Late-Night Lessons - Chapter 3 - Correct Chapter

Trapped in a dorm with his dominant jock roommate, straight Alex surrenders to filthy late-night lessons in submission, shame, and aching desire.

So you’ve been asking what the characters look like…

I went ahead and made FREE cast pics for you: https://tylerjboe.carrd.co

I only came out to my parents and friends recently. For a long time I thought I was damaged because I have a hell of a cum fetish - anything cum. I finally feel at peace with myself, and a lot of that is thanks to you readers.

I write these stories and fantasies to share them with you—and to see if I can get you to cum as many times as I have writing them. Especially this one, because it’s been my deepest fantasy forever.

Feel free to share it with me: did I get you to cum? How much poured out? How did it feel—coating your tongue (or landing hot on your skin)? The exact second you gave in… did you taste it? Swallow? Feed it to someone else?

If you’re feeling brave, tell me your favorite line or the moment you lost control.

New chapters every week (early week).

TJB

[email protected]

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Chapter 3

The night it changed again was a Tuesday. I'd managed to avoid him all day, holing up in the library until the building closed. I thought I was safe. I came in quietly, hoping he was asleep. He wasn't. He was sitting on the edge of my bed, in the dark, waiting.

The door clicked shut behind me, the sound unnaturally loud. I froze, my hand on the light switch.

"Leave it off," he said. His voice was a low rumble in the darkness.

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Tyler? What are you—"

"Shut up," he said. "Come here."

My feet moved on their own, shuffling across the small space until I was standing in front of him. I could just barely make out his shape in the faint glow from the streetlights outside the window. He was shirtless, wearing just a pair of sweats.

He reached out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me down. I stumbled, falling to my knees on the hard floor between his legs. The position sent a jolt of pure panic through me. This was new. This was lower. More submissive.

He didn't speak. He just guided my hand to the opening in his sweats. He was already hard, hot, and ready. My fingers closed around him, the motion automatic, learned. My other hand braced against his thigh for balance. The muscle there was solid as rock beneath my touch.

"Use both hands," he commanded.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second. Both hands? The idea of it was overwhelming, more intense, more... all-encompassing. My left hand, my good hand, the one that wrote my papers, that I ate with—that was my hand. The right one, the one that did this, was already tainted. But both? That was a bridge too far.

His free hand came to rest on the back of my neck, a warm, heavy weight. "Don't think," he said, his voice a quiet warning. "Just do it."

My resolve crumbled. I brought my other hand up, cupping him underneath, while my right hand resumed its familiar, rhythmic stroking. The dual sensation was immediately different, more intense. The slick sounds were louder in the quiet room. His hips rocked up, pushing into the tunnel of my hands. The hand on my neck tightened, his fingers digging into my hair, holding me in place. He was in control of every part of this.

"Look at me," he said.

My eyes, which had been fixed on the dark fabric of his sweats, slowly lifted. I couldn't see his expression clearly, just the silhouette of his head and shoulders against the faint city glow. But I could feel his gaze, heavy and expectant.

"Good," he murmured. The single word of approval sent a confusing jolt through me. My mind recoiled in disgust, but my body... my body felt a tiny, terrifying flicker of something else. Pride? It was so absurd I almost laughed, a hysterical bubble rising in my throat. I choked it down.

He started dictating the pace, his grip on my neck guiding my head up and down slightly, a subtle, rhythmic pressure that my hands were forced to match. Faster. Slower. A twist at the top. I was no longer a person; I was an extension of his will, a tool for his pleasure. My mind went blank, a white wall of static, and I just focused on the mechanics, the physical task at hand.

"Your hands are soft," he said, his voice a low rumble. It was an observation, not a compliment, but it landed like a stone in the quiet room. My hands, which I kept meticulously clean, which had never known a day of manual labor, were now dedicated to this sordid, intimate purpose. I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking out the shape of him, the silhouette of my own disgrace.

He shifted, spreading his legs wider, giving me more room. The movement forced me to lean in closer, until my face was only inches from him. The scent was overwhelming—clean laundry, the faint, lingering spice of his deodorant, and underneath it all, that core, musky smell of him, of sex and sweat and skin. I could feel the heat radiating from him, warm against my face.

"Open your eyes," he commanded again.

I obeyed, my gaze tracing the line of hair that disappeared under the waistband of his sweats, up the flat planes of his stomach, to the dark hollows of his chest. I couldn't make out his face, and for that, I was pathetically grateful. Seeing his expression would be too much. Seeing the satisfaction, the ownership in his eyes would shatter the fragile walls of my denial.

His breathing grew heavier, the sound loud in the small space. His hips began to move more deliberately, a shallow thrusting rhythm that my hands followed. The hand on my neck tightened, a proprietary hold that I couldn't, and wouldn't, break. I was trapped, kneeling on the floor in the dark between my roommate's legs, using both of my hands to get him off. The thought was so foreign, so repulsive, that my stomach cramped.

"Slower," he grunted. "Tighter."

I adjusted my grip, my fingers working in concert. My left hand cradled him, providing a base of pressure, while my right focused on the head, my thumb circling the slick, sensitive ridge. I didn't know where I'd learned that. I hadn't. It was instinct, a horrible, intuitive knowledge of how to please him that had been beaten into me over weeks of these sessions. A sob tried to crawl up my throat, and I swallowed it down, the taste acidic.

"Faster now," he panted. "Don't stop."

My arms began to ache with the unfamiliar exertion, a dull burn in my biceps and forearms. The slick, rhythmic sounds were the only music in the world, a percussive beat counting down to an inevitable conclusion. I focused on the burn in my muscles, on the hard floor pressing into my knees, on anything but the hot, rigid flesh in my hands, the twitching pulse I could feel against my palms.

He was getting close. I could tell by the way his breath hitched, by the tension that coiled through his thighs, by the way the hand on my neck became a vise. His hips jerked upward, a sudden, sharp thrust that pushed him deeper into the circle of my hands.

"Fuck," he gritted out, a raw, guttural sound.

It happened then. Not a slow, gentle overflow, but a sudden, violent eruption. The first hot spurt hit me square in the chest, splattering against my t-shirt with a wet smack. I flinched violently, a choked cry escaping my lips, but the hands on my neck held me fast. The next pulse hit my chin, warm and sticky, and another on my cheek. It was everywhere, on my neck, my hands, dripping down my forearms. The sheer volume of it, the heat, the intimacy of it, was a violation of a new and terrifying order.

I froze, my hands stopping their motion, my mind completely blanked by shock.

"Keep going," he growled, his voice strained. "Finish it."

Tears of humiliation and panic stung my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I kept my head down, my hands moving automatically, milking him of every last drop until he was shuddering and soft in my grip. The mess was monumental. I could feel it cooling on my skin, a sticky, tightening film. I could smell it, sharp and salty, filling my lungs with every ragged breath I took.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh, a sound of utter contentment. The pressure on my neck eased, but he didn't let go. His thumb stroked gently over the nape of my neck, a possessive, soothing gesture that was more chilling than any command.

"Look at the mess you made," he said, his voice quiet, almost conversational. "All over yourself."

My face burned with a shame so profound it felt like a physical heat. I was the one covered in it. I hadn't just been the tool; I was the canvas.

"Clean it," he said. The words were simple, direct. He wasn't talking about getting a washcloth this time.

My head snapped up, my eyes wide with disbelief. I could just make out the glint of his in the dim light. No. No. Not that.I shook my head, a tiny, frantic motion. "I... I can get a towel," I whispered, my voice cracking.

He made a soft, disappointed sound. "Don't be difficult, Alex. You made the mess. You clean it up. With your tongue."

My entire body revolted. My stomach heaved, a sour taste flooding my mouth. I tried to scramble back, to pull away from him, but the hand on my neck tightened, an iron clamp that held me in place. His other hand came up to my chin, his fingers gripping me firmly, forcing my head up.

"Open," he commanded.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my jaw clamped shut. This was it. This was the line. The one I absolutely could not cross.

"Alex," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be." He applied pressure with his thumb, forcing it against the hinge of my jaw. I got up and ran to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, breathing heavily against it in disbelief. I couldn't believe he expected me to lick it off. I obsessively started washing myself of his cum. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands and face until they were red and raw, my reflection staring back at me. It was a nightmare. A living nightmare.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy in the small, tiled room. I could still hear my own ragged breathing, the frantic thud of my own heart against my ribs. I was leaning against the door, a barrier between him and me, but it felt flimsy, made of paper instead of wood. He was out there. Waiting.

I looked in the mirror again. A stranger looked back. Pale, wide-eyed, with a raw-looking pink patch on his cheek where I'd scrubbed too hard. My hands were a mess of red, angry skin. The smell of the cheap floral soap from the dispenser did little to cover the scent that still seemed to cling to me, a phantom musk in my nostrils.

He can't make me. He can't force that. I'll leave. I'll sleep in the common room. I'll go to campus security. I'll... The thoughts were a frantic, desperate litany, but I knew they were lies. I wouldn't go to security. What would I say? My roommate wants me to lick his cum off my face? They'd laugh. Or worse, they'd look at me with that same pitying disgust I saw in my own reflection. I was trapped. Trapped by my own shame.

A soft knock on the door. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not angry. Just a reminder.

"Alex," his voice came through, muffled but clear. "Don't make me come in there."

My body tensed, every muscle coiling. The threat was unspoken but absolute. I could either open the door myself, or he would open it for me. I took a shuddering breath, the air tasting of soap and fear. My hand, still red and smarting, reached for the doorknob. The metal was cold under my trembling fingers. I turned it.

The door swung inward. He was standing right there, a large, imposing figure filling the doorway. He had pulled on a pair of loose shorts, but was still shirtless, the dim light from the room carving shadows across the muscles of his chest and abdomen. His expression was unreadable in the gloom.

He didn't say a word. He just stepped forward, forcing me to back up into the small bathroom until my back hit the cool tiles of the wall. He reached past me, and I flinched, expecting a blow. But he just turned off the light, plunging us into near-total darkness. The only illumination was the faint, gray light seeping in from the window in the main room.

The darkness made it worse. It amplified my other senses. I could smell him, the clean scent of soap from his recent shower, mixed with the warm, living scent of his skin. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, just inches from mine. I could hear the quiet, steady sound of his breathing.

"Show me your hands," he said, his voice a low murmur.

Confused, I held them up, palms out, in the space between us. He took one of my wrists—my right one, the tainted one—and guided it. My fingers brushed against the damp, rumpled towel I'd used. He pressed my fingertips into the fabric.

I felt it. A small, stiff patch, dried and crusty against my skin. A bit of him that I'd missed. My stomach churned.

"You missed a spot," he said. He didn't sound angry, just... matter-of-fact. He brought the towel, with my hand still holding it, up toward my face. "Clean it."

My mind screamed. No. Not again. But he wasn't asking. He was pressing the towel to my lips. The fabric was rough against my mouth. The scent was faint but undeniable. A salty, musky tang.

"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. His other hand came up to rest on the back of my neck, a familiar, heavy weight. A warning. A promise.

My jaw was locked tight. I couldn't. I wouldn't. It was one thing to have it on my skin, another to taste it. That was a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

He applied a little more pressure with the towel, rubbing it gently against my sealed lips. The rough texture, the faint, lingering scent of him. His thumb on my neck stroked a slow, rhythmic circle, a hypnotic, calming gesture that was at odds with the horror of the situation.

"It's just a little taste," he murmured, his voice almost gentle. "You already know what it smells like. You already know what it feels like." His thumb pressed a little harder into the muscle at the base of my skull. A point of pressure that made my whole body go a little slack. "Just a taste. To see."

The word "see" echoed in my head. See what? That I was disgusting? That I was his? The pressure on my neck increased, a steady, inexorable force. My body almost betraying me, I decided to stop it right there and then. "I can't, Tyler. I'm ok helping you here and there, but this is past my limit. I won't do that. I'm not gay."

In the dark I can see a smirk on Tyler's face, and in the most nonchalant and disarming way, his expression lightened. "I'm just messing with you buddy. It's all good. Great work today." I am almost in tears from the relief, from the fact that my plea has made him back off. "Now get out here and let's finish the movie. We're at the best part."

He moves past me out of the bathroom, and I feel an intense wave of relief as I watch him. He climbs onto my bed, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I walk back into the room, my body trembling.

I'm scared, but the previous relief still hasn't completely worn off, and I'm not sure if I should be. "What's up?"

"Where do you think you're going?" He says with a smirk. "Come on. Watch the movie from up here." He pats the spot next to him. I'm not sure what to do, but I don't want to risk provoking him, so I climb onto my bed, and sit next to him. The mattress dips under our combined weight, and I'm hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from his body. I am now pressed against his side. I can feel the muscle of his arm against mine, the hard line of his thigh against my own. I try to focus on the TV screen, on the loud explosions and the dramatic music, but my senses are all tuned to him.

Within 5 minutes, I can feel him dosing off, relief. I debate between staying in my bed, trying to sleep, sleeping in his bed, or at my desk. I slowly get up and he falls over onto my pillow. Out cold. Perfect. I am safe tonight. I grab my pillow and head to the top bunk, crawling in. His sheets are messy, and they smell intensely of him. A potent, heady mix of laundry detergent, deodorant, and that underlying, musky scent of sweat and skin. It's a smell I've come to know too well, the scent of my own private humiliation. I bury my face in the pillow, trying to find a clean spot, but it's useless. The smell is everywhere. It's in the fabric, in the air I'm breathing. It's filling my lungs, getting into my blood. My body, my traitorous body, responds. A low thrum of heat starts in my stomach, a confusing, unwelcome warmth. I shift, trying to get comfortable, trying to ignore the way my own dick is starting to stir. This isn't me, I tell myself, the mantra a weak shield against the rising tide of sensation. It's just the smell. It's a biological reaction. It doesn't mean anything.

But it's hard to believe that when I'm lying in his bed, surrounded by him. I close my eyes, but the images behind my eyelids are of him. Of his hands on me, of the look in his eyes, of the feel of him in my hands. I'm a mess of contradictions, a straight boy who gets hard from the smell of his roommate's sheets. The thought is so absurd, so horrifying, that a choked, hysterical laugh escapes my lips. I clap a hand over my own mouth, terrified of waking him.

The silence of the room presses in on me, broken only by the faint hum of the mini-fridge and the distant, muffled sounds of the campus at night. I lie there, stiff and tense, in the top bunk. The bed feels foreign, too big, too empty. My own bed, just a few feet below, feels a million miles away. I'm an exile in my own room. I curl into a ball, pulling the scratchy blanket up to my chin, and try to think about anything else. About my physics midterm. About the cute girl in my English class. About my parents. But my thoughts keep circling back to him. To the warmth of his body next to mine. To the way he'd called me "good boy." To the terrifying, almost-breakthrough in the bathroom.

I don't know how long I lie there, caught in a loop of shame and confusion, before I finally drift off into a restless, fragmented sleep. I dream of running down endless, dark hallways, of a voice calling my name, of a pair of hands that are always just behind me.

***

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of his alarm. It's a shrill, piercing noise that cuts through my sleep-addled brain. For a moment, I'm disoriented. I'm not in my bed. The ceiling is too high. Then it all comes back to me in a sickening rush. The bathroom. The towel. The movie. The top bunk.

I sit up, my head pounding. He's already up, standing by his desk, stretching. The morning light filtering through the window does cruel, clear things to the room. It illuminates the dust bunnies under the bed, the stale pizza crusts on the nightstand, and the hard, defined lines of Tyler's body as he raises his arms over his head. He's wearing just a pair of boxer briefs, and the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple with the movement. I look away, my face flushing.

He catches my eye as he lowers his arms. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. "Sleep well?" he asks, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Fine," I mumble, swinging my legs over the side of the bunk. I land on the floor with a soft thud, avoiding his gaze. I need to get out of here. I need a shower. I need to wash the smell of him off my skin, out of my hair.

"Hey," he says. I stop, my back to him. "You left a mess."

My heart sinks. I turn around slowly. He's pointing at his bed, at the pillow I slept on. There, in the center of the pale blue pillowcase, is a dark, damp spot. A wet spot. A drool spot. My drool. From sleeping in his bed.

My face ignites. I feel the heat creep up my neck, scalding my ears. It's one thing for him to violate me, to force me into these degrading acts. It's another thing entirely for me to leave a piece of myself, a mark of my own pathetic presence, on his bed.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammer, my voice barely a whisper.

He shrugs, a graceful, indifferent movement. "It's just a pillowcase. Toss it in the hamper."

I scurry over, grabbing the pillow and yanking the case off. I ball it up in my fist, the fabric still slightly damp, and turn to shove it into the laundry hamper.

"Wait," he says. I freeze, my hand hovering over the lid. He walks over, a predator moving in on its prey. He takes the pillowcase from my hand. He doesn't look at the wet spot. He looks at me.

"You know," he says, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble, "this is starting to be a problem."

"What is?" I ask, my throat tight.

He gestures vaguely between the two of us. "This. The... cleaning up." He holds up the pillowcase, then lets it drop to the floor. He looks down at me, a strange, considering look in his eyes. "It's inefficient."

I have no idea where he's going with this. My mind is a blank slate of panic. He's not angry. That's almost scarier. Anger I understand. This cool, analytical calculation is something new and terrifying.

"There's a better way," he continues, stepping closer. I instinctively take a step back, but I'm already against the hamper. There's nowhere to go. "Less mess. Less laundry. Just... tidier."

He's so close now I can feel the warmth coming off his skin. He smells of sleep and that faint, ever-present scent of him. My heart is a frantic bird beating against my ribs.

"What do you mean?" I whisper, the words barely audible.

He doesn't answer with words. He just looks down at me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches out, his movements slow and deliberate, and places the tip of his index finger on my lower lip.

The touch is electric. A jolt of pure, undiluted shock runs through me. His finger is calloused, warm, and firm. It rests on my lip, a light but undeniable pressure. My entire body freezes. Every muscle tenses. My breathing stops. It's just a finger. Just the tip of a finger. But it feels like a brand, a claim being staked.

My world narrows to this single point of contact. The texture of his fingerprint against the sensitive skin of my lip. The slight pressure. The sheer, unadulterated wrongness of it. I've been kissed by girls before, clumsy, dry-lipped pecks behind the library. This is nothing like that. This is a violation. A line being crossed so delicately, so insidiously, that I'm not even sure how to fight it.

"See?" he murmurs, his voice a deep vibration that I feel more than hear. "Just a little bit. Right here." He traces the outline of my bottom lip with his finger, a slow, possessive stroke. My lips are sealed, a tight line of resistance.

"Relax," he says, the word a soft command. The hand on my neck is back, a heavy, familiar weight. His thumb presses into that same spot, the base of my skull, sending a strange, shuddering wave of relaxation through my body. It's an instinctual response, a predator's pressure point that my primate brain can't ignore. My jaw loosens, just a fraction. Enough.

His index finger presses forward, slipping between my lips. The taste of him explodes in my mouth. It's not bad, not good. It's just... him. A faint, salty tang. The slightly rough texture of his skin against my tongue. I don't move. I don't breathe. I am a statue, a receptacle for this intrusion. He pushes in a little deeper, until the pad of his finger is resting on my tongue.

He curls his finger slightly, a small, beckoning motion. My tongue flinches away, a panicked, involuntary movement. He makes a soft, impatient sound, and presses down a little more firmly. The message is clear: Don't fight.

I force myself to be still. My mind is a white wall of screaming static. This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. But my tongue can feel the whorls and ridges of his fingerprint. My lips can feel the cool morning air on the small, exposed stretch of skin between my face and his knuckle.

"Suck," he commands.

The word shatters my fragile composure. No. Absolutely not. I try to shake my head, to pull away, but the hand on my neck holds me fast. His other hand comes up to cup my jaw, his fingers wrapping around the other side, holding my head immobile. I'm trapped, my face held in a firm, unyielding grip.

"Suck," he repeats, his voice losing its softness, taking on a hard, uncompromising edge.

Tears of shame and frustration prick at my eyes. I'm going to cry. Over this. Over a single finger in my mouth. The humiliation is so intense it's a physical pain, a hot, crushing weight on my chest. I close my eyes, a single hot tear escaping and tracing a path down my cheek.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, I obey. I create a small, tentative suction with my cheeks. It's the barest minimum of compliance, a pathetic imitation of what he wants. He makes a low, dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat. He pushes his finger in deeper, until it's almost at the back of my tongue, and I have to fight down my gag reflex. The urge to retch is overwhelming.

"Better," he grunts. He begins to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm. A grotesque parody of something else. I am a doll, my mouth a cavity for him to explore. The taste of him is stronger now, the salt and the subtle, musky flavor of his skin. My mind is trying to flee, to float away from my body, but it can't. It's anchored here, by the finger in my mouth and the hand on my neck.

He hooks his finger, pulling slightly, a clear command for me to follow. I lean forward, my neck straining against the pressure of his other hand. He is leading me. Leading me by the finger in my mouth. He pulls, and I follow, taking one stumbling step, then another, until he guides me down. Down to my knees.

The floor is hard against my kneecaps, a sharp, grounding pain. I'm kneeling in front of him, my head tilted back, my lips still wrapped around his finger. He's looking down at me, and even through my tear-blurred vision, I can see the look on his face. It's not anger, not lust, not even satisfaction. It's a look of proprietary calm. Of ownership. He has found a use for me. A new, more efficient one.

He removes his finger from my mouth, a thin, slick string of saliva connecting us for a moment before it breaks. I gasp, my jaw aching, my lips feeling swollen and bruised. I can taste him, a phantom flavor on my tongue.

"See?" he says, his voice quiet. "Tidier."

I don't answer. I just kneel there, my head bowed, my hands clenched into fists on my thighs. I'm a supplicant at a profane altar, waiting for the next command. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I can hear the hum of the mini-fridge, the distant drone of a lawnmower outside. The world is going on, oblivious.

He shifts, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs. My breath hitches. I know what's coming. I've been here before. But this is different. This feels different. This is not about my hands. This is about... this.

He pushes the fabric down, just a few inches, exposing the sharp line of his hip bones, the dark, wiry hair that trails down from his navel. He's not fully hard, not yet, but he's heavy and thick, resting against the soft cotton. The morning light catches the smooth, taut skin, the faint, purple veins just beneath the surface.

He takes a half-step closer, so he's standing directly over me. His legs are on either side of my knees, caging me in. He's so much bigger than me, so much stronger. The sheer physical difference between us is a tangible force, a pressure that makes my chest feel tight.

He reaches down, not for himself, but for me. His hand cups my chin, his thumb stroking the same spot on my jaw he held before. His touch is almost gentle. A terrifyingly gentle touch.

"Look at me," he says.

I force my eyes upward, past the flat plane of his stomach, past the hard muscles of his chest, to meet his gaze. His eyes are a cool, clear blue, and in the bright morning light, they are unreadable. There's no anger, no gloating, just a calm, assessing look. He's studying me, like a scientist studying a new specimen.

He takes himself in his other hand, holding the base firmly. He's starting to thicken and lengthen in his grip, the slow, mesmerizing process of arousal. He gives himself a slow, lazy pull, from base to tip. My own body, my treacherous, disgusting body, responds. A dull, unwanted heat begins to pool in my groin.

"This is what you're going to do," he says, his voice a low, even monotone. "When I finish, you're going to take it. Right here." He taps the spot just above my chin with the head of himself, leaving a tiny, wet smear. A mark. "No more mess. No more towels. Just you."

My mind races, scrambling for a loophole, an escape. I can't. I won't. This is insane. The thoughts are there, but they're hollow, empty echoes in the face of his absolute certainty. He's not asking. He's telling me my new function.

He lets go of himself, letting it fall forward, heavy and full. It brushes against my cheek, and I flinch, a full-body shudder of revulsion. The skin is hot, almost searing, and velvety soft over the incredible hardness underneath. The smell is immediate, overwhelming. Clean skin, musky sweat, and that sharp, salty tang that I now know so well. It fills my senses, crowding out everything else.

"No. I'm not doing that. Sorry Tyler, I need to go." I get up, the words tumbling out of me in a panicked rush. "I have to study for my physics midterm. It's tomorrow." The excuse is flimsy, pathetic, but it's all I have. I turn, my body moving on pure instinct, a desperate flight response. I rush to get my clothes on and my bag pack to head to the library.

I hear Tyler chuckle "I was sure you're ready for it, guess it'll take a little more practice"

I don't look back. I just fumble with the clasp on my backpack, my fingers clumsy and stiff. I can feel his eyes on me, a physical weight on my back. I yank the door open and almost run into the hallway, my heart hammering against my ribs. I don't stop until I'm halfway to the stairs. The library. I need the library. I need the quiet, the sterile silence, the smell of old books. I need a place where he doesn't exist.

***

The library is my sanctuary. The hushed silence, the smell of aging paper and floor polish, the diffuse glow of the reading lamps—it's a world away from our cinderblock room, from the oppressive presence of Tyler. I find a secluded carrel in the farthest corner of the third floor, surrounded by shelves groaning with dusty tomes on astrophysics. I pull out my textbook and my notes, spreading them out on the scarred wooden table. I open the book to the chapter on quantum mechanics, but the words are just a jumble of squiggles and symbols. I read the same paragraph five times, and none of it sticks. My mind is a mess, a chaotic storm of images and sensations. The feel of his finger on my lip.