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Your friends catch you staring at her in the library before she does. One of them recognizes her too, if only from the classes you share. The teasing starts, and like always, you hide your anxiety with a show of overconfidence.
“Oh please, I could hit that easy if I was interested—or motivated.”
Someone slaps a ten on the table. “If you get her number, another twenty if you get a date.”
There’s a collective “ooo” that earns them an angry “shhh!” from another table.
You stare at the wrinkled bill. You don’t care about it or the twenty, but you can’t back out now without losing face.
You smirk, hoping to distract from the blood draining from your face. “You’re on, bitch.”
She’s moved on to another aisle, which is a small blessing. At least your friends won’t see the inevitable confrontation.
You rehearse what you’ll say no fewer than a dozen times between your chair and where you find her two rows over. She’s in the middle of returning a book to the top shelf, arms held up, exposing a sliver of soft midriff.
“What do you want?” she asks curtly before lowering her arms and turning to pierce you with a contemptuous look.
You deserve worse.
Her nostrils flare with annoyance—anger even—disgust. “Don’t you think we’re a little old for this shit? Just leave me alone.”
“Sorry!” The word is desperate and urgent on your tongue. It has nothingy to do with that moment and everything to do with the years you tormented her, called her horrible things, told her she wasn’t a real girl, and all around made her life hell.
The truth is, as sick as you feel talking to her, seeing her in class at the start of term was such a relief, you had to leave five minutes in and cried so hard in the bathroom you threw up.
Some of the vitriol diminishes, but she is no less frigid.
“For everything,” you add, sounding almost as pathetic as you feel. “I’m not looking for forgiveness or anything. I won’t bother you ever again. I just wanted you to know I regret everything.”
She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “That’s why you and your friends were staring at me?”
An ugly laugh of surprise leaps out before you can slap a hand over your mouth and shake your head. She watches you expectantly, and you feel your face heat up beneath your palm. You lower it slowly.
“No. They don’t know. They were just…admiring you.”
“Checking me out,” she retorts dryly.
“Well, yeah.” You shift your weight from foot to foot, silently begging for her to release you before this conversation becomes even more unbearable.
“Then what do they think you’re doing?”
You want to bolt, but your feet are suddenly too heavy to move. You stare at the cheap carpet underfoot.
“Asking for your number,” you finally mutter.
“Funny,” she retorts in a tone suggesting the situation is anything but.
It takes a second too long to understand her reaction, and she’s started to walk away. You don’t think before lunging forward to grab her arm, to stop her from misunderstanding.
She looks down at you with familiar disgust. Not familiar on her face, though.
It's the same look you gave yourself in the bathroom mirror at the science museum in junior year. Your class had been assigned seats on the bus—something no one was happy about, but you'd ended up next to her.
It was impossible to avoid touching each other as much as you both tried. Your friends shot you pitying looks from across the aisle like you'd just stepped barefoot in dog shit every time you hit a pothole or turned a corner that forced your shoulders and thighs against one another.
But the contact—the pressure of her skin on yours—didn't turn you cold with revulsion.
It burned.
Heat steadily licked its way deeper into you throughout the ride, and when you were finally free from the torture, you booked it to the bathroom to try scrubing away the wet spot in your underwear.
The disgust you saw in your reflection that day is staring back at you again, only this time from her, and that makes it so, so much worse.
She yanks her arm away with a sneer.
"It's not what you think," you blurt out, definitely too loud for a library.
She crosses her arms, but she doesn't walk away. You wish she would. It would save you further humiliation.
"It's not like that," you mutter, gaze falling down to her boots. "They're not like that. I'm not like that. Not anymore."
"A dyke or a transphobic fuck?" she asks curtly.
You wince at the bluntness and mumble, "Transphobic."
She snorts, a sound caught between amusement and disbelief. "Gold star for you then, I guess. Amazing what a decent rack will do." She pushes up her tits, and you feel your blood rushing everywhere it shouldn't be—namely away from your brain.
What you'd give to suck her tits...
You shake yourself from the intrusive thought and end up looking at her face again, which turns out to be a massive mistake.
She smiling. It's not a kind smile. There's a definite edge to it that feels dangerous. You want her to smile like that at you every day.
"See something you like?" she muses, gliding towards you like something out of a dream, something ethereal.
You find yourself nodding before you can catch yourself. By the time you freeze, it's too late.
You don't remember moving, but suddenly you feel shelves pressing into your back.
"What happens if you do get my number?" she asks, her voice misleadingly soft.
"F- friend gives me ten bucks." You can't look at her but you can't look away from her either, so you end up lost in her bright eyes.
"Only ten?"
"A- another twenty if- if we go on a- a date."
You don't know why you've offered this additional information unprompted. You wish you hadn't and you're thrilled you did because now she's grinning, teeth bared like a lioness standing over a gazelle taking its last breaths before she tears it open.
A queen ready to feast.
When her fingertips brush your shoulder, you shiver, and her eyes go wide.
"Damn, bitch," she breaths, close enough that you can feel the moist warmth and smell her morning coffee. "You really do have the hots for me, don't you?"
You don't want to nod. You scream in your head not to nod.
You nod.
You can barely feel her hand through your t-shirt as she brushes it down your tit before pressing her palm to your waist.
"I'd hoped you hadn't recognized me," she whispers directly into your ear, her hair tickling your cheek.
Her hand slides slowly toward your stomach. "Couldn't believe I'd wound up at the same out-of-state college as the bitch who'd given me so much grief in high school. Thought I might have to transfer just to get some peace."
"Don't." The word escapes as a whimper.
She pulls her hand away from the hem of your shirt, but you grab her wrist and pull her back. There's no thought behind the action, just reflex.
No, need. Thick and visceral.
"Don't transfer," you manage in a broken voice you can barely hear in your own ears. It's a miracle she can.
She laughs, a hot puff against your ear that makes you shudder, and slides her hand up your shirt.
You wouldn't be surprised if you had blisters in an hour from the way her touch scorches your skin, and it's all you can do to keep from screaming. There's nothing you can do about the tears, though.
She pushes a finger under the band of your sports bra, her nail scraping your skin, and pulls the elastic forward before releasing it to snap back in place. Her other hand clamps over your mouth as she does, smothering your yelp.
She hushes you gently, like a frightened child or a pet.
Something catches her attention. Suddenly her hands are off you, but not before spinning you around the face the bookshelf. She stands next to you, shoulder-to-shoulder, and you have to grip the shelf to keep from toppling over. It's hard to breath, which does nothing to help the vertigo.
A library aid rolls a cart into the aisle with you. It's got more than one squeaky wheel, and it's a wonder that you didn't hear it. You fumble at the spines at hand-level, hoping the aid doesn't look too closely as they reshelve books to realize you're not actually seeing them.
When the aid finally moves on, you don't get a chance to catch your breath before her body is flush with yours, tits pressing into your shoulder blades as she presses you to the shelves.
She has your belt unbuckled and your fly open in seconds, one hand plunging into your briefs as the other seals your mouth again. She scissors open your folds with her nails, scraping the sensitive flesh on either side of your clit before pinching the bundle of nerves between her knuckles.
She gives it four little tugs, pauses, then seven, stops, then nine...
There seems to be no pattern, and you might just go insane from the way she's keeping you on your metaphorical—and literal—toes.
The thought is not unappealing.
You don't know whether to push into her hands or back against her tits, and your indecision leaves you all the more at her mercy—or lack of.
Her palm is no longer enough to muffle your desperation. You're gagging on her fingers now, the edges of her nails likes razors against your soft insides.
Her voice sounds like it's coming from inside your head when she whispers in your ear, derision on her tongue, "This isn't the first time you've gotten wet for me, is it?"
You can barely shake your head, but she gets the message, evidenced by the jarring sound of a giggle as her fingers slide down.
Her nails aren't especially pointed, but not one of them is filed short and dull. It hurts when she probes your soaked pussy with two fingers. Still, you try bearing down, try taking her in faster, but she doesn't allow it.
She plays with your tongue as she takes her time delving into you. Your chin is almost as wet as your cunt from drool and tears.
When her long fingers are buried to the last knuckles, she returns those in your mouth to the back of your throat, spitting you on her hands—on a mere four fingers.
When her fingers slip out to the second knuckle, your focus is so homed in on them with the anticipation of the thrust, you don't realize she's doing the same with the fingers in your mouth until she's simultaneously shoving both pairs deep again.
You'd scream if you weren't so preoccupied with choking on her; and you might have been in awe with her coordination if she wasn't using it to fuck every thought out of your head.
You're one or two pumps from cumming when she stops, and it's clearly intentional.
She's breathing heavily into your back, the pressure from her tits pulsing slowly with each heave. Her lips brush your ear once more, and you whimper at her words.
"You're so fucking pathetic. I can't believe I used to care about what a bitch like you thought."
You want to scream and beg and tell her yes, you are pathetic, and you need her to make you cum because you're going to lose your fucking mind if she leaves you like this. You know you'll be beyond miserable if you have to finish in a bathroom stall.
"Of course I won't transfer," she purrs, languidly wriggling her four fingers inside of you. "Not when there are such spectacular extracurriculars at this school."
She curls her fingers: two nails digging into the back of your tongue and the other two away from your g spot.
Your whole body jolts as a fresh wave of tears cascade down your face. The relief when she releases the sharp pressure is nearly enough to make you cum.
Nearly.
"Now," she seethes, then punctuates each following word with a sharp thrust in both holes.
"Cum. For. Me. You. Worthless. Piece. Of. Shit."
And you do. You're cumming before she's halfway through. Her nails feel like razorblades in your cunt, but that doesn't stop you from clenching around her fingers as you cum so hard, white spots start obscuring your tear-blurred view of the shelf.
She lowers you to the floor, not gently, but careful to avoid a lot of noise. The idea of standing might be laughable if not for the creeping realization that you are still in the middle of your university library, you have friends waiting for you, and maybe even a class this afternoon?
She uses your t-shirt to wipe off her fingers. She makes no move to close your fly or re-buckle your belt.
Before she walks away, she looms over you, looking almost bored with your existence. She kicks lightly at the sole of your Doc Martens, jostling your foot, which is as limp as the rest of you.
"Now imagine what I can do with my cock," she muses. "If you manage to remember my number, maybe I'll show you."
You're confused. You can barely remember the bet you made with your friends, but you're positive she never gave you her number.
You need that number.
She holds up her fingers in a reverse peace sign and pinches the tip of her tongue between her knuckles, giving it a small tug. Then she flashes you a wicked smile and walks away.
It takes a while for your brain to work enough to understand her meaning.
Later, when your roommate is out on a date and you have the dorm to yourself, you climb into bed early and shuck off your joggers and briefs. You try to mimic the way she held your clit, clinging to the hope that you can recreate the pattern she counted out hours earlier.
Four. Seven. Nine...