Milked by My Bully

She tried to hide it, the damp spots on her blouse, the heaviness she couldn't explain away. But he noticed everything. The campus bully who'd made her miserable since freshman year cornered her in the empty laundry room, his gaze dropping to her chest with a smirk that made her stomach flip.

"You've been walking around like this for weeks," he murmured, pressing her against the humming dryer. "Let me guess. You need someone to take care of it for you."

She hated how her breath caught. Hated worse that his rough hands pulling up her shirt felt like exactly what she'd needed, his mocking whispers about what a mess she was somehow making her slick and shamefully eager. He made her ask for it. Made her admit out loud that her body ached to be emptied, that only his cruel attention made the pressure bearable.

Now he finds her everywhere. The library stacks. The parking garage after late labs. Each time the humiliation burns hotter, his laughter in her ear as she spills into his palms, begging for release she doesn't know how to want from anyone else. Her thesis advisor wants to discuss her slipping grades. Her roommate's starting to notice the bruises on her wrists.

She tells herself she'll end it. Then his text lights up her phone, demanding where she is, and she's already wet before she can type back the building name.

He doesn't just milk her anymore. He owns the rhythm of her days, her ruined underwear, the way she wakes aching and searches his face for something softer than possession. The need between them has teeth now. She's not sure whether she's being destroyed or finally, completely seen.