seeing my pleasure and smiling with success as she continues to suck.

“Fucking beg for my cum...”

I’m jacking off hard and tight and fast now, approaching the edge. I don’t want to be in here much longer or she’ll get suspicious, and she’s currently on her knees below me, cupping her naked tits and extending her tongue even further, making puppy dog eyes as some expelled saliva from her blowjob drips down onto her nipples. She nods her head at me again, eyes wide and eager now. “Please cum for me, baby.” She says in my mind. “I want you to cum for me, please.”

As I start to spurt, I hear the door click open.

Your mind goes impossibly fast in moments of crisis—especially so when you’ve just shut off all of its major faculties, save for the ones that operate your right arm and imagine naked women. A dam bursts somewhere outside of that lizard brain, and a torrent of information you desperately need comes rushing through. For example, you might remember: that you didn’t lock the door on your way in, because you were so desperate to beat it, you little shitstain. That people have been caught masturbating before, and so long as it’s not like, a kid or a Mormon, this will be life-ending only in an embarrassing sense, not in a criminal sense. That, contrary to what you believed for the storied duration of your masturbating lifetime, there are indeed things that can just immediately make you stop cumming.

It was fabrication-Miranda that made me start cumming. As I looked to the doorway in terror, it was real-Miranda that made me stop cumming.

We stood there for a second, my ruby-red dick twitching in agony between us, the first thick shot of jism plopped onto the tile floor. The neurochemicals in my body had no fucking clue what to do or where to go. Like hornets out of a nest struck by a toddler, fight and flight and fuck hormones zipped from the tips of my toes to the top of my brain. I stared directly at Miranda’s face, her mouth agape, her eyes unable to wrench themselves away from my very hard, very naked dick.

“Uhh...” I generated a sound. Fucking ‘Uhh,’ but it was a sound, which proved that my body does have some capacity to act, to accomplish basic tasks, to begin to repair this irreparable situation. I suddenly became widely aware of the world, like a secondary dam burst as an aftershock to the first: Miranda is still halfway in the door, which means people in the hallway could fucking see me if they walked by; she has her phone in her hand, which will make it easier to snap a picture of me and blackmail me into lifelong servitude; she has not stopped looking at my dick.

“Uhh...” Okay, that’s all I have right now, apparently.

I don’t know if Miranda reads my mind, but she slinks the rest of the way into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. Good: Fire 28 of 458303 has been extinguished. Progress. Now I just have a way-too-real manifestation of my jerk-off muse in the bathroom with me, and my pants around my ankles.

Okay, that’ll be the next problem. Pants. I grab my waistband and start to cover up. The only chance we have of a baseline conversation about this exists exclusively if I’m fully clothed. Not that we’re going to have a conversation about this anyway—there is no way to talk this out—but it’s at least a nice thought.

“Don’t.”

I freeze in place as she speaks, my pants just below my balls, who are considering halting sperm production altogether and holding a walkout strike after the shit I just pulled. I stare at her in total bewilderment. She finally pulls her eyes up to mine, and they’re wide with desperation, just as they looked a few minutes ago when it was just my creation of her in the bathroom with me.

“Please don’t.” She said again, her voice breathy, her speech rapid.

“...please don’t...what?” I said, which is an unbelievably fucking stupid thing to say, because she’s obviously saying ‘Please don’t masturbate in unlocked public bathrooms, you fucking creep.’ I start pulling my pants up again in recognition of that truth.

She leaps forward, her hand catching my waistband right between my legs. I can feel her fingernails on my balls and my shaft is resting over her wrist. This is the closest a female hand has been to my dick in a long time—just as long as it’s been since I’ve felt hot breath like this on my neck, smelled soft perfume like this tucked under my chin. Miranda’s eyes leap to mine again, and I can see them shaking with earnest.

“I want to suck it,” she says, twisting her wrist to catch my dick in the palm of her hand, squeezing it gently with cool fingers. “Please don’t take it away. Please let me suck your cock.”

“whatthefuck”

“I want to suck your cock,” she repeats, smiling slightly now as her second hand wriggles below the first, finding my balls and giving them a firmer squeeze. Her first hand rubs over the head of my cock, collecting the pre-cum from before to slick her grip and begin stroking me slowly. “I want to suck your cock, Ben.”

Fuck. My name is Ben. Did I mention that yet? Anyway.

I’m tall enough that Miranda has to get on her tiptoes to kiss me, and that’s what she does. Her lips taste like bubblegum and her kiss is sloppy, tongue-heavy—it wants, more than anything, to prove that the mouth behind it is wet and hot and willing. The kiss more than the words convince me that this is real, or at least, that the hallucination is really fucking good. I’ve been kissed by girls before, but none of them wanted to suck my dick, and none of them kissed me like that.

I don’t think I nod or smile or move or fucking breathe, but Miranda knows something has clicked in my brain. She giggles and grins as she lets herself down onto her heels, then melts to her knees, dragging her tits along my chest and thighs as she falls. She never relinquishes her slow stroke on my dick until her mouth gets to cock level, when she flips her grip, grabs me by the base, and slides half of my length into her mouth on the first go.

I moan loudly; it’s drowned out by her moan. Pornographic in its volume and fervor, it still seems somehow genuine, as her eyelids shut and body swells with pride as she bobs up and down slowly. The combined volume of our moans reminds me of that which I’ve forgotten so many times in the last five minutes—that this is a public place—and I reach over and snap the lock on the bathroom door shut. Thank goodness I forgot to do that earlier.

My dick has five bajillion nerve endings in it as a result of recent events, which makes my first blowjob even more magical than first blowjobs usually are. I can feel the modulating pressure of Miranda’s tongue on the underside of my cock as she finds the base of my head and wiggles against it; my shaft thrums at the frequency of her low hum as she moans in bliss every time my dick prods the back of her throat. After one particularly adventurous bob, I make forcible contact on the back of her throat, and she releases me with a loud gluck!

I look down—why hadn’t I been looking down?! Her pink mouth is in a little round “O”, hovering not an inch from my cockhead, still connected with strings of saliva. I don’t know what expression is on my face when I catch her eye—what is stupefied mixed with blazing arousal?—but whatever it is, it makes her giggle again.

“You want to put it down my throat, don’t you?” she asks knowingly, in the singsong, teasing voice she uses when a calc problem stumbles even me up.

I gulp. I nod. Mouth dry. Words how?

“Well, you can do that one of two ways.” She strokes my cock, long and slow, spreading her spit down to the base. “You can ask me to do it, and I’ll do it.” She swirls her tongue around my head once, her eyes smiling. “Or you can grab my hair and make me do it. Without asking.”

For the first time, I become aware of my serious risk for cardiac arrest. My heart is flying in my chest, pummeling my rib cage, pulling blood from every vein and dedicating all of it to the dick artery. Miranda is so calm, so impossibly calm, smiling innocently at me as she continues dancing that tongue around my cockhead. In that moment, she’s exuding her effortless sexuality again—all too easily being far more attractive than any one person has the right to be. I make my decision.

I reach down and tangle my fingers in her hair—it’s silky smooth. Miranda breaks into a full, shit-eating grin now, barely nodding as she starts spreading more spit on my dick.

“Mmhm,” she murmurs encouragingly.

I find the base of her head and tighten my grip, feeling the control I have over her head, her lips now bumping against my slit.

“Mmhm,” she murmurs a little louder now, sounding almost impatient.

I push her mouth onto my cock. Guess I’m impatient too.

It isn’t as easy as it looks in porn. Probably because her throat hasn’t warmed up or something, I don’t fucking know. At first I bump into her throat to another gluck and stop there, and immediately start panicking—I’m doing it wrong, she’ll find out I’m making this up as I fucking go, she’ll get up and leave and never look at me again. But after a moment of...well, of brute forcing the problem, as it were, my cock slides past the invisible barrier and she bottoms out. Her nose dives into my pubes, her eyes clamp shut against my stomach, and my hand continues cradling her head.

The tightness of her throat feels great, but the grip in my hand feels somehow better. I pull her head back until I can’t feel the tightness anymore and then push it back in, enjoying the slowness and depth of the strokes more than anything else. I remember to look down again after a few pulses and see tears streaking down her clenched eyes, and before my vast mental treasury of deepthroating clips reminds me that of course her eyes are gonna fucking water when you’re choking her with a meat cucumber, I pull out in a panic.

“Are you okay?” I ask like I care, when I still have a death grip in her hair and exactly one thought on my mind. She coughs lightly, like a lady, and spits the new saliva into her hand—immediately, it’s on my balls, squeezing and tugging again with a delightful firmness.

“I thought you were going to grab my hair and make me do it; not ask me.” It’s a lighthearted tease in a singsong tone again, but it works to perfection. Immediately I shove my dick back into her mouth and start pumping it down her throat, using my grip on her head to keep it in place as I strike with my hips. All thoughts of minimizing outside noises are gone as I revel in the beat of her esophagus gasping open, my balls slapping against her chin, the occasional cymbal clash of her gag reflex forcing spit out of her mouth and onto the floor.

I’m quickly running out of stamina for the facefuck and for the blowjob altogether, so I release my grip and lean back—Miranda’s on my cockhead immediately, sucking hard and wet with the intent to make me cum. The volcano warms up almost instantaneously, denied its first eruption and desperate for its second opportunity. Just when I think I’m close, her lips pop off.

Before I can protest, her hand is going to town, her small fingers a vice around my cock. With spittle across her cheeks and on her chest, her eyes pleading with me from below my red-hot dick, she’s the exact image of the girl that made me cum before. And then she starts to talk.

“I’m so fucking lucky you let me suck your cock. God, I needed it so bad down my little throat. And now I need your cum—I need it so fucking bad. I’m a good little cocksucker who needs cum, and I’ll always be your good cocksucker, fucking begging for your cum, fucking pleading for cum in my mouth or on my tits or in my hair or on my face—”

I made it that far, which looking back, seems above expectations. I exploded in her hand before I could consider giving either her or myself a directive, so the first jet caught her across the face, thick and full over her forehead and across her nose. By the second jet she had latched herself back on, my cock achieving its ultimate fantasy of being her pencil eraser, nestled between her soft lips as it jerked and leapt, shooting two sessions’ worth of seed into Miranda’s mouth.

The comedown from a high like that? Like a G-force. I staggered backwards, my heart beating like a hummingbird’s, my dick exploding with sensation. The breeze between my legs was nearly enough to make me yelp, I was so sensitive.

I found the toilet and dropped onto it, the porcelain cool against my bare ass. My eyes spun out of focus and then back into it, just in time to watch Miranda—hands on thighs, legs tucked neatly under her bum—finishing swallowing the fruit of her labor. She licked her lips contentedly. Her eyes never left mine as she stood up, stepped forward, and sank right back down onto her knees in front of me. As if my relocation entailed a choreographed response from her.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she said softly before leaning forward and bringing her tongue to my dick. I think she had the intention of licking it clean more than pleasing me again, but it was too much—I quickly jerked and waved her off. She smiled and said, “I thought it might be. You really came a lot.”

Still settled on her knees, still looking up at my cock, and through my cock to me with that quiet devotion, she appeased herself by dragging her finger through the cum on her face and sucking it clean until it was all gone.

I watched. I don’t know what else you do when a sex object dripping with your cum sits between your legs and cleans the cum off with her tongue and a finger, so if you have an equally erotic and debasing response, leave it in the comments below. But I didn’t, so I just fucking watched.

There was a silence once she was done. She seemed happy to stay where she was, and I had no idea what was going to happen if I tried putting my pants back on again, so I stayed stock still. If this was a dream, I wasn’t fucking ending it.

So she spoke first. Somehow, after all of that, her tone was finally a bit embarrassed.

“So...that was kinda a lot.” Her shoulders shuddered with a self-effacing chuckle as she looked down at the ground. “I don’t really know what came over me. I just...” she trailed off.

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure exactly what I was sorry for, but it seemed like the right thing to say in that situation. Just as a blanket, catch-all statement. She disagreed.

“No, no—I’m sorry!” She insisted. “It didn’t really seem like it was rape because you...you know, seemed so into it, but I realize I totally forced myself onto you and didn’t give you a chance to consent to doing—”

“Wait, you’re worriedyou raped me?!” Somehow this was the most astounding thing that had happened this evening.

“No!...I mean, I kinda—I don’t know!” She was still abashed, but a little flustered now. “I was sitting there and I just suddenly decided, you know, ‘I’ve wanted to suck his dick, so I’m just going to do it,” so I got up and I did it.”

“You wanted to su—...to come do that before you came in here and saw me...?” Now, she gave me a fully indignant glare.

“You thought I saw you jacking off and was just so turned on by the sight that I had to offer my services to assist in your noble efforts to fucking wank it?“

“Well, I don’t know!” I was kinda upset that my deductive reasoning was being put in question in these unprecedented circumstances. “That’s no more crazy than thinking you just all of a sudden wanted to suck my dick.”

“Why is that crazy?” She was genuinely perplexed.

“Why is that crazy?!” I repeated back. Her expression was unmoved.

“That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to suck your cock. I wanted to beg for your cum.” Dirty words, spoken matter-of-factly, by a smoking hot chick. I don’t care how many times you’ve fucked; that’ll send a twinge through your dick. It did mine. Miranda noticed it and smiled that dazzling smile again. “I still want to suck your cock. I still want to beg for your cum.”

“Okay.” I quickly stood up and sheathed my protesting dick before it could entice her into a round two. As I stood, she stood, dusting off her knees. Again with disturbing normalcy, she walked over to the mirror and inspected her reflection, looking for traces of cum and spit that weren’t caught by her initial cleaning. She found a few unidentified wisps and took some toilet paper to them.

“So...what does this mean?” God, I was asking some dumb fucking questions today. She looked at me through the mirror and smiled again, but this was not one of her blowjob smiles—it was one of her pitying ones.

“Ben, we’re really good friends, and I just don’t think we should be changing that right now. I love hanging out with you too, not just for tutoring or whatever. I think we need to keep that the way it is for now. It’s just neater that way.”

My heart sank. I didn’t realize it had risen to such a height, but it was understandably out of calibration after Miranda and I had gone from “good pals” to “blowjob buddies” in the span of 10 weird minutes.

“But you literally just said that you wanted to...you know.” I was still uncomfortable saying the words that she said so freely.

She turned, leaning back against the sink to thrust out her tits knowingly, her face still a mask of easy beauty. “That I wanted to suck your cock. And I still do. If you wanted to go another round right now, I would—though I wouldn’t advise it, champ.” I rolled my eyes; she smirked. “But that’s what that is, and so we should be what we’ve always been, Ben: good friends who trust each other and enjoy each other. And whenever you want your cock sucked, you know who to call.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. I was perhaps the first man disappointed to receive an open invitation for fellatio, but in that moment, I was disappointed. This was weird and I didn’t understand it, and the reality of blowjob booty calls hadn’t yet dawned on me as a pretty sweet boon. Fortunately, the intercom saved my awkward silence.

“The library will be closing in 15 minutes. Students are encouraged to return all books to the book return carts stationed around the library, or check out books at the front desk. The library will be closing in 15 minutes.”

Silence again.

“Okay, non-suspicious two-people-leaving-one-bathroom strategy time.” Miranda said sardonically, and suddenly she was friendly jokey Miranda again. “I’ll dip out first, grab my stuff and go. Wait for a bit and then leave—but don’t forget to lock it before I go. Will you sign us out of the room at the front desk?”

“What? Oh...yeah.”

“Okay, cool. Thanks for the help again today, I really appreciate it. Next Friday?”

“Yeah, next Friday.”

“Alright.” She grabbed the door handle, cocked her head, and sent me a twinkling glance. “Sweet dreams tonight, stud.”

I involuntarily smiled at the overt delivery; she laughed as she left. The hallway before her seemed deserted, but I locked the door anyway, lingering for a moment where the smell of her perfume and stink of sex remained mingled in the air.

I stared at the door for a while, perplexed and satisfied and dissatisfied all at once. I don’t know how much time passed as I turned things over in my mind. Miranda Plover had found me in the bathroom with the intention of sucking me off, found me jacking off, and was unperturbed by that discovery. She gave me a blowjob the likes of which even high-end porn couldn’t capture, then told me she’d be down for as many more of those as I wanted—just so long as we didn’t change anything else about our relationship.

What the fuck was I supposed to do with all of that?

I decided eventually that enough time had passed. I took one last look around the bathroom, and thank goodness I did—there was still jizz on the floor. I cleaned it up with a paper towel, went to wash my hands, and found my phone in the sink. Fuck me, this had been a haphazard event.

As I walked back into the hallways of the normal library on my normal school campus where normal things fucking happened, I unlocked my phone screen. I was currently on an open line with Miranda Plover—and had been for the last 20 minutes.