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It's Always the Quiet Ones...

By: AquaStarryNight



I can't believe he gave me a B! I looked up from the paper my professor just handed me, devastated. I know, I know – to most people, a B would be a hell of a good grade. But I'm really not like most students; I'm a damn good writer, and I'm especially good at writing history papers. For the past two years, I've had no less than 12 of my 15 classes with the best professors in the history or political science departments – and I had never walked away with anything less than an A-.

I'd had this particular professor for the past three semesters, and on every single assignment I'd ever given him, I'd received an A – even on those that I definitely bs'ed my way through. I'd worked really hard on this particular paper – a discussion of the significance of the varying interpretations of Progressive Era and Gilded Age reformist photography – and honestly hadn't expected anything but an A. 

I looked up at him as he walked back up the aisle toward the front of the room; he made eye contact with me briefly, but not long enough for me to be able to discern what he thought. After class – which took FOREVER, for some reason – I waited in line to speak to him about the paper. There were about five other people who apparently had the same issue; that's about normal, since he's a demanding professor. I'm just unaccustomed to having to actually be one of those people who's unhappy with her grade.  

As I waited (I'd deliberately maneuvered to the back of the line, so that he didn't feel rushed when he got to me), I subtly considered him. He's definitely one of those professors who could have been anywhere from 35-50; he was about 5'10", around 170 lbs., silvery blond hair, green eyes. He had that deeply academic look about him; he wore clothes that were slightly too big, and his posture was slightly hunched, as though he spent most of his time in front of a computer screen. He wore plaid shirts and sweater vests and glasses – all things that I find incredibly sexy, because they've all been indications of deeply intelligent men when I've encountered them in any combination. He wasn't married, but I hadn't been able to find out exactly why; I knew that he'd gone through a recent divorce, and there were whispers that it was entirely on her end, but I hadn't heard anything more concrete. I couldn't imagine that it had been his fault; of all of the professors I'd had, he'd been one of the most accommodating, and was always willing to schedule a meeting to talk about anything anyone might need. He was southern, I think; he had this really great soft and slow way of speaking. It wasn't traditionally southern in that he didn't have a noticeable drawl, but he was excessively polite and he spoke more slowly as he got more excited about whatever it was that he was discussing. 

I came back to reality just about the time that the guy in front of me started complaining about how he felt that his A-quality work had received a D; Dr. Baldwin solemnly assured him that he would take a second look at it, and promised to email the guy – I think his name might have been Ben – with his revised comments. That seemed to placate Ben, and he left with something less of an unpleasant expression on his face than had been there previously. 

When Dr. Baldwin looked up from Ben's paper, he didn't seem at all surprised to see me, although he did seem, uncharacteristically, slightly put-off. I began, "I really just wanted to ask you about the grade that you gave me. I was wondering exactly what about my work you found below your usual standard." He sighed, also uncharacteristically, and said, "You know, there wasn't really anything particularly bad about your work. I just thought that you could have done a bit better." He seemed to think that that was sufficient, because he turned slightly away, as though he was finished speaking. I wasn't satisfied, though, and asked, "Could you maybe explain to me what it is that I could have done to get an A? I don't like B's, and I really want to do the best that I can."

He nodded slowly, and then said, "I'm actually on my way out to a meeting right now; I don't really have any time today or tomorrow, but I could meet with you on Thursday if you wish."

"Actually, that doesn't work for me at all; I don't have any time on Thursday or Friday that I could carve out more than 10 minutes. This is a difficult week for me."

Somewhat reluctantly, he said, "Well...I don't expect that my meeting will extend much past 9 p.m. tonight. Could you meet with me at 9:30, if you'd still like to discuss it?"

I told him that that time worked for me, thanking him in advance for taking the time to meet with me. He nodded and turned away, a clear dismissal this time. As I walked to my next class, I thought about the discussion; the way that he had been acting really was uncharacteristic of his expansive, overly-helpful self. There was a part of me that was excited about meeting with my professor relatively privately at 9:30 at night. He wasn't obviously, immediately attractive in the traditional sense, but I was definitely attracted to him. I find intelligence overwhelmingly sexy, and there were so many other things about him that were so cute that I couldn't help it.

Before I left for my meeting with Dr. Baldwin, I re-styled my hair, adding a few more curls; I also made sure that my eyeliner was sufficiently applied so as to enhance my eyes; I don't have a model's body (I'm short, around 5'3'', and I could stand to lose around 30 pounds), but my proportional measurements and my (so I've been told) amazing eyes make up for my other detriments. I'm not the stereotypically smart geeky-looking anime kind of girl, and I take great pride in the fact that I care about what I look like while at the same time being able to substantatively contribute to an intellectual discussion. 

I started on the relatively brief walk to Dr. Baldwin's office in Mack Hall at 9:20; it was only just across the road from where I lived, just about a tenth of a mile away. I was wearing a long, flowing white skirt and a creamy pink tank top underneath a cropped lace shrug; I like looking feminine, and my outfit showed off my 38DD breasts spectacularly. I knocked on his door at exactly 9:30; I hadn't seen another person in the entire building as I'd made my way to his second-floor office. He opened the door and invited me in; again, I got the sense that he was more than slightly distracted by something.

He started, "Right. You want to talk about your paper grade... I don't really know what to tell you, other than I think that you might have become a bit too complacent about the grades that you've been receiving."

I hadn't been even remotely expecting to hear anything like that. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that I know that you're quite a talented writer, and that more than that, so do the rest of your professors within the department. I've heard you say, on several occasions, that you very rarely receive anything less than an A, which is a score that most of your peers receive only rarely. I think that you have grown far too accustomed to doing well, and as a result, you haven't felt as though you needed to push yourself beyond what you've accomplished so far. To be completely honest with you, the paper that you turned in would have been a high A compared with those of the rest of your classmates. But because I know you and I know what you are capable of creating, you received a lower grade than someone else would have otherwise."

I was incredulous as he explained his reasoning; more than that, I was more than slightly upset. "I can't believe that you would give me a lower score as a penalty for doing well. I think that's really unfair of you."

He looked quite surprised at my words; hurt crossed his face, followed by what looked like anger. "To be completely honest with you, Ashley, it's not really my concern whether or not you understand or like my grading scale. It's not something that I'm required to explain to you."

Angrily, I stood up and turned to leave his office. As a parting shot, I said, "Just because your personal life is a complete mess doesn't mean that you have to make my life any more difficult by giving me a lower score." As soon as I said the words, I knew that I'd crossed a line – I looked at him, watching for his reaction. It was evident that I'd hit a nerve and that my words had hurt him; he looked a bit as though he'd been punched, and then his expression became impassive. He stood and took two steps toward me, bringing him into quite close proximity. After looking at me for a minute or so, he said softly, "You have absolutely no conception of what my life is like, Ashley; I can't believe that you would say something so incredibly thoughtless. I really thought that you were different, or at least, that you were so much smarter than people your age usually are and that somehow you were more mature. I'm quite disappointed that I was so completely mistaken."

I realized then that I really did have something of a crush on him, because I was very affected by his words. As he looked at me, I felt tears well up in my eyes, and one slipped out and down my cheek. I looked down at the floor and whispered, "I'm sorry; I really didn't mean to say something so horribly mean. It's just very important to me that I do well, and that you think that I have done well. I..." I couldn't finish and turned to leave, but before I could, I felt his hand on my back.

I turned back around to face him but misjudged the distance, so that when I turned around, I was only inches from him. Whatever I'd been about to say died in my throat when I realized how close we were standing. He stared at me intensely for a moment, and then slowly touched my face with his hand; his touch broke the invisible barrier between us, and all at once, he leaned forward and kissed me. He was soft and comforting at first; I moved closer to him as he put his arms around my waist. Quickly, the kiss grew more insistent; he slipped his tongue into my mouth, daring me to do the same. 

I don't know what it was that I was expecting to happen that night, but finding myself naked in my professor's office was definitely not on my list of expectations. He was an excellent kisser; after just a minute, I was breathless and dripping wet. A part of me couldn't believe that I was actively making out with my history professor; a second part of me was incredibly turned on because I was actively making out with my history professor. His hands roamed all over my body as we continued kissing; he pushed me toward his desk as things got more heated. By the time we got there, he'd removed my shirt and tank top; I was still wearing a lacy black bra, black lace boyshorts, and my skirt. Because he'd been so gentle so far, I assumed that that trend would continue as things progressed. However, as soon as he broke the kiss for the first time, all of that changed.

I could see the indecision in his face; not wanting him to stop what had been started, I leaned in and slightly bit the inside of his neck; apparently that was a good choice, because he yanked me closer to him, much more insistently than he had before. His eyes were smoldering with lust; I smiled just slightly and gazed up at him in what I intended to be an impudent way. He pulled my hair with the hand that he'd had behind my back; the movement startled me. There was no trace of a smile on his face, or any of the customary good-humored softness that he normally displayed.

He leaned toward me slowly; I watched him, not taking my eyes from his. When he was barely inches from touching his lips to mine, he said slowly, "I think, Ashley, that you have been an incredibly bad girl. You are sitting there, on my desk, wearing nothing lace; your pussy is getting wetter the longer that I speak to you. You were very rude to me earlier, and you haven't properly apologized; I think that some sort of punishment is in order, don't you?" As he asked me, he pulled slightly harder on my hair, obviously waiting for an affirmative response. When I softly said yes, he relaxed his grip and moved back, waiting for me to slide off of the desk. He motioned for me to turn around, and when I did, he pushed me forward slightly, so that I was bent over his desk.

Somehow, the skirt that I was wearing a few minutes before was gone, and I felt incredibly exposed as I stood there bent across his desk with my legs slightly parted. I could feel the cool air on my pussy and knew that he could smell how hot I was. I felt him lightly caress my shoulder and then my back, and then all of a sudden, I felt his hand smack my ass – hard. I made a surprised noise; he spanked me again, this time a bit harder. "You will not speak as I spank you; this is another part of your punishment," he said, in the same slow, measured tone.

I counted twelve swats before he paused; my bottom hurt quite badly and a few tears had escaped and made their way down my cheek. He pulled gently on my hair and in response, I straightened up and turned to face him. He looked at my face for a few moments, visually noting the tears that he saw on my cheek. Then he said, slowly as usual, "I would very much like for you to kiss me."

His words confused the hell out of me, but as though I was physically compelled, I leaned forward and tentatively kissed him. This kiss was deeply passionate, and while I had become even wetter during the spanking, it nearly made me cum as I was standing there. We kissed slowly but insistently, and he brought my hands up to his shirt buttons, beckoning me to open them. I did, and slid the shirt from his shoulders, running my hands over his arms and bare chest; it was sprinkled with slivery blond hairs, not too thickly but not sparsely, either. I slid my hands down his stomach and over his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping his pants, which dropped to the floor on their own. 

I felt his breathing become more ragged; in that moment, I knew that neither of us was at all in control of the situation. He pulled me down on top of him on the rug in front of his desk; I straddled his now-bare body as we continued kissing more urgently. He pulled back slightly and looked at me; softly, he whispered, "it has been such an incredibly long time; are you really sure that you want to do this?" I nodded, and with that, he flipped me over so that he was lying on top of me, having somehow divested me of my panties before laying back down. I could feel his hard member pressing hotly against my pussy; I moved up against him, wanting to feel him inside of me.

He pulled me up slightly and undid my bra clasps, letting my breasts spill free. I moved to cover them, but he captured my hands and silently asked me to lay back down; as I did, he moved his head to my nipple and began to suck. After about a minute, I was crazy with need. I whispered his name for the first time: "David, I need for you to be inside of me. Please."

He smiled slightly and slid all of himself inside of me in one powerful stroke; I nearly came right then at the intense fullness that I felt at his unaccustomed thickness. I could see that he was similarly affected; he went motionless briefly as he fought to maintain control. Wanting to drive him over the edge, I arched up against him. My strategy worked, as he began furiously thrusting himself into me. After three or four thrusts, I could feel my orgasm begin; it was intense, beginning at my very core and radiating throughout the rest of my body; I said his name repeatedly as I came. He watched me as I was cumming, and as my orgasm began to subside, allowed his own to begin. I watched him in turn, locking eyes with him as he whispered, "Oh my god Ashley, you're so fucking perfect, oh yes, ohhhhh mmmmmm yes just like that..." 

He collapsed on top of me, spent. He lay his head against my chest, and in response, I stroked his hair as we both unwound from the intense session we'd just enjoyed. I could have happily stayed with him the rest of the night (and, honestly, for longer than that), but practicality soon set in, and he moved to get up. 

Feeling shy, I cast around for something with which to cover up, pulling my skirt over my the majority of my naked body. He dressed quickly, handing me my clothes as he encountered them. When the two of us were fairly well covered, I looked at him; he was looking at me, and our eyes locked. I wasn't sure what to say, but then he saved me from having to voice a response.

"I have to tell you, Ashley, that that was absolutely incredible. It's been a long time since I had sex, and quite honestly, it's been years since I had sex that was so deeply satisfying."

He continued, "I know that this thing between the two of us is probably a bad idea, but to be honest with you, I really don't care; I'd like to continue this if you would like that."

Again, I hadn't expected to hear anything remotely like what he said, but I nodded shyly and said softly that I'd like that.

He gave me one of his really great smiles and moved closer, kissing me softly and then more deeply. He broke the embrace after about a minute, sighing regretfully. "I'd love if we could just have a repeat performance, but I really do have some work to do, and I'm sure that you have more than a few projects that you need to work on."

I smiled and kissed his cheek, walking out slowly and closing the door behind me...all the while wondering exactly what the hell I was getting myself into.

It's Always the Quiet Ones



The lights go down for the night, the adrenalin of performance still burning in my stomach as I drown out the vacant cheers of another faceless audience. It somehow just isn't the same anymore. I feel myself losing my bravado, feel the rehearsed passion draining, and I crank the façade into gear again with a vicious swing of my ample hips as I strut off to the seedy place they call a dressing room. 

'What the fuck did you expect, dollface?' I think to myself, that self-loathing little excuse for a conscience flitting about my shoulders on her discouraging wings. 'This isn't nothing but a damn titty bar, so stop trying to tell yourself you're an artist. Burlesque is just what strippers say to feel less pathetic.' There isn't an ounce of my being that doubts that truth, but I push it back to the corners of my mind in favor of the more convenient comfort of cigarettes and gin. 

By the time I realize I need a drink, I notice one already waiting for me at the makeup counter, a brilliant oasis in the desert of lipstick tubes and stockings. Smiling to myself, I grab the drink and sit in the chair, long and shapely legs swung over the side, teetering pendulums of flesh and fishnet and patent leather.

I light my cigarette and the long-awaited nicotine blurs the doubt and regret for a beautiful but brief moment before I throw back the drink and relish the delicious, perfect numb like the reassuring whisper of a lover. Through the haze of smoke and second thoughts, I catch a glimpse of myself in the elegant, Victorian looking glass—their failing attempt at vintage class—and the revolting surrender in my doppelganger's eyes makes the two of us cringe in unison. 

I search the mirror desperately for something more in those large, dark eyes, silently begging my reflection to restore some of the decency once held in the onyx orbs. After a moment, I break the staring contest with a flutter of lids shadowed a shimmering violet like a fairy's tell-tale signs of sleep deprivation or a mermaid's contusion. I stop for a moment to bring myself back to reality, focusing on the sensation of long, ebony lashes against my alabaster cheek bones and the flickering light behind my eyes. With a sigh, another veil of blue-grey smoke escapes my full, cherry-painted lips and obscures the porcelain face of my looking glass twin.

Three tentative knocks grace the dressing room door, and an equally uncertain voice timidly inquires, "Zoe? Are you decent?" as though I hadn't just disrobed for an entire audience only moments ago. The voice's cautious, antique chivalry makes me feel more like some coquettish, Renaissance beauty than a cheap cabaret act, and I smile.

I wonder for a brief instant what he means by 'decent', and look down at my exposed breasts before tugging gently at one of the silver rings interrupting the soft, dusty, rose color of each areola, enjoying the slight sting that runs up the ivory curve of my breast like an electrical current.

"You can come in, Nate," I assure him, and the door swings open. His eyes widen in surprise, and he drops the armful of my discarded clothing to the floor, freeing his arms to shield his eyes. 

"I-I'm s-s-sorry," he says, swift and nervous.

"Nate," I purr, the fabricated seduction in my voice as thick as old honey, "It's okay." His eyes meet mine, shy grey and unyielding ebony. Nate's pupils grow with some emotion or feeling I can't quite identify, oil drop obsidian spreading across eyes the perfect color of statue stone without the slightest hint of the material's hardness. Nate has always had the charming ability to be innocent and vicious in one conflicting instant. It showed now, his nervousness and raw desire taking stage in his storm cloud eyes like twin contortionists in a Vaudeville show, a precarious knot of clashing philosophies. I hold his gaze for a perfect moment before he blinks rapidly like a man waking from a dream, and rushes to pick up the dropped garments.

"Still, I'm sorry," he says, the pseudo-calm in his voice just as much an act as the passion served up on the stage earlier. "It's just that you said—"

"It's fine," I assure him, crimson lips spreading in a genuine smile, and he nods, setting the clothing on a vacant table. He looks at the empty glass still clutched in my delicate snowflake fingers, nails polished the dangerous color of vinyl tapping gently at the side.

"I figured you'd need that," he says, and his voice has a bitter tone I'd never heard before. 

"Yeah," I said, feeling guilty for no direct reason. "Thanks, sugar." I part my lips slightly, but the words die on my tongue, and the stillborn thought is forgotten.

"I'm getting a new job," he says, as he rifles through the assortment of clothes, finding my corset, "at a theatre." He stops to look me over, his gaze vaguely scrutinizing.

"We'll miss you, sweetheart," I say, and for once, it isn't a lie. I rise from the chair slowly like a predator or a harlot being lead to the guillotine, and we begin the tired routine. He brushes my raven hair to the front, careful with his touch as though the strands are spun from black, volcanic glass and are more precious than their reality. 

With the movement, my violet-dyed bangs fall into my eyes, and he reaches to tuck them behind my gauged ears. It reminds me of something a mother would do, something out of place in this house of ill repute. I look at myself for what feels like an eternity, looking much younger than twenty-two in that moment, eyes wide with anticipation for things I can't place.

"I like it," he says, and I'm not sure what he means until I feel his cool fingers drag along the fresh ink scar slowly, reading the tattoo like braille enclosed in the skin of my shoulder. I don't answer for a moment, and I see him frown in the mirror. "You always get beautiful tattoos," he elaborates, trying to solicit acknowledgement, and punctuates his sentence by running his broad hands across my back and down my arms, as though I may have forgotten where the tapestries of art and pain were located. 

"Thank you," I say, finally, and he wraps my corset around my waste, his fingers working their swift and practiced dance, a frenzy of buttons and snaps across my abdomen. I briefly wonder why he's snapping it from behind until I remember the look he gave for that tiny instant our eyes had locked.

"Is it too loose in the back?" Nate asks and I move a bit to test its fit.

"A little, but it's okay. Your shift's over," I tell him, and I don't mean it. A weird knot forms in my stomach that screams that it isn't okay, that he needs to stay here forever because he's the only thing keeping me sane in this seedy, little brothel.

"No, it's okay, Zoe. Really," Nate says, sliding his hands across the swell of my hips, and I shiver during his entire, painstakingly slow journey to the laces in the back. I curse myself for losing control, remembering who I am. I'm the one who undoes people with the simple swish of my hand. I'm the one who provokes, who invades dreams with the indifferent dazzle of a vampire's kiss. Not Nathaniel Barry, with his thick, plastic glasses, messy, blond hair, haplessly handsome face, and graceless stride.

He finishes swiftly and silently, the leather and lace tightness a distracting discomfort. My nipples stiffen in the cold room, and I curse myself for having picked tonight to wear the corset that doesn't cover my breasts, the one meant only to restrict and entice. As he slides his hands down my back and away from his lacings, his calloused fingers brush my backside and I gasp at their completely incidental touch in spite of myself.

I turn slowly towards him, and he rubs his neck awkwardly, a sleepy little kid gesture that makes me smile. "You know, you make it look good somehow," he almost whispers, and I cock an eyebrow. "The whole 'goth' thing, I mean," and when he reaches toward me the effort to stay put is agonizing. He gently touches my pierced eyebrow, moving slowly down and I close my eyes as his finger finds the bridge of my nose. Down further, and he brushes my nose ring, and the Monroe piercing in my upper lip like a cyborg's beauty mark. I seize the silver ring in my lower lip before his touch finds it an open my eyes.

"You don't deserve to be in this place," he says, his voice still a sensual whisper like the cool crush of autumn leaves. He holds my face, his thumb stroking my cheek, and with the softest brush of lips, I let out a small moan. His eyes find mine and catch me in their steel marble beauty. Another kiss, this one braver than before, and the masquerade slips away as I give in to his touch. 

He bites my lip gently, begging for access, and I whimper desperately. He lets the supple flesh slide from his teeth and then crushes our lips together hard, tongues battling for dominance and probing desperately at one another. His mouth tastes of cigarettes and something sweet, the ghost flavor of some candy or soda haunting his tongue. He breaks the kiss first, the stubborn need for breath interrupting the simple ecstasy of his lips pressed to mine.

"Zoe..." he breathes—just one word—and it 

sounds like the most brilliant of symphonies. I tremble at his hot breath and he nips gently at the silver ring in my ear before whispering, "Are you sure about this?"

I nod, the only thing my racing mind can manage at the moment, and he smiles as he kisses his way to my neck. I bite my kiss-swollen lips in anticipation, eyes half-lidded and absolutely no room inside my mind for anything but the soft lips pressed to my throat and the fingers ghosting along my collar bone. Without warning, he bites down hard, and I call his name as my eyes snap open.

Nate continues biting down, nipping and licking. as waves of pleasure and pain make their way from my neck to the dampness between my legs. He roughly kneads my breast in his strong hands and I bite my own lip harder, drawing blood to stifle a moan. His kisses move down, growing more hungry and urgent until his hand is replaced by his mouth. I growl low and primal in my throat as he pulls my breast away from my body by the glistening steel ring. His mouth releases me and in one dizzying instant I find myself on the countertop, his hands on my hips. The tender love in his eyes is glazed over by passion and raw, immediate need. Whatever started this isn't there anymore and I catch my hands shaking. 

With practiced touch, he unsnaps the garters holding up my stockings and hooks his thumbs through the skimpy band of elastic on my thong, easing them over my thighs. His touch is the only thing of significance now, and even the slow, somewhat ticklish sensation of him sliding my panties down my legs sends a jolt of pleasure to my rapidly moistening sex.

Suddenly, his thin t-shirt seemed like a brick wall between us, and I strip it from his body in a violent and rapid motion the moment he surfaces, running my hands up the velvet-smooth skin of his back. 

My breath is uncontrollable now, and I've never wanted anything so badly in my life. "Please, Nate," I gasp.

"Please what?" he asks in mock surprise, his hand inching painfully slow up my inner thigh. 

"God damnit, Nate," I sigh impatiently, desperate for his hand to go that one extra inch that may as well be a mile. "I want you so fucking bad right now. Please..."

"As you wish, my dear," and his voice pours from his lips like liquid silk. 

He parts my lips slowly and eases two fingers into my wet and waiting cavern. I borderline scream, and bite the lean, muscular curve of his shoulder and as I dig my nails into his back. In that moment, I felt utterly complete, his fingers inside of me better than any boy's cock or girl's gaudy strap-on simply because they were his fingers. 

I feel the welcome intruders curl inside of me, and an involuntary shudder rips itself from my vocal chords, a pleading and anxious sound so unlike my own voice that I wonder if I'll ever be the same after his touch. He smiles a wicked, possessive smile and increases his pace. He moves in and out with dexterity and vigor, curling and uncurling, and all the while his eyes burning into mine. His thumb nail digs into my clit and the pleasure is so intense it borders on agony. His name throws itself from my lips again, and my body spasms slightly. Nate responds with a sinister and carnal laugh and an abrupt end to the sweet torture of his certain hands.

While vaguely sentient, I take the opportunity to pull him into me by his belt loops, and the venomous crush of him through the denim to soaking flesh is enough to start me trembling again. My deft fingers work to undo his pants in a helpless and restless rush of movement, and when he's finally free my eyes widen. The sight of his hard cock is Halloween candy sweet, delicious fear and wild expectancy.

I wrap my fingers around the thick shaft, vanilla pale on blood-surged pink, and slowly make the nine-inch journey to the dripping head. A sudden surge of compassion surfaces in his eyes, and his hand finds mine. "Wait," he breathes, and I stop, hoping he hasn't changed his mind. 

"I'm on the pill, if that's what you're—"

"No, no... It's not that," he says, and for a moment after there's only the wet drumbeat of my heart pounding in my ears. He runs his fingers through my hair, and looks deep into my eyes, the sudden tenderness of the moment almost heartbreaking after the harsh torrent of passion. "This is going to hurt," he says with a soft chuckle absent of any humor.

I kiss him gently, my way of promising that it's okay, and the head of his gorgeous cock rubs against my wet entrance. He shudders and pulls my hair as he deepens the kiss and thrusts in. He hadn't been lying, and the rush of pain catches me off guard. I almost want to scream, but my throat only allows for a strangled squeak. He's still for a moment, allowing me to adjust to his size, and I nod as a signal for him continue.

He pulls out slowly, his hands gripping my hips in an effort to maintain control, before thrusting back in. The sound from my mouth is ridiculous and absolutely mad with masochistic delight. Each movement is executed with more and more ease, my liquid arousal coating and slicking his manhood. 

Soon, there's no pain at all, only impossible waves of pleasure. Warmth spreads over my body, alive with the feel of him. "Oh, fuck. . . Zoe," he grunts over and over, some protective mantra guarding this flawless moment, and my name loses its meaning; everything loses its meaning but the jackhammer pound of him into me. 

I grip his shoulders tightly and cry out, wanting it to be over and hoping it never ends in one contradictory thought. The unbearable ecstasy rips through me, each ebb and flow of this agonizingly beautiful sexual tide virgin-fresh with impossible desire. 

He's close now, his rhythm becoming erratic and vocals becoming less controlled, the masculine grunts and choking gasps giving way to a brilliant chorus of tenor moans. He digs his nails into my hips as he comes, tiny crescents of pain blossoming in the garden of pleasure as his seed spills into me. The combined sensation of blood down my hips and his hot cum is scalding, and with a few more thrusts, I join him. I clamp desperately and wildly around him, and when I feel the pressure release, I scream, loud and graceless.

Nate kisses my cheek softly, and I can't help but smile at the awkward way he clears and adjusts his now crooked and steam-fogged glasses. He gently lifts me to my feet, and mutters and apology, handing me a towel. I shake my head, the smile on my face unwavering as I clean myself up.

"Zoe?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Would you want to. . . maybe. . . you know, go to dinner or something?" He pulls his rumpled clothes back on and uselessly attempts to smooth this hair. 

"I'd like that," I reply.

"I'll wait for you in the parking lot," he tells me with a soft kiss, leaving me to get dressed. I marvel at his respect, a gentlemen even after having screwed me into the counter. 

I look into the mirror, and see something that hadn't been there before, a careless sort of beauty in my messy hair and faded lipstick. I slip on a bra and new panties as another dancer walks in and laughs.

"I didn't think he had it in him," she says, and I feign confusion.

"Whatever do you mean?" I pull a black dress over my head, trying to focus on adjusting my garters so I don't have to meet the dancer's eyes.

"Oh, come on, Zoe," she says, poking me in the ribs. "But, seriously? Nate? He's about as sexy as an abused puppy." I ignore the statement and reapply lipstick in the reflective glass. "I guess we all expected it," she continues. "I mean, the boy's had a hard-on for you for the past three years. He's completely in love with you. From the look of you, you don't mind so much."

I look at myself in the mirror, and something new sparks in my eyes, something warm and alive, the missing puzzle piece. I look at her and her smile fades, eyes widening.

"Oh, sweet merciful Jesus, you're in love," she says, and I shrug, ice queen diva mask slipping back into place. 

"Shut the hell up, Veronica," I say, and before I'm out the door, I hear her mutter something in an incredulous voice.

"It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"