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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Index:
- Chapter 1 - Office Hours[/url]
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
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Title: Feminist Theory
Author: John Drake
Content Warnings:
Non-Consent/Rape (Strong) — Multiple detailed rape scenes throughout the narrative, including anal, oral, and vaginal rape. The non-consensual nature of these acts is explicit and central to the story.
Blackmail/Coercion (Strong) — The entire narrative is driven by blackmail, with the protagonist forced to comply with increasingly degrading demands to protect her wife's career and reputation.
Humiliation and Degradation (Strong) — Extensive verbal, psychological, and physical humiliation, including forced public degradation, body writing with degrading words, and being made to beg for sexual acts.
Body Modification (Strong) — Forced breast enlargement surgery is depicted, with the protagonist coerced into permanently altering her body against her will.
Lesbian Subjugation (Strong) — Specific targeting of a lesbian character for heterosexual rape as a form of "correction" or punishment, with explicit homophobic language and attitudes.
Voyeurism/Recording (Strong) — Non-consensual filming of sexual acts for blackmail purposes, with the threat of releasing these recordings as pornography.
Public Humiliation (Moderate) — Sexual torture in semi-public settings, including classroom environments and other places where discovery is possible.
Body Writing (Strong) — Extensive writing of degrading words and phrases on the victim's body as a form of psychological domination and ownership.
Drugging (Strong) — Multiple instances of victims being drugged without consent.
Sexual Servitude (Strong) — Progression toward complete sexual slavery and dehumanization.
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This story requires a stronger-than-usual disclaimer.
My kinks aren't my politics, and they shouldn't be yours either.
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Feminist Theory
Chapter 1 - Office Hours
Her eyes burned from hours of grading papers, but Elise Marlowe refused to stop until she'd finished the last one. Introduction to Women’s Studies might not be the most challenging course she taught, but she thought it might be one of the most important… the feminist theory essays deserved her full attention, especially since they represented the evolving thoughts of young women finding their voices. She'd just scrawled an encouraging note on Aisha's brilliant analysis on how the Odyssey had been translated when the door to her office swung open. The sound of it clicking shut, followed by the distinct and unexpected snap of the lock engaging, pulled her attention away from the papers spread across her desk.
She looked up, and Brandon Wheeler stood just inside the doorway.
Elise felt her shoulders tense. Great. Just what she needed. He was one of her students this semester, and she would have put money that he would be dropping the class… he had probably signed up for it on a bet. He was more than a little disruptive in class, and argumentative, and he had some truly appalling opinions on the importance of consent. She’d shut him down pretty hard today, and had been expecting that he was going to come by and she would have to sit through some miserable excuse for an apology from him.
Then she noticed the look on his face, and it sent a chill down her spine.
"Mr. Wheeler," she said, maintaining her professional tone despite the unease crawling through her. "I'm afraid office hours are over. If you wanted to discuss your behavior in class today, then…"
Brandon didn't reply immediately. Instead, he stepped further into the office. He was an athlete playing… some sport or another, and his muscular frame seemed to shrink the already small space. His expensive polo shirt stretched across broad shoulders as he moved toward her like a predator that knew its prey was cornered.
"Professor Marlowe..." His voice held none of the contrition she'd expected. "I actually didn’t want to talk about that. I think it's time we have a discussion about your influence on my girlfriend."
The air in the room changed, becoming thick and oppressive. Outside, clouds had gathered, casting her office in premature twilight. The lamp on her desk cast shadows across Brandon's face, highlighting the cruel twist of his lips.
"I… have no idea what you’re talking about?" Elise straightened in her chair, defensive instincts flaring.
“I’m talking about a student of yours. Rachel,” he said, smiling softly. “I believe you had a few choice words for her.”
Elise scoffed. "If she's reconsidering your relationship, that's her choice,” the professor said. “I had no idea you were seeing Miss McCartney, and I certainly never spoke to her about you. My course simply provides tools for recognizing—"
"Tools?" His laugh was harsh, cutting through her words. "You filled her head with feminist garbage until she couldn't tell which way was up." He leaned over her desk, palms flat against the wooden surface. "You cost me my girlfriend. I haven’t gotten laid in a month."
Elise stood, refusing to be physically intimidated. It was times like this that she wished she weren’t so attractive… it would make it easier to be intimidating and be taken seriously. As it was, she was nearly six inches shorter than him. Her large breasts strained against the thin fabric of her blouse, the buttons threatening to pop with each indignant breath she took. She was dressed professionally in a blouse and blazer, but there was no hiding the generous curves of her chest and her full, heavy breasts. Her bright blue hair framed a face flushed with anger, those ice-blue eyes flashing dangerously behind sleek rectangular glasses. Her breasts pushed enough against the thin material of her blouse that the outline of her bra was visible.
She adjusted her glasses as she glared up at Brandon.
"Brandon, this is inappropriate,” she said, her full lips pressing into a tight line, completely unaware of how her defensive stance pushed her chest forward, making her look like a delicious treat despite her obvious disgust and anger. “Your relationship problems are not my—"
His fist connected with her stomach before she could finish, driving the air from her lungs in a violent rush. Pain exploded through her core as she doubled over, gasping. Her mind reeled in disbelief. This couldn't be happening, not here, not in her sanctuary of academia.
"Ellie... is it ok if I call you Ellie?" Brandon's voice had dropped to a conversational tone that contrasted sickeningly with the violence of his actions. His hand tangled in her short blue hair, wrenching her head up to look at him. "If you wanted to talk, we can talk. I’ll clarify my position from class today. I'm not in any way doubting the ability of a woman to say no. I just don't see why that should matter to a man."
Elise was stunned by the sudden physical assault. She tried to straighten, to push him away, but his superior strength easily overcame her resistance. With a single brutal movement, he spun her around and bent her over her desk, scattering papers and knocking over her cup of pens. They clattered to the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the terrible silence between them.
"If the woman can stop the man from doing as he pleases, then all well and good..." His breath was hot against her ear as he pressed his weight against her back, pinning her to the desk. "But you really think 'consent' is some feminist spell that can protect you? Can saying “no” let you conjure the strength to throw me off of you, professor?"
His hand gripped her hip, fingers digging painfully into her flesh. Elise kicked backward, desperate to connect with his shin, his knee, anything—but he simply shifted his stance, using one leg to force hers apart.
"No!" The word tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "Stop this right now! Someone will—"
"Someone will what?" Brandon's voice dripped with mockery. "Hear you? As you said, office hours are over. Everyone’s been gone for about half an hour. No one's coming to save you, Professor."
The room spun around her as she felt his hands roughly pulling at her clothing. The sound of fabric tearing filled her ears as he ripped open her blouse, buttons flying across the desk. Cold air kissed her exposed skin, raising goosebumps of terror across her flesh.
Elise struggled against him, her mind racing through options—scream, fight, reason—but each thought scattered before it could form into action. This wasn't supposed to happen to her. She taught about sexual violence, counseled survivors, created safe spaces. She wasn't supposed to become a victim herself.
"Get the fuck off me!" she snarled, suddenly finding her voice. She bucked violently against him, her body twisting with unexpected force. Her elbow connected with Brandon’s ribs, and she heard him grunt in surprise.
The larger man hissed, momentarily loosening his grip. Elise seized the opportunity, pushing up from the desk with all her strength. She spun around, eyes blazing with fury, and shoved hard against his chest. Her nails raked across his expensive polo shirt, leaving thin red lines on the exposed skin at his neck.
"I'm not some helpless coed," she spat, sliding away along the edge of the desk… the closest to backing away she could manage. "I'll have you expelled for this. I'll have you arrested!"
Brandon's momentary surprise vanished, replaced by something worse… a broad, amused smile. He laughed at her. "That's cute, Professor. Real cute." He closed the distance between them in two long strides. When Elise tried to dart around him, he caught her wrist in a grip that felt like iron, twisting it behind her back until she gasped in pain.
"Let go!" She kicked at his shins, connecting solidly with one. Brandon barely flinched.
"You think you can fight me?" He used his grip on her wrist to yank her against his chest. His free hand clamped around her throat, not squeezing but making his point clear. "I bench press two-fifty, three times a week. You weigh what? One-twenty soaking wet?"
Elise's other hand found his face, nails digging for his eyes. Brandon jerked his head back and slammed her against the bookshelf. Books tumbled around them as the shelves shook. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, stunning her.
He used that moment to spin her around again, this time with brutal efficiency. One massive hand pressed between her shoulder blades, forcing her face-down onto the desk. His weight crushed against her back, his muscled thighs pinning her legs. She tried to struggle, but didn’t get anywhere.
"That's better," he panted, slightly winded from the struggle. "I like a good fight.”
Brandon's other hand slid across her desk, closing around the framed photograph she kept there. Through tear-blurred vision, Elise saw him examining the picture of Maya—her wife captured in a sundress that clung to her full breasts, the thin fabric revealing the outline of her hardened nipples. Maya's plump lips were parted in a smile that Brandon's eyes devoured, his thumb caressing the glass where her cleavage dipped between those soft mounds.
"Don't you fucking touch that!" Elise thrashed beneath him, her voice raw with rage. She tried to reach for the photo but couldn't extend her arm far enough. The man only needed one hand to hold her down and make her helpless
"She’s cute," he said with a smile, holding the photo where Elise could see it while keeping her pinned. "Is this the little lesbian you go home to every night?" His thumb stroked Maya's face through the glass. "Pretty little cunt you've got at home," he whispered, his tongue darting across his lips as he drank in the image. "What's her name again? Maya, right?"
"Leave her out of this," Elise growled, renewing her struggles despite the pain shooting through her shoulders. She managed to lift herself slightly before Brandon slammed her back down, his forearm now across the back of her neck.
"You dykes think you're so special," he said with a snicker, using his free hand to yank down her tailored trousers. The fabric tore at the seams as he forced them over her hips. Elise kicked wildly, connecting with his leg, but he merely shifted his stance wider, using his superior weight to keep her pinned. Her underwear came next, ripped down in one violent motion. "Does she think that you two can live without a man in your life? Think that you're better than us… than me?"
He slapped her ass hard enough to leave an immediate handprint, the sound cracking through the office like a gunshot. Pain bloomed across her skin.
"Or did you tell her the truth… that she needs a real cock? That she, like every dyke, is just waiting for someone to fuck you right and turn you straight?"
Bile rose in Elise's throat. The thought of him even looking at Maya filled her with a rage so intense it momentarily eclipsed her fear. "Don't you dare—"
Her words cut off as Brandon's hand tangled in her blue hair, wrenching her head back painfully. "What? Don't I dare what, Professor Feminist?" He pressed his mouth against her ear, his breath hot and moist. "Look at you now. All your theories about patriarchy and male violence, and here you are—bent over your own desk, ass exposed, completely at my mercy."
Elise heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper. The cold realization of what was about to happen crashed over her in waves of horror. She redoubled her efforts, thrashing like a wild animal, managing to knock over her desk lamp. It crashed to the floor, the bulb shattering.
"Get off me! Someone will hear—"
Brandon's hand clamped over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks. "No one's coming, Professor. No one except for me, anyway." He pressed his hips against her bare ass, letting her feel his erection through his boxers. "Feel that? That's what happens when a real man sees a bitch who needs to be put in her place."
“You wouldn’t dare—"
"Oh, I dare," Brandon whispered, and she felt his hot and hard tool pressing against the exposed skin of her ass as he freed himself from his underwear. "I dare to do whatever the fuck I want to any cunt who can't stop me. Can you?"
Elise's fingers clawed desperately at the smooth surface of her desk, finding nothing to grip, nothing to use as a weapon. Papers scattered beneath her frantic hands. Her nails broke against the wood as she tried to drag herself forward, away from him. Brandon simply followed, maintaining his grip on her hair, using it like a leash to control her movements.
"Stop fighting," he growled, yanking her head back again. "You're just making it worse for yourself."
Her fear grew into a living thing inside her chest, choking her, as the inevitable approached. The sanctity of her office—her academic home—twisted into a nightmare landscape as Brandon Wheeler prepared to violate not just her body, but everything she believed in, everything she had fought for.
She heard it as he gathered his spit and let it out. The sound was deliberate, obscene—a wet collection of saliva pooling in his mouth before being forcefully expelled. The glob landed cold and wet between her cheeks, making Elise flinch with revulsion. The viscous fluid trickled slowly down the cleft of her exposed backside, a trail of humiliation marking her skin.
His fingers followed the trail of spit, calloused and rough against her delicate skin. He spread the insufficient lubrication with crude, circular motions, his fingertips digging painfully into the sensitive flesh between her cheeks. His touch was invasive, violating… each movement was a declaration of power over her body. The spit cooled quickly in the air-conditioned office, creating a sickening contrast to his hot, probing digits.
She couldn’t let him rape her… this wasn’t going to happen! Elise tried desperately to brace herself against the desk and squirm away from him. Her palms slipped against papers that had once represented her life's work but now served as the backdrop to her violation. Her fingernails scraped against the polished wood, seeking purchase, finding none. The edge of the desk bit into her hipbones, adding another layer of pain to her mounting terror.
What came next transcended pain—it was sharp, tearing agony as he forced himself into her unprepared body. She was so alarmed and disgusted by the whole thing it took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t even pressing against her pussy. Instead, his dick was pressing directly into her asshole as he shoved. The pressure was immense, unbearable, as the head of his cock pushed insistently against the tight ring of muscle that instinctively fought to keep him out.
For one brief moment, her body resisted, and then came the horrible sensation of giving way, of being breached where she had never been touched before.
The burning stretched outward from that central point of invasion, radiating through her lower body like molten metal poured into her core. Each nerve ending screamed in protest as Brandon forced his way deeper, the insufficient lubrication creating a friction that felt like sandpaper against raw flesh. Her sphincter stretched beyond what seemed physically possible, tearing slightly at the edges with microscopic rips that sent fresh waves of agony through her system.
Her scream caught in her throat, trapped behind the constriction of shock and horror. It emerged as a strangled gasp—a pathetic, animal sound that seemed to reverberate off the walls of her small office. The sound of her suffering hung in the air, mingling with the creaking of the desk beneath them and the harsh rhythm of Brandon's accelerated breathing. That gasping sound of pain must have pleased him because she could feel his dick twitch inside of her, a sense of satisfaction that only made his tool harder.
"Thirty or so years without a man… and now you’re taking it up the ass like the world’s most depraved dyke," Brandon grunted, his voice husky with cruel pleasure. His fingers dug deeper into the flesh of her hips, squeezing with such force that each individual fingertip created its own epicenter of bruising pressure. The skin beneath his grip blanched white before filling with blood that would later bloom into purple marks—evidence of his ownership, his conquest. "Hey. Teach. Does that mean I get a gold star on my class project?”
His words cut through her almost as painfully as his physical violation. They hung in the hair of her office, echoing as they bounced into her ears again and again. He was still sinking into her, and each inch felt like fire, like being split apart from the inside out. Her internal tissues stretched and protested, sending waves of nausea up from her core to the back of her throat until she felt like the man’s shaft would push the vomit right out of her like a piston. The violation was total, consuming, radiating outward from that central point to encompass her entire being.
Elise bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, the coppery flavor filling her mouth as she struggled to maintain this one small act of defiance. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg, though every nerve in her body screamed for mercy. The pain in her lip was almost welcome—a distraction, something she could control in a moment where all other control had been stripped away.
Her body instinctively tried to escape the invasion, muscles contracting to expel the intrusion, hips twisting in a futile attempt to wrench free. The movement only seemed to excite Brandon further, his breathing becoming more ragged, more animal. He held her firmly in place with one hand splayed across the small of her back, the pressure of his palm against her spine like a steel rod pinning a specimen to a board.
His fingers dug so deeply into her flesh that she knew there would be marks—five distinct points of pressure on each hip that would later form the shape of hands. Hands that had claimed her, violated her, reduced her from professor to object in the space of minutes. Her tears dropped silently onto the scattered papers beneath her face, blurring the ink of the feminist analysis she had so carefully evaluated just moments before this nightmare began.
The desk beneath them creaked rhythmically now, a soundtrack to her defilement. Outside, rain had begun to fall, pattering against the window like distant, uncaring witnesses. The sound of water hitting glass mingled with the wet, obscene noises of his violation and the soft, involuntary whimpers that escaped her throat despite her determination to remain silent. In the dim light of her desk lamp their shadows merged on the wall—a grotesque tableau of power and subjugation that seemed to mock everything she had ever taught.
"Stop," she managed through clenched teeth. "You're—you're hurting me."
Brandon gave a final thrust, and she felt his hips against her ass… he was all the way inside of her. He laughed, a sound devoid of any human empathy. "That's the point, Professor." He emphasized her title with mockery as he continued his relentless penetration. "I’d be gentle, but an irredeemable dyke like you needs a harsher lesson, yeah?”
Then he began to thrust, and it hurt worse than anything she had ever felt. Tears streamed down Elise’s face, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her body. Brandon increased his pace, his breathing becoming more labored as he took his pleasure from her pain. "See how pathetic your theories are now?" he panted, punctuating each word with a vicious thrust. "All that talk about consent and female empowerment. Where's your power now, dyke?"
The physical violation was horrific enough, but what tore at her soul was the knowledge that this act was designed to degrade her not just as a person but as a symbol of everything she stood for. Her thoughts fragmented, unable to process the reality of what was happening. This couldn't be real. She was Dr. Elise Marlowe, respected professor, beloved wife, advocate for survivors, lesbian, feminist lecturer. She was supposed to help people. Not be bent over her own desk with a student violating her in the most brutal way her innocent mind could imagine.
A sudden knock at Elise's locked office door shattered the terrible rhythm of her assault. The sound—three sharp raps against the wooden panel—reverberated through the room like gunshots. "Professor Marlowe? Are you still here? Your light is on..."
The voice belonged to the evening janitor—Carl, she thought dimly through her fog of pain. His concerned tone offered a lifeline in her ocean of suffering. Hope surged through Elise's body, electric and desperate. Her muscles tensed beneath Brandon's weight as she drew breath to scream, to call out, to beg for rescue. Her lips parted, throat constricting to form the shout that would bring salvation.
Brandon, however, was too quick. His hand clamped over her mouth with bruising force, palm pressing so hard against her lips that she tasted blood where they ground against her teeth. His fingers dug into her cheeks, squeezing until tears sprang to her eyes.
"Well what do you know?" he whispered, his breath hot and moist against her ear. The words were barely audible, yet they carried into her brain. “I guess there was someone here after all.”
Elise strained at the hand, trying to pry it off of her mouth… but he easily overpowered her, holding her silent and motionless. Most horrifying of all, Brandon never broke his rhythm. Even as he silenced her, his hips continued their relentless assault, driving his cock deeper into her abused flesh with each thrust. Elise's scream died in her throat, trapped behind his palm, reduced to a muffled whimper that couldn't possibly carry beyond the door. Her eyes fixed on the doorknob, watching with desperate intensity as it rattled—once, twice, three times—the metal fixture jiggling uselessly against the locked mechanism.
"Professor?" Carl called again, more hesitant now. There was a pause, then the sound of the doorknob being tried once more.
Elise's wide, tear-filled eyes remained fixed on that doorknob, as though she could will it to break through sheer desperation. Her fingers clawed at the desk surface, her body straining toward the door despite Brandon's crushing weight. She could feel her heartbeat thundering against the wooden surface of the desk, the rapid staccato pulsing through her chest into the scattered papers beneath her.
For one crystallized moment, hope still lived. Carl might sense something wrong. He might call security. He might break down the door.
Then his footsteps walked away, growing fainter with each passing second. The soft squeak of the janitor's cart wheels echoed down the corridor, diminishing until there was nothing left but silence and the wet, obscene sounds of her ongoing rape. Only when the hallway had been silent for a full minute did Brandon release his grip on her face. Elise gasped for air, her lips stinging where they'd been crushed against her teeth. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of her mouth where the skin had split.
Brandon's laugh was low and satisfied, rumbling through his chest and into her back where their bodies pressed together. "Well, well, well," he murmured, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Looks like your knight in shining armor just walked away."
He punctuated his words with a particularly brutal thrust that made Elise cry out, the sound no longer muffled by his hand. Her voice echoed in the empty office, a haunting reminder that no one was coming to help her.
"It’s funny, Professor." Brandon's tone was lighthearted and amused. His hips slowed to an agonizing pace, each movement deliberate and drawn out. "All that female power rhetoric you spout in class, and you were still so eager for a man to burst in and rescue you."
His fingers tangled in her blue hair, wrenching her head back until their eyes met. His were alive with cruel amusement; hers swimming with tears and hatred. "That’s because behind all your feminist bullshit," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you know that we're the ones with all the power, not you."
Elise tried to look away, but his grip on her hair was unyielding. She could feel every inch of his intrusion inside her, the burning pain radiating outward with each small movement. The desk beneath them was slick with her tears, smearing the ink on her students' essays—their trust in her expertise now literally stained by her violation.
Brandon resumed his punishing rhythm, his cock hammering into her asshole with renewed vigor. Each thrust sent fresh waves of agony through her body, her unprepared tissues protesting the brutal invasion. The sound was obscene, and the insufficient lubrication created enough friction that his dick felt like sandpaper against raw flesh.
"You know, for a champion of women’s independence, you were awfully eager to be rescued, weren’t you?" he taunted, his voice husky with exertion. His hips snapped forward with particular force, driving a strangled cry from Elise's throat. The photo frame containing Maya's image toppled over from the vibration, the glass face now lying flat against the desk—as though her beloved wife couldn't bear to witness her degradation.
"What was that you said in class the other day?" he asked. Brandon's free hand reached around to grope Elise's breast roughly through her torn blouse, and as he did, his tone formed a grotesque parody of her teaching voice. He cleared his throat, then quoted her words back with exaggerated feminine inflection: "'The damsel in distress is a tired old cliché that needs to die. It reinforces patriarchal notions that women require male salvation rather than possessing their own agency.'"
His voice returned to its natural register, dripping with mockery. "But look how desperate you were to become one! I saw it in your eyes, Professor—that pathetic hope when you thought you might be rescued."
The rain outside intensified, drumming against the window like a distant audience applauding the destruction of her principles. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the office in stark white light, casting Brandon's shadow large and monstrous on the wall beside them. "If I were some kind of expert, I’d say it looks like your little dyke theories don't hold up very well in the real world, do they?" he continued, his voice almost conversational despite the violence of his movements. "All that talk about dismantling power structures, and here you are—bent over your own desk, taking it up the ass from one of your students, praying for a man to save you."
His taunting words ignited a spark of defiance in Elise's shock-numbed mind. Through her tears, through her pain, she found her voice.
"You're going to prison for this," she hissed, each word costing her as his assault continued unabated. "I'll make sure of it. Everyone will know what you did."
For a moment, she thought she felt him falter, and a flicker of hope kindled in her chest. Then came the laughter—low, confident, terrifying in its certainty.
"Is that what you think?" The amusement in his voice sent ice through her veins. "That you're going to walk out of here and call the police?" He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You stupid cunt, I've been planning this for weeks."
Before she could process his words, his free hand snaked around to grip her throat from behind. His fingers tightened, cutting off her air supply with calculated precision. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision as he continued to rape her, his grip on her throat ensuring she couldn't cry out, couldn't even breathe properly. Was he planning to kill her? She panicked, her hands rising up to grip at his hand… it felt as unyielding as iron.
"I bet you think you’re real fucking smart, don’t you bitch?" he spat, maintaining the choke hold as he drove himself deeper. "But you’re dumb enough to click on any email that shows up in your mailbox. Stupid cunt.”
Elise kept clawing weakly at the hand crushing her windpipe, her lungs burning for air. Just when darkness began to close in, he relaxed his grip slightly and she sucked down air. As she gasped desperately for breath, she felt him shift. His other hand reached into his pocket, retrieving something while never breaking the brutal rhythm of his assault.
"You really should have been more careful, Ellie." His hand appeared in her peripheral vision, holding his phone. "Take a look."
The screen swam into focus as her oxygen-starved brain struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. Then recognition hit her like a physical blow.
A nude photo of Maya.
How… how had he gotten that? How…
His thumb flicked forward through dozens of photos. Her and Maya in their most private moments. The anniversary night when they'd made love in the living room, the shower they'd shared just last weekend, the playful morning in bed when Maya had surprised her with breakfast and they'd ended up tangled in the sheets for hours.
Her blood turned to ice. She knew these pictures… she’d taken them herself, or her wife had. Just part of the fun they had in the bedroom. Somehow, he’d gotten his hands on them… The intimate sanctuary she shared with Maya had been invaded, defiled by this monster's gaze.
"That's right, I have everything," he grunted, driving deeper into her as fresh tears spilled down her face. "Every picture you two took, every video you recorded, every dirty little message between you and your little dyke wife."
Elise's mind reeled with horror. The thought of Brandon watching them, cataloging their most intimate moments, made her physically ill. She retched, bile rising in her throat as the dual violation—of her body in the present and her privacy in the past—overwhelmed her.
"How—" she choked out, unable to form a coherent question through her shock and pain.
"Simple phishing email," he explained with perverse pride, continuing to thrust into her as casually as if they were discussing a class assignment. "You clicked the link, I got access to your cloud storage, your webcam, everything. From there, it was easy to get into your phone. Been watching you two dykes for weeks."
The realization that her own carelessness had contributed to this nightmare added a fresh layer of anguish. She'd failed to protect not just herself, but Maya too. The thought of her gentle, anxious wife exposed to this kind of violation was almost more than she could bear.
Brandon's rhythm grew more erratic, his breathing heavier. "Fuck," he grunted, his fingers tightening on her throat again. "Watching you cry makes this so much better." He continued violating her, slamming against her hard enough that the desk’s edge bruised her thighs with each brutal thrust. Her mind struggled to comprehend the dual violation… digitally raped as well as physically. What had she done in the last several weeks while he’d been watching? What had she taken pictures of before then that he had? How many of her and her wife’s tender exchanges had he witnessed with those hateful eyes? The thought made her stomach heave, fresh bile rising in her throat as her body rocked helplessly with each of his merciless thrusts.
"It was really nice of your wife to record you while you ate her out," Brandon grunted, his free hand still gripping his phone while the other maintained its bruising hold on her neck. "Gave me something fun to jerk off to, since I can’t fuck my girlfriend anymore thanks to you. Gotta say, you dykes know how to put on a show."
Elise wanted to scrub herself raw, as if she could somehow wash away the contamination of his gaze. She closed her eyes, trying to escape into darkness, but Brandon yanked her hair, forcing her head up.
"Look at the screen, Professor," he commanded, his voice thick with cruel pleasure. "Look at what else I've got."
Her eyes fluttered open unwillingly, vision blurred with tears as he scrolled through their private messages now. Intimate exchanges, sweet nothings, explicit descriptions of what they wanted to do to each other—all exposed to this monster's leering scrutiny. He paused on a particularly graphic exchange from their anniversary, when Elise had described in loving detail how she wanted to taste every inch of Maya's body.
"I originally intended to take all of these and post them around campus," Brandon explained casually, as if discussing a class project rather than the single biggest humiliation of her life… or at least, the second biggest after the male cock skewering her asshole. His hips never stopped their brutal rhythm, each thrust sending fresh agony through her torn passage and reminding her of that again and again. "I was going to leave them around for people to find, and send a link to them to everyone you know. The dean. Your department head. Your mommy."
Elise's stomach lurched at the thought. The very notion was so repulsive that for a moment, it overshadowed even the physical pain of his ongoing assault. "Imagine your mommy looking at her daughter getting fisted by her wife," Brandon continued, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. He yanked back suddenly, his cock pulling partway out before he slammed back into her with renewed force. The pain was blinding, radiating from her violated opening to engulf her entire lower body. "What would she think of her disgusting slut of a daughter then?"
He punctuated his words with a vicious slap to her ass, the sound cracking through the office like a gunshot. The sting bloomed across her flesh, adding another layer to her humiliation as he grabbed a fistful of her blue hair and wrenched her head back.
"But anyway, that was all I was going to do," Brandon continued, forcing her onto his cock more firmly. "It was fun to jack off to two dykes, and make sure every man you know was doing the same thing, but it was hardly enough to do… this to you. I was going to settle, but then..." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Then I found this."
He swiped to another screen, and Elise's blood froze in her veins.
It was a medical intake form.
Not hers.
Maya’s.
Elise's mind reeled with horror. No one was ever supposed to see that. Maya's addiction wasn't her fault. Someone had run a stoplight and hit her car eight years ago, shortly after she and Maya had started seeing each other. At that point, doctors had prescribed painkillers like candy. By the time Maya realized she had a problem, she was already in too deep. The transition to heroin had been almost inevitable once her prescriptions ran out—a tragic story Elise had seen repeated countless times.
But Maya had been different. She'd fought back. She'd wanted to be clean. Elise had helped, she had some contacts in the school’s research programs, and she’d used them to help get her into a treatment program to dampen the cravings that had been tormenting her for years. She'd been clean for over three years now. It was in the past.
Except it wasn't. Not really. Because Maya had been working as a social worker the entire time. Helping families in crisis while fighting her own battle in secret. If this came out now...
"Your precious little lezzie had quite the habit, didn't she?" Brandon's voice dripped with mock concern as he forced Elise to look at the evidence he had. "OxyContin, then heroin. All while working as a social worker. Tsk, tsk.”
No. Not this. Anything but this.
"They don't let junkies work with children, do they?" he asked with a smile. "Especially not state employees. What would happen to all those families she's helping if they found out their social worker was shooting up between home visits?"
Elise wanted to scream, to claw his eyes out, to do anything to stop this nightmare from unfolding. But she remained trapped, bent over her own desk, her body violated and her soul being systematically crushed.
"She'd lose her job," Brandon continued, clearly relishing her distress. "Probably face an investigation. Maybe even criminal charges for fraud. All those cases she handled could be reopened."
The horror of his words penetrated deeper than his physical violation had. Maya's career was everything to her. After overcoming addiction, she'd devoted herself to helping others with a passion born of her own suffering. To have that taken away would destroy her.
"You can't," Elise managed, her voice breaking. Even in her agony and terror, some part of her still felt compelled to defend her wife, to protect Maya's honor from this violation. "Please, she's innocent. She's been clean for years. She helps people."
Brandon laughed, the sound devoid of any humanity. The sound echoed in her ears like broken glass. "Should have thought of that before you filled my girlfriend's head with feminist bullshit." He grabbed her hips again and rammed forward harder than ever, making her scream. "Now she's going to pay for what you did. Do you think it matters that she’s clean now? You think the department would keep a junkie social worker on the payroll once this gets out? Even if they wanted to, you think the papers would let them?"
He was right, and the knowledge was devastating. Maya would lose everything—her job, her professional reputation, possibly even her license. The life they'd built together, the security they'd fought for, would crumble in an instant. For that matter, Elise might not fare much better. She was a teacher, who worked around students, and she was too new to be on tenure… the university might be understanding about her photos and sex tapes leaking, but would they take a risk on the optics of having a teacher known to have covered up for her wife’s heroin addiction?
"How did you—" Elise began, but Brandon cut her off with a particularly brutal thrust that made her cry out in pain.
"Amazing what you can find when you have access to someone's emails. All those advocacy emails you send, all those contacts you use to help poor little addicts like your wife... You even sent a bunch of emails stressing secrecy, about how important it was that the state agency not discover she was in treatment." He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. "You were a bad, bad girl, Ellie."
The horror of his words penetrated deeper than his physical violation, each revelation another nail in the coffin of her life as she knew it. He was right. She would have still gone to the police and the school if it meant her nudes getting out. She would suffer that indignity not to let the little shit get away with this. Hell, if it were only her career and livelihood that was threatened, she probably still would have done it. Instead, he’d found a loaded gun, and pointed it directly at her wife’s head… targeting the one vulnerability they'd thought was safely behind them.
Brandon continued to pound into her, each thrust banging her head against the desk. Papers scattered to the floor, pens rolled across the surface, but Elise barely registered these details through the fog of pain and despair. Her mind was consumed with the trap closing around her. If she reported the rape, if she fought back in any way, Maya would lose everything. Her career, her reputation, her hard-won stability—all gone.
"You're crying again," Brandon observed, his voice laced with satisfaction. "Does it hurt, Professor? Knowing I own you?"
His rhythm grew erratic, his breathing heavier as he neared his climax. Elise could feel him swelling inside her torn passage, each thrust now an explosion of agony as her abused tissues protested the continued assault. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood, determined not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream again.
"You know what I’m going to do?" he growled, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force. "I’m going to go get myself a tattoo. A little gold star, right on my wrist. Like a pilot marking kills on their plane. No one will think twice about it… but you and I will always know what it means, won’t we?”
Brandon's climax came with a guttural moan, his release burning inside her torn passage like acid. The sensation of his seed flooding her most private place made Elise retch, her body convulsing with disgust and violation, and she threw up all over the desk… her disgust splashing onto the papers she’d been grading, the words bearing witness to her humiliation and destruction.
"Fuck, your virgin ass felt better than I had ever imagined," he laughed, pulling out roughly. The sudden emptiness brought no relief, only a different kind of pain as her abused muscles spasmed. She felt the obscene mixture of blood and semen leaking from her, trailing down her thighs in warm rivulets of shame. “Rachel never let me do that. I’d been working her up to it before you interfered… it was only right you gave up what she isn’t going to.”
Brandon wiped himself clean on the discarded blouse he’d ripped off her, turning Professor Marlowe’s pretty clothing into nothing more than a rapist's cum rag.
"See? That wasn't so bad, Ellie," he mocked as he cleaned himself up, using a casual nickname he had no right to. “Don’t know what the big deal is.”
The strength fled from Elise's legs the moment Brandon stepped away. She collapsed onto the desk, her body trembling uncontrollably as shock set in. Pain radiated from her core in waves, punctuated by the sick warmth of blood and semen leaking down her inner thighs. The physical evidence of her violation felt like a mockery of everything she'd ever taught about bodily autonomy and consent. Her throat burned from screaming, her wrists ached from being pinned, and somewhere deep inside, a part of her that had always believed in justice began to wither and die.
The storm outside had intensified, rain lashing against the windows like nature itself was raging at what had transpired within these walls. Thunder rumbled, distant but approaching, a warning of worse to come. In the dim light of her office, Elise could see the scattered debris of her former life—graded papers now stained with bodily fluids, her glasses knocked askew on the floor, Maya's photograph face-down on the carpet.
Brandon moved around the office with casual ease, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping up as if he'd just finished using the bathroom rather than committing a violent assault. The normalcy of his movements was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all: How easily he transitioned from monster back to man.
He tossed a box of tissues at her, the cardboard corner striking her shoulder before falling onto the desk beside her face.
"Clean yourself up," he commanded, his voice flat and practical. "You look pathetic."
Elise couldn't move. Her body felt disconnected from her mind, as if the neural pathways that translated thought into action had been severed. She knew she should reach for the tissues, cover herself, try to restore some semblance of dignity, but her limbs refused to cooperate.
"I said clean yourself up, dyke." Brandon's voice hardened, the threat in it immediate and real. "Unless you want me to do it for you."
The thought of his hands on her again finally broke through her paralysis. With trembling fingers, she pulled several tissues from the box, the simple action requiring concentration she could barely muster. She pressed them between her legs, wincing as they came away stained with blood and his dripping seed.
Brandon squatted beside her, grabbing her tear-streaked face with one hand. His fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. Up close, she could see the satisfaction in his eyes, the power he felt in having broken her so completely. "So. If you don't want your department and your wife's bosses to know about her little drug problem, you're mine now," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Do you understand what that means, Professor? It means your body doesn't belong to you anymore."
Elise tried to turn away, but his grip tightened, his fingernails biting into her skin. "When I text you, you respond. When I want to fuck you, you spread your legs—or your mouth, or your ass—wherever and whenever I choose." His thumb traced her lower lip, a mockery of tenderness that made her stomach heave. His other hand brushed through what was still dripping out of her, stroking her like a pet. "And you'll say 'thank you' afterward like the grateful little desperate slut you are, dyke."
Each word hammered another nail into the coffin of her former self. This couldn't be happening. She was Dr. Elise Marlowe, respected academic, champion of women's rights, devoted wife. She couldn't be this broken creature, this object for a misogynistic student's revenge fantasy.
Brandon's thumb pressed against her lips, demanding entry. "Open."
She kept her lips pressed tightly together, this small act of defiance all she could manage. His eyes narrowed. "Open your mouth, Professor Cumrag. Or I start uploading videos of your junkie wife right now."
The threat shattered her last resistance. Her lips parted, and he pushed his thumb between them. It tasted awful… her very first taste of a man’s cum, tainted with blood and worse. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracing new paths through the dried tracks of earlier weeping. "You are, of course, free to go to the dean and get me expelled," he continued, watching her humiliation with evident pleasure. "Or go to the police and let a few dirty old men with badges poke and prod you, ask you what you were wearing and how well you knew me. Then they’ll poke a stick up your guts to wipe up whats left and test it. You’ll want to die of shame. Maybe you get me, and maybe you don’t… and either way, everything gets leaked. Your career will be over. Your wife’s life will be over."
He removed his thumb from her mouth only to slap her face lightly, almost affectionately. The casual ease of the gesture somehow more demeaning than outright violence would have been.
"So that’s your choice, Ellie. You can get your mercy on your knees, serving a man you hate… or you can keep your principles, and lose everything else.” The thought of facing her students, her colleagues, after they'd seen those photos... The thought of Maya losing everything she'd worked so hard for... "Do you understand?" Brandon demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
The words burned in her throat like acid. They represented everything she had spent her life fighting against—patriarchal control, male dominance, the reduction of women to servile objects. To speak them would be to betray not just herself but every woman who had ever looked up to her, every student who had found strength in her teachings.
But Maya's face swam before her eyes—beautiful, vulnerable Maya who had fought so hard to overcome her addiction, who devoted her life to helping others, who would be destroyed if this came to light. Maya, who deserved none of this.
“Yes,” she spat. “I understand.”
Her head rocked to the side as he slapped her. “I think you mean, 'Yes, sir’,” he said firmly.
She wanted to die of shame. "Y-yes, sir," she whispered, the words barely audible, each syllable tearing something vital from inside her.
Brandon's smile was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen—not because it was cruel, but because it was satisfied. He had won, and they both knew it.
“Hey, Ellie,” he said, his teeth shining from behind that smile. “What do you call a buttfucked feminist dyke?”
Elise swallowed, unsure of what to say.
His smile only widened. “Well, you don’t call her a mommy. Not yet.”
Then he unlocked her office and strode confidently out the door. He didn’t even close it behind him.
Standing was agony. Elise's legs trembled beneath her as she finally forced herself upright, clutching the edge of the desk for support. Slowly, agonizingly, she crossed to the door and managed to close it, leaning against it and letting herself sag. She was alone with the wreckage—of her office, of her body, of her life. She looked down at herself, at the blood and semen staining her thighs, at the torn clothing hanging from her frame. She needed to clean up. She needed to think. She needed to somehow make this nightmare less real before it swallowed her whole.
The box of tissues he'd thrown at her was nearly empty, but she pulled out what remained, dabbing desperately at the evidence of violence between her legs. Each touch sent fresh spasms of pain through her body. She was torn, she knew that much, but she couldn't bear to examine the extent of the damage. Not here, and not now.
She left the room, stumbling down the hallway to the bathroom. Rain continued to lash the windows of the empty academic offices, the darkening sky matching the shadow that had fallen across her soul. Thunder rolled closer, the storm moving in just as her own personal cataclysm had arrived without warning. Then she entered the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror and started crying again.
In the harsh fluorescent light, her reflection was that of a stranger. Her hair was disheveled and mascara streaked down hollow cheeks. Her lips were swollen from screaming and where she had bitten them. A red handprint marked her face where he'd slapped her. She turned the tap on with shaking hands and started scrubbing at her thighs, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't wash away the feeling of violation that clung to her skin like a film of oil. The physical evidence might disappear, but the memory was burned into her flesh, into her mind—a brand that would never fade.
She managed to pull her pants back up, though the fabric rubbed painfully against her abused flesh. Her blouse was beyond repair, buttons scattered across the office floor. She retrieved her cardigan from the back of her chair, wrapping it tightly around herself and securing it closed. It would have to do until she reached home.
Home. The thought of it brought a fresh wave of panic. Maya would be there. Beautiful, innocent Maya who knew nothing of the horror that had just transpired, nothing of the threat now hanging over both their lives. How could she face her? How could she hide this?
Her phone buzzed on the desk, making her flinch violently. For a wild moment, she thought about ignoring it, about smashing it against the wall, about running away and never looking back. But she knew there was nowhere to run, not from this.
With trembling fingers, she picked up the device. A text message from an unknown number lit up the screen:
"Tomorrow, 8 PM, that cheap motel off Route 9. Wear a skirt, no underwear. Bring lube. Delete this after reading."
Bile rose in her throat. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since he'd left her office, and already the demands were beginning. This was her reality now—being at the beck and call of a monster who held her life and Maya's in his hands.
She could go to the police, show them the bruises, tell them what happened. But Brandon would release those photos, those videos. Maya would lose everything, even if Elise didn’t.
She could tell Maya and explain what happened. Her wife would insist they face it together. But the thought of her brilliant, loving wife seeing those photos, learning how her private moments had been violated, knowing the sacrifices Elise was making to protect her... It would destroy her. Maya's anxiety already made her blame herself for things beyond her control. This would crush her.
She could refuse Brandon's demands, try to call his bluff… But she knew, with cold certainty, that he wasn't bluffing. If he was willing to do this to her already, he had already proved his ruthlessness, his complete lack of empathy. He would destroy them both without hesitation.
Her finger hovered over the screen, over the message that represented the first step into a new life of subjugation. Every principle she'd ever held, every lecture she'd ever given about standing up to abuse, about never letting men control women's bodies—all of it seemed like hollow rhetoric now. The harsh reality was that sometimes there were no good choices, only varying degrees of devastating ones.
She deleted the message, watching the words disappear. She wished that she could erase the obligation they represented so easily.
Her phone rang immediately after, making her heart leap into her throat. But it wasn't Brandon. It was Maya's name that flashed on the screen, her wife's smiling photo appearing above it—a photo taken on their last anniversary, Maya looking radiant in the sunset light.
Elise took a deep breath, wiping away her tears before answering. She couldn't let Maya hear the devastation in her voice. She couldn't let her suspect.
"Hey, love," she said, amazed at how almost normal she managed to sound despite the tremor she couldn't quite control. "I'm on my way home."
"I was getting worried," Maya's gentle voice replied, the concern evident even through the phone. "The storm's been bad over here. Are you okay?"
The question nearly broke her. Was she okay? Would she ever be okay again? "I'm fine," she lied, each word a betrayal of their relationship built on honesty. "Just finishing up some grading. Lost track of time."
"I made that chickpea curry you like," Maya said, and Elise could picture her in their kitchen, phone cradled between shoulder and ear as she stirred something on the stove. Living her normal life, unaware that everything had changed. "Should I wait to eat, or will you be a while yet?"
"No, I shouldn't be too long." She hoped that wasn’t a lie. She had no idea how long it would take to compose herself enough to face Maya without breaking down. "I love you."
"Love you too," Maya replied, and the simple truth of those words was like a knife twisting in Elise's heart.
Elise let herself fall to the floor and cry for a bit. Then she rose and headed out into the stormy evening, the weight of her decision settled over her like a shroud. The future stretched before her, dark and uncertain, filled with degradation and pain. But one thing remained clear amid the chaos of her thoughts: she would do whatever it took to protect Maya, even if it meant sacrificing herself piece by piece.
She had spent her entire career fighting against the objectification and control of women's bodies. Now her principles had been tested… and it wasn’t much of a choice at all. She chose love over ideology, protection over pride, submission over justice. Whether that made her a hypocrite or simply human, she couldn't say. All she knew was that tomorrow at 8 PM, she would be at that motel, wearing a skirt, no underwear. She would have gone to purchase a tube of lube and have it in her purse. And she would endure whatever came next. For Maya. Always for Maya.
End of chapter 1
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major kudos!
where might one find this book for purchase?