Thesis on Pleasure - Chapter 4

The book felt heavy in her hands, an aged edition of Crime and Punishment with page edges yellowed by time. The campus library was nearly deserted, the silence punctuated only by the distant hum of a projector in a classroom. As she thumbed through the pages, the note fell into her lap, a folded piece of paper with handwriting she instantly recognized.

Today, room 204. Lock the door. Don't utter a word.

His heart was pounding before his brain could even comprehend the meaning. He was certain she would come. He knew she would take that book.

She glanced around, as if someone might be spying, but the hallways were vacant. Even so, her hands shook as she slipped the note into her denim pocket.

Room 204 was situated on the second floor of the college's oldest edifice, where the fluorescent lights flickered and the aroma of chalk and polished wood filled the air. She climbed the stairs gradually, each step echoing like a magnified heartbeat. When she nudged the door open, she discovered the room was vacant, the partially drawn curtains filtering the late afternoon sun, casting a warm amber hue on the walls.

Her heart throbbed in her chest as she twisted the key in the lock. The click was definitive.

There was no moment to ponder.

The door creaked open behind her, and before she could pivot, a warm figure pressed her against the icy surface of the chalkboard. Her wrist was seized, her fingers intertwined with his as he immobilized her. His breath, hot and ragged, seared the nape of her neck.

"You came," he rasped, his voice raw, as if he had already discerned her lack of resistance.

She remained silent. Not a word.

His lips traced her neck, sharp teeth grazing her soft skin, and she arched against him with a suppressed moan. His hands explored her body possessively, gripping her hips, drawing her back until she felt his desires.

"You were already drenched before you even stepped in here, weren't you?" he whispered, his hand sliding down her pants, pressing against the moist fabric.

She bit her lip, but a shiver gave her away.

He chuckled, the sound low and ominous.

"Respond."

"Yes."

The word slipped out as if it were a confession.

It was sufficient.

He spun her around, his hands firmly on her waist, and lifted her as if she were weightless. Her back slammed against the blackboard, the impact softened by his body fitting between her legs. Their lips met with intensity, their tongues entwining, teeth colliding.

He controlled every move, every breath, and she yielded, allowing his hands to explore, his mouth to claim.

"Kneel."

She complied, sliding from the blackboard to the floor, amidst the rows of vacant chairs. He unfastened his belt with slow, calculated movements, before unzipping. He was already aroused, impatient, when he emerged from his pants.

"Open your mouth."

She did so, her tongue extended in offering, and he groaned as he enveloped her lips with his. His hands clenched in her hair, setting the rhythm, and she allowed it, allowed him to use her mouth, to fill her, to reduce her to this—just this—just him.

But he craved more.

He hoisted her back up, rotated her to face the chalkboard, and bent her torso forward.

"Hang on."

She clung to the edge of the chalkboard, her fingers turning white from the pressure, as he entered her in one swift motion. She let out a muffled scream into her own arm as he filled her entirely, every inch, every curve.

— Each time — he growled, his hands on her hips, pulling her back with each thrust — you feel tighter.

She couldn't think, only feel—the heat, the pressure, the way he stretched her, as if aiming to reach even deeper. Her legs were quivering, but he kept her upright, holding her firmly, leaving marks on her skin that would later turn into bruises.

When his fingers found her clitoris, she let out a moan, her body tensing.

"You're going to climax", he commanded, his voice gruff. "Now."

And she complied, as she always did, pleasure washing over her in waves, plunging her into an abyss of pure fire. He held her as she trembled, but did not stop, continued to move within her, each thrust more intense, deeper, until his own body tensed. He buried his face in her neck, a muffled growl against her skin as he reached climax.

For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and distant footsteps echoing down the hallway.

He was the first to pull away, adjusting his clothes with deliberate movements, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She remained leaning against the chalkboard, her legs weak, her skin marked.

It was then that he picked up her underwear from the floor, folded them with care, and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

"Do you want this back?" he asked, a challenge gleaming in his eyes.

She knew the answer. She knew it was no.

When she exited the room, her body still trembling, the note in her pocket felt as if it were searing against her thigh.

Don't utter a word.

She didn't have to.

He was already aware.

The corridor was deserted when she left, the late afternoon light now a golden hue, almost melancholic. Her footsteps echoed in the silence, and she squeezed her thighs together, still feeling him inside her, like a stain that couldn't be wiped away.

He had departed already.

It was always the same—he would vanish afterward, as if nothing had transpired, as if she were merely a secret confined within four walls.

She drew in a deep breath, straightened her blouse, and traced her fingers over her swollen lips. His taste, salty and intense, still lingered in her mouth.

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket.

She hesitated before checking it, already knowing too well who it would be from.

"Library. Now."

The message had no signature, but she didn't need one. Her stomach twisted in knots, yet her legs were already guiding her back, almost without her realizing it.

The library was even more deserted now, with most students having already left for home or the local bars. The towering shelves cast lengthy shadows, and the air was scented with the smell of old paper and dust.

He was seated at one of the rear tables, a book spread open before him, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as though he were engrossed in study. But she recognized that expression—cool, analytical—and she knew he wasn't reading a thing.

She approached silently, halting just a few inches away from the table.

He didn't raise his eyes.

"Have a seat."

She complied, sliding into the chair opposite him. Their knees brushed under the table, and she caught a glimpse of his mouth twitching slightly upwards.

"Did you enjoy it?" he inquired, his voice soft, almost scholarly, as though discussing a philosophical quandary.

She swallowed hard.

"You know I did."