Emily’s College Assent Pt. 01

Emily Morgan was 14 minutes late, mildly damp, and spiritually unraveling. Her notebook was clutched like a flotation device, her map app had betrayed her for the last time, and she was starting to suspect college wasn't built for people with a clear moral code and a tragic fondness for Elizabethan verse.

Emily Morgan had the kind of beauty that didn't register all at once.

At first glance, she looked sweet -- the sort of girl who'd offer you a handkerchief embroidered by her grandmother. Soft brown waves, skin kissed faintly by sun, a gentle slope to her nose. But then -- her eyes.

Those eyes.

Gray-green and always watching, always plotting. Eyes that lingered too long on details, that glittered with barely-suppressed sarcasm and the kind of curiosity that could turn dangerous if given time and proximity.

Innocence, yes. But not the boring kind.

Emily's innocence had teeth.

She burst through the door marked 104B, mumbling a rushed, "Sorry, sorry, wrong building," only to freeze mid-step.

There were no lab coats.

No beakers.

No faint smell of formaldehyde.

Instead, a circle of students sat on bean bags in what appeared to be a hybrid between a daycare center and a yoga cult.

At the center stood a girl who seemed carved from myth: black curls like spilled ink, crimson lips curved into a smirk, and legs that probably had a dedicated fan club. She wore leopard-print leggings, a cropped Sappho Was Right sweatshirt, and a magician's top hat that somehow didn't look ridiculous on her.

Emily instantly recognized her.

Everyone knew Zoe -- not just from flyers for "Queer Improv" and "Radical Consent Yoga," but from the rumors.

Zoe was a foster kid -- raised in at least four states, rumored to have emancipated herself by age sixteen, and walked into freshman year already a legend. Some whispered she'd dated three RAs simultaneously. Others claimed she had a "100% conversion rate" for straight girls, which was both mathematically suspect and deeply unnerving.

Zoe wasn't just beautiful -- she was predatory poetry in motion.

Ravishing didn't even cover it. Her hair, long and dark, curled around her face like shadows curling around candlelight. Her cheekbones could've cut glass, and her lips -- always slightly parted like she was about to say something devastating -- were the color of stolen cherries and far too practiced in smirking. She didn't walk; she prowled. Every move was fluid, deliberate, magnetic.

People didn't just look at Zoe. They watched her like a bomb with a timer ticking in iambic pentameter.

She didn't dress to impress. She dressed like rules didn't apply. Crop tops in winter. Combat boots with ballet skirts. Fishnet stockings as sleeves. Somehow, every piece made sense on her body -- like she owned contrast.

There was something about Zoe that whispered:

"I've been through fire and now I play with matches."

And then there were the other stories:

-- the one about a missionary's daughter who dropped out of school after two weeks of "roommate tutoring."

-- the rumor that Zoe once made a girl climax using only her voice and a strawberry popsicle.

Emily swallowed. Hard.

"Welcome," said the girl with a theatrical bow, "to Queer Improv: where the only thing straighter than our scripts... is nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Emily blinked.

"I--I think I'm in the wrong class," she stammered, already turning toward the door.

"But are you in the right moment?" the girl countered.

It was said with such Shakespearean flair, Emily half-expected the fire alarm to go off just to complete the absurdity.

"I'm looking for Chem Lab?"

"Aren't we all," said a student in a mesh tank top, nodding solemnly. "Aren't we all."

The girl in the top hat stepped forward with the theatrical ease of someone who once monologued through a cafeteria fire drill. Her name, as it turned out, was Zoe, and she wielded her stage presence like a weapon of flirtatious mass destruction.

Emily opened her mouth to explain again, but Zoe cut her off with a finger in the air.

"Let me guess. Small town. Just arrived. Map app hates you. British family?"

Emily's jaw dropped.

"How did you--?"

"You carry yourself like someone who's read A Midsummer Night's Dream unironically... and enjoyed it."

Emily stared.

She had, in fact, memorized Puck's final monologue at age nine and once tried to do a book report comparing Twelfth Night to Legally Blonde. It hadn't gone over well.

"Tell you what, newbie. Stay. One scene. You can be the straight girl in love with her married vampire fencing coach."

"That's... oddly specific."

"Oh honey, specificity is foreplay."

Before Emily could object, she was handed a rubber sword, a cape, and a stuffed bat named "Carl."

By the next morning, Emily had mostly convinced herself it didn't count.

The cape? An accident.

The velvet blindfold? Probably standard at liberal arts colleges.

The improvised love poem Zoe whispered in her ear before the "vampire duel"? Clearly a group activity. Like duck-duck-goose. But with more innuendo.

She was determined to return to her regularly scheduled life of Intro to Chemistry, overpriced textbooks, and avoiding human interaction in any form. She even printed out a new campus map and highlighted every single science building.

And yet.

At 12:03 p. m., as she stood in the cafeteria salad bar line, someone cleared their throat with theatrical purpose.

Loudly.

She turned.

Zoe stood atop a cafeteria bench holding a rolled-up parchment, wearing a faux fur cape and what appeared to be chain mail leggings.

"People of the carbohydrate section," she proclaimed, "I hereby declare my undying admiration for Lady Emily of the Small Town and Even Smaller Wardrobe Choices!"

Emily froze. Every head turned. The hummus spoon clattered from her hand.

"She, who braved the Queer Improv Gauntlet with nothing but a notebook and residual British trauma!"

"I'm going to die," Emily whispered to the garbanzo beans.

"And thus," Zoe continued, "as tradition demands, I humbly offer a token of my regard!"

She reached into her satchel and pulled out...

A laminated coupon.

"One free tutoring session in Sexual Identity Recalibration. No strings attached. Except maybe metaphorical ones, and definitely a harness if we reach Advanced Placement."

The entire cafeteria burst into chaotic applause. Someone in line yelled, "She gave me one of those last semester! Five stars!"

Emily did the only sensible thing.

She sprinted.

Emily had barricaded herself in the library's "Silent Zone," surrounded by thick volumes of 19th-century British literature like a fortress of repression.

She stared at a page of Middlemarch for forty minutes without absorbing a single word.

Because Zoe -- chaotic, mythical, absurdly attractive Zoe -- was not just flirting.

She was campaigning.

Emily had already received:

• A scroll delivered by a medieval studies major, reading: "Your honor has been besmirched. Duel me with scones at dawn."

• A Spotify playlist titled Straight Girls I've Emotionally Compromised.

• A handmade zine with tips like "How to Kiss Girls Without Causing an Existential Crisis (Vol. 1)"

And the worst part?

Emily was laughing. She liked it.

No one had ever pursued her before -- not like this. Not with such ludicrous devotion or devastating confidence.

Certainly not with chain mail leggings and coupon-based foreplay.

That night, Emily lay curled beneath her blanket, the dorm room cloaked in shadows and faint moonlight. Danielle's side of the room was quiet -- a lump under a comforter with earbuds in, presumably asleep and dreaming of physics midterms or Tinder misadventures.

So Emily let her guard down.

Her thighs tensed. Her hand moved.

It was supposed to be quick. Just tension relief. A way to forget Zoe's voice trailing down her neck like silk. The way she said "Juliet," like it was a sin worth sinning twice.

Emily bit her lip.

Zoe's face flashed behind her eyelids -- that smirk, those lips, that maddening top hat like she knew she was seducing the entire planet and was behind schedule.

Emily's fingers moved faster.

She pictured Zoe whispering verses in the campus library, her mouth against Emily's ear, breath hot. The imaginary Zoe unzipped her jeans, not gently -- no, she was deliberate. Skilled. The kind of lover who could read a body like Shakespeare and quote the climax before the second act.

Her breath hitched. She was close.

So close.

And then--

"Jesus, Morgan."

The voice sliced through the air like a slap.

Emily's eyes flew open, her entire body convulsing just as she came.

A slow, involuntary moan escaped her lips -- drawn out, unhideable -- part ecstasy, part horror.

"I--ohgod--!"

Her body shuddered. Her toes curled. Her dignity fled.

A beat of silence.

Then:

"Need a hand?"

Danielle's voice was dry. Way too calm for the occasion.

"You seem... tangled in the sheets of repression."

Emily buried her entire head under the blanket, willing herself to die or dissolve into the mattress.

"You were awake?!"

"I mean... not at first. But you were giving off very Zoe's Greatest Hits, Vol. 1 energy. Hard to sleep through that."

Emily groaned.

Danielle yawned, stretched, and added casually:

"Honestly? Respect. First time I did that post-Zoe, I knocked over a lamp."

"Please stop talking."

"I mean, if you ever want company... or guidance... we bisexuals offer comprehensive orientation services."

"Danielle."

"I have a flashlight and a rubber duck. We could make it weird or wholesome."

"DANIELLE."

Danielle chuckled and flopped back on her bed.

"Just saying. You're halfway down the conversion funnel. Might as well enjoy the perks package."

Emily stared at the ceiling.

Her cheeks burned. Her fingers tingled. And her stomach twisted in confusion and undeniable, trembling satisfaction.

The coupon -- Zoe's ridiculous, seductive promise -- still lay on her desk like a dare.

And Emily?

Emily was very, very unsure.

But not uninterested.

Emily wasn't sure why she said yes.

Maybe because Danielle had insisted she couldn't "study gay panic forever." Maybe because she wanted to prove -- to herself, to Zoe, to the entire Queer Culinary Coalition -- that she was fine. Cool. Unfazed.

She was none of those things.

The Bisexual Bake-Off was somehow exactly and worse than what she expected: rainbow flags draped over every surface, glitter in the guacamole, students flirting through fondant and eye contact. A "Consent Cookie Station" offered sugar-free vegan snickerdoodles labeled Touch, Eye Contact, Emotional Sharing.

And at the center of it all was Zoe.

Lavender apron. No bra. Frosting like war paint on her cheek. She wasn't just beautiful -- she was weaponized elegance, and every person in the room tilted in her direction like flowers chasing sunlight.

Danielle elbowed Emily gently.

"You're trying not to stare so hard you're practically getting a migraine."

"I'm observing."

"You're vibrating like a haunted teacup."

Emily glared. "She's not that charming."

Danielle didn't even blink. "She asked me once if I wanted to co-host next year. Said I had excellent oral presence. I still don't know if she meant speech or sex, but I said yes immediately."

Emily groaned. "You're not helping."

Danielle shrugged, wandering toward the cookie bar like a bisexual in heat.

Emily drifted closer to Zoe's cupcake station under the pretense of browsing. But Zoe spotted her like a hawk mid-flight and lit up with slow, devastating delight.

"Lady Emily returns," she purred. "Come to have your virtue tested through sponge cake and subtext?"

Emily cleared her throat. "I'm here for... food."

"And yet, you came to me."

Zoe held out a cupcake. It was pink, heart-shaped, and topped with edible pearls and a dusting of glitter that looked like temptation crystallized.

Emily reached for it. Their fingers almost touched -- but didn't.

Zoe smirked.

"This one's called Questioning in Cream Form. Lightly sweet, but leaves you thinking about your childhood crushes."

Emily bit into it. And moaned.

"Holy--what's in this?"

"Lavender. Earl grey. A hint of... suggestion."

Zoe leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping to a velvet hush.

"You have a bit of icing--right there."

She gestured vaguely toward Emily's mouth. Emily moved to wipe it off, but fumbled -- the frosting landed on her thumb.

Before she could clean it, Zoe tilted her head.

"Need help?"

Emily froze.

Danielle reappeared at the worst possible moment, carrying a martini glass full of rainbow mousse and questionable decisions.

"If she says yes, I want to supervise. Or join. For science."

"Danielle," Emily hissed, voice shrill and cheeks flaming.

Zoe merely chuckled, licking frosting off her own finger in mock demonstration.

"We all learn differently."

Emily looked like she wanted to vanish into the nearest fondue fountain.

Danielle looped an arm around her.

"Listen," she whispered. "You don't have to do anything. But you're glowing. Like, post-orgasm glow. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were picturing her licking icing off your--"

"Please stop."

"I'm just saying. Curiosity isn't betrayal. It's bisexuality with a syllabus."

Emily opened her mouth to protest--but Zoe had moved. Closer. Slowly. Like a cat that knew exactly when to pounce and when to let the prey think it had a chance.

She reached up -- softly, deliberately -- and wiped the frosting from Emily's lip with her thumb.

Nothing else. Just the touch.

Emily gasped.

Zoe smiled.

"When you're ready," she said, voice low. "And only if you want."

Then she stepped back.

Leaving Emily breathless.

Danielle, now next to her again, muttered:

"I think my knees just gave out and I'm not even the target."

Emily didn't respond.

She just held the half-eaten cupcake in trembling fingers.

And bit back a second moan.

The cupcakes were gone.

The glitter? Less so.

Zoe kicked off her combat boots with a sigh and flopped backward onto her bed -- which creaked like it was also done with her today. The lavender frosting still clung to her cuticles. A smear of edible glitter sparkled on her collarbone like it had claimed squatters' rights.

She stared at the ceiling.

Another Bake-Off. Another batch of curated chaos. Another batch of eyes watching her like she was a walking sex spell.

And Emily...

God.

Zoe covered her face with her arm. Her heart still thudded in the embarrassing tempo of a teenager with a crush. It was stupid. It was dangerous. And it was happening.

"You're supposed to be untouchable," she muttered to the dark. "That's the deal."

People liked their bisexual temptresses cool, wild, and emotionally unavailable. That's how she'd survived foster homes, moved school to school -- by being dazzling enough to distract everyone from asking the real questions.

Never stay. Never attach. Never hope.

But Emily Morgan wasn't like the others. She hadn't crumbled or begged or slipped Zoe a key to her dorm with trembling hands. She was curious. Defensive. Snarky.

She resisted.

And now Zoe couldn't stop thinking about the way she moaned mid-bite. The way her eyes widened when their fingers almost touched. The way she licked frosting off her thumb like she didn't know she was committing slow-burn erotic treason in a public setting.

"Damn it."

She rolled onto her side, reaching for the small, beat-up notebook in her nightstand. The one she never showed anyone.

Inside: lists, poetry, therapy homework she never turned in, and now -- a sketch. Just a rough outline of a girl sitting cross-legged in a library, eyes too serious, mouth just a little smug.

Emily.

Beneath the sketch, she scrawled:

"She smells like pencil shavings and hesitation.

But when she looks at me, I want to become better.

Or ruin her. Or maybe both."

Zoe stared at the page.

"I need a drink."

Emily slipped back into her dorm sometime after 2 a. m., her cheeks still warm from pancakes, syrup, and the slow-burn gravity of Zoe's gaze. The way she'd said "I'd rather find out" had clearly caught Zoe off guard -- and for once, Emily felt like she had tilted the power balance ever so slightly.

She liked it.

She really liked it.

Danielle was already sprawled across her bed in gym shorts and a tank top, scrolling through her phone with a bag of gummy bears balanced on her chest.

"You're glowing," she muttered without looking up. "Did she feed you metaphors with whipped cream again?"

"Pancakes," Emily said, tossing her bag down.

"Ah yes. The gateway drug of sapphics."

Emily opened her closet and froze.

Balanced atop her neatly folded pajamas was something... unfamiliar.

It was a small purple vibrator, glittery, unapologetic, and vibrating faintly as if purring in wait.

Attached to it was a sticky note in Danielle's chaotic handwriting:

"Since you seem reluctant to use your fingers like a grown-up. Here -- try electricity. You're welcome."

Emily held it up. Raised a brow. Turned slowly.

"Seriously?"

Danielle shrugged. "It's sanitized. And probably underused, if I'm honest."

"You're a menace."

"I'm a supportive menace."

Emily crossed the room, climbed onto Danielle's bed with catlike ease -- and without warning, dropped the toy directly on Danielle's stomach.

Danielle yelped, nearly flinging her phone across the room.

"What the hell?!"

Emily's smile was sweet, but her eyes glittered with wickedness.

"Thanks for the donation," she said, turning the toy up to level two. "But I think it might like you better."

The toy buzzed loudly.

Danielle squealed and twisted beneath it, caught somewhere between scandalized and ticklish.

"Emily!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Emily purred, pushing it gently against Danielle's inner thigh through the blanket. "Didn't realize the repressed virgin could torment back."

Danielle writhed, kicking her legs like a cartoon character.

"Okay, okay, truce, TRUCE--"

Emily turned it off. Tossed it onto Danielle's desk with elegant disdain.

"Good girl," she said softly, reclaiming her bed with a theatrical sigh.

Danielle sat up, flustered and half-laughing, her face redder than raspberry syrup.

"You've changed," she muttered, half in awe, half in threat.

Emily curled under her blanket, smirking into the dark.

"No," she whispered. "I'm just finally letting out the rest."

Danielle was still catching her breath, one knee tucked defensively under her as if the vibrator might come to life again and launch an assault.

Emily rolled onto her side, eyes glinting with something new -- a cocktail of confidence and teasing cruelty that hadn't been there a week ago.

"I'm just finally letting out the rest," she said sweetly.

Then, with a grin that belonged to someone far less innocent:

"Now throw that thing over and let me do the needful."

Danielle blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You gave it to me, remember? As a generous gift. I'd be rude not to use it."

Emily stretched her arm out. "Hand it over."

Danielle, with mock suspicion, tossed the toy across the room -- a light underhanded toss that landed right in Emily's waiting palm.

"Fine. But if I hear another Jesus, Morgan--"

"Oh, you'll hear worse," Emily said with a purr, flicking the toy to life.

She didn't even wait for Danielle to roll over or look away.

Blanket down. Legs parted. Eyes half-lidded.

And this time, she didn't hold back.

There was no embarrassment now, only calculated mischief. She ran the toy slow and steady against herself, biting her lip and letting out the softest, most deliberate whimper -- loud enough for Danielle to hear every quiver.

"Mmm... yeah," she sighed theatrically. "God, Zoe, right there..."

Danielle let out a strangled noise from across the room.

"You are not role playing right now."

"What's that?" Emily moaned louder. "Should I go faster?"

She did.

Danielle groaned. Visibly flustered. Crossed and uncrossed her legs. Shifted positions like the bedsheets were betraying her.

Emily opened one eye and smirked.

"You look uncomfortable."

"You're a demon," Danielle hissed.

"You're welcome to... participate," Emily offered with mock innocence. "It's a free country. And a thin-walled dorm."

Danielle grumbled, muttered something profane -- and then, finally, with an exasperated sigh, slid a hand under her waistband.

"Screw it."

Two girls.

One dorm.

Both breathing harder now.

Danielle picked up the tempo like a challenge. Emily responded in kind -- moaning louder, gasping Zoe's name like it was gospel.

"God, yes... her fingers--fuck--"

"Okay, that's enough, you manipulative little theatre major--"

"I'm a biology major," Emily moaned back. "But I'm open to experiments."

The room filled with a cacophony of fabric shifting, toys buzzing, and soft, wet sounds no RA should ever hear.

They didn't speak again -- not words, anyway.

Just mutual, escalating gasps.

And finally, a matching pair of muffled cries -- one higher, one deeper -- as they climaxed, separated only by five feet, shared breath, and a history of increasingly inappropriate conversations.

Silence.

Panting.

Danielle groaned and threw a pillow at the ceiling.

"I hate you."

Emily, glowing and smug, turned to face her.

"No you don't."

"I might be in love with you. It's gross."

"Tell it to your vibrator."

Danielle flipped her off, but her grin gave her away.

Emily curled under the covers, heart still racing, and whispered:

"Zoe doesn't even know what she's started."

And for the first time...

She kind of hoped it wouldn't stop.

The door clicked shut.

Zoe turned.

Emily didn't breathe.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Just two girls caught in a war of eye contact -- one hunted, one hunting, both knowing exactly how this would end.

Zoe's smile unfurled -- slow and wicked, her dark eyes burning with the knowledge that Emily was already trembling and hadn't even been touched.

This wasn't arrogance.

This was certainty.

The way a lioness knew the antelope was cornered. The way a storm didn't need to shout to prove it would flood everything in its path.

Zoe stepped closer, deliberately.

Emily backed into a stack of prop pillows and stage drapes, breath hitching.

Zoe stopped inches away.

She looked Emily up and down, head tilted.

"She's mine."

That was the thought.

Not spoken. Not whispered. Just known.

Another straight girl claimed. Another secret uncovered. Another beautiful, trembling girl who thought she knew what she wanted until I showed her what she needed.

And Emily?

She was breathing fast. Her lips slightly parted. Her pupils blown wide.

But her chin lifted. She didn't run.

Which meant she was ready.

Zoe smiled wider -- part seductress, part executioner.

"Last chance."

Emily nodded.

"Do it."

Zoe leaned in, brushing their lips once. Barely. Not a kiss -- a warning.

Then she touched her jaw, tilted her face upward like she was inspecting something exquisite. Something that would belong to her soon.

"You want to know what it feels like," Zoe murmured, "to be devoured by someone who knows your body better than you do."

Emily didn't respond -- couldn't.

So Zoe continued.

Her tank top next, peeled up slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of skin that tingled under cool air and Zoe's hot gaze.

Zoe knelt -- a goddamn performance -- and helped slide off her jeans, planting a kiss just above Emily's knee, then the soft, inner slope of her thigh, making her legs tremble before she'd even been touched where she needed it.

"Look at you," Zoe murmured. "Already shaking."

Emily whimpered. "You're so fucking smug."

"I earn it."

She kissed her. Then moved down -- jaw, throat, collarbone -- each kiss slower, wetter, until Emily whimpered. She pulled the hoodie off, bared her skin, peeled her jeans down slow like unwrapping the last secret.

Zoe didn't dive in.

She circled.

She kissed Emily's stomach. Her hips. The inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Emily squirmed.

Zoe breathed her in -- that intoxicating smell of arousal and nerves and newness.

She's already mine, Zoe thought again.

But I want her to know it.

Zoe's hand slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear with reverence, not greed.

Two fingers -- slow, light strokes over her folds. Teasing her open. Gathering slick. Dipping just barely inside, then pulling out again.

Emily gasped, hips arching.

"Zoe--"

"Tell me if it's too much."

"It's--fuck--it's not enough."

Zoe grinned.

And gave her more.

She slid in two fingers -- deep, smooth, crooked at just the right angle. And then -- curled them. Pressed upward. Found that spot like she'd done it a hundred times before.

Emily cried out, high and shocked.

"Oh my God--"

"Shh," Zoe whispered, mouth trailing down her neck. "I've got you."

And she did.

She fucked her slow at first -- long strokes, fingers pressing deep and curling again and again. Not random. Not frantic. She moved like she was playing an instrument she knew inside and out.

Emily's legs shook.

Zoe slid her thumb up -- stroked her clit in tight, perfect circles, never breaking rhythm, just letting her unravel inch by inch.

"You're already so close, aren't you?"

"You don't--fuck--know what you're doing to me--"

"I think I do."

And then -- just as Emily's thighs started to tremble again -- Zoe went down.

Dropped to her knees, kissed the crease of her hip, then licked a slow stripe from thigh to center.

Her tongue flicked over Emily's clit -- soft, then firm.

Circles. Pressure. Then a suck -- just hard enough to make her body jolt.

"Jesus," Emily gasped, fingers grabbing at Zoe's hair.

Zoe moaned into her -- a deep, low sound that vibrated through her tongue, sending a shockwave straight through Emily's spine.

She ate her like it was a sacred act.

Alternating between tongue and fingers, building her up, backing off, then diving in again -- every flick, every swirl, every fucking breath calculated to wreck her.

Emily wasn't just panting now.

She was begging.

"Zoe, please--don't stop--don't you dare fucking stop--"

"Say it."

Zoe did it again.

And again.

Brought her to the edge -- body shaking, whimpering, mouth babbling incoherently -- then stopped.

Licked her lips. Smiled.

Watched Emily writhe in desperate, ruined frustration.

"Zoe--please--please--I can't--"

Zoe kissed her inner thigh again.

"Beg for it."

Emily said.

"Convert me."

Zoe did.

She pushed two fingers back in, tongue relentless on her clit -- fast now, merciless, curling with every stroke.

Emily shattered.

Not a neat, silent orgasm.

A full-body quake -- her legs gave out, her mouth opened in a choked moan, her hands fisted Zoe's curls, her body jerking with release so powerful she nearly sobbed.

She rode it out on Zoe's tongue, helpless, twitching.

Emily was gone.

Completely gone.

Her orgasm shattered her like glass -- ripped from her throat in a cry so loud the walls should've cracked. Her hips bucked, her legs shook, her hands grabbed anything -- a curtain, Zoe's hair, her own breast -- as her body convulsed in helpless, overwhelmed pleasure.

Zoe didn't stop until Emily physically pushed her away with a whimper.

Between the waves of pleasure and denial, Emily's mind flickered -- a disjointed flashback to her past.

A fumbling ex-boyfriend. Clumsy kisses. One rushed, unsatisfying moment of oral sex in a cramped backseat -- teeth and uncertainty, a chore disguised as romance.

And now--

Zoe's mouth.

Zoe's tongue knew her. Played her like a familiar melody. Licked not to perform, but to worship. To reprogram her understanding of sex and self and pleasure as revelation.

I didn't know it could be like this.

She's not just making me come -- she's showing me what I've missed. What I've denied. What I might actually be.

Emily collapsed into a curtain-draped heap, boneless, drenched in sweat, every nerve still sparking.

Zoe climbed up beside her, kissed her shoulder, then whispered:

"Welcome to the family."

Emily could barely speak.

But her smile said it all.

Emily never imagined she could come like this.

Not just once.

Not just at all.

She'd had orgasms before. Quiet ones. Private ones. Once or twice from someone else -- a well-meaning ex with decent hands and zero follow-through.

But this?

This wasn't orgasm.

This was possession.

Zoe was no longer just touching her. She was consuming her. Like she was feeding on her pleasure -- intentional, focused, relentless.

After that first shattering climax, Emily collapsed against the curtain-laden wall, body jerking with aftershocks, chest heaving like she'd run a marathon in a wet dream.

She was done.

She thought.

Until Zoe licked her inner thigh and said:

"Don't think I'm done with you yet."

Emily whimpered -- not in protest. In shock.

Zoe's fingers slid back inside her, slow now, coaxing. Her mouth never far, her gaze locked on Emily's trembling face.

"You thought you were a one-and-done girl, didn't you?" she purred. "That's what boys teach us -- get it over with, move on. Not me."

She kissed Emily's knee. Her hip. Her bellybutton.

And then, voice velvet-wrapped in command:

"I'm going to make you come again. And again. Until your body forgets what straight ever felt like."

Emily's breath caught.

Zoe lowered her head again and began a different rhythm -- slower, but no less devastating.

She licked in long, indulgent strokes, suckled gently, building her back up -- only this time, Zoe added something new.

Pressure. Rhythm. Voice.

"Let go," she whispered between strokes. "Let go for me again."

And Emily did.

Her second orgasm was faster than the first -- shorter, but sharper, like lightning behind her eyes. She grabbed the nearest pillow and screamed into it, body convulsing.

She thought she'd black out.

Zoe didn't let her.

Instead, she climbed up, kissed her neck, and said softly:

"One more."

Emily's eyes widened.

"Zoe-- I--I don't think I can--"

"You can. And you will."

Zoe's pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen and wet, her entire focus a singular mission: not just to make Emily feel good.

But to break her down so beautifully, so completely, that the only thing left of her identity was desire.

And once she was gone?

She'd want to give back.

Zoe knew the pattern -- had done it before.

Push her over.

Then hand her the power.

Let her choose to reciprocate.

That was the real conversion.

Not just to feel pleasure. But to cause it. To crave it. To take responsibility for someone else's body and do it well.

"She'll want to make me moan."

"She'll want to know what it tastes like -- to undo me, like I've undone her."

That's when Zoe knew she'd truly converted her.

Zoe slid three fingers into her this time -- not hard, not brutal, but deep.

So deep Emily forgot her name.

Her clit was already aching, but Zoe's tongue moved in perfect harmony -- circling, flicking, pressing, holding her right at the edge.

"Zoe--please--I can't--I'm gonna--"

"Yes," she hissed. "Give it to me."

And Emily exploded.

Third orgasm -- longer, wetter, more primal than the rest.

She screamed.

Clung to Zoe like a lifeline.

Her hips bucked off the floor -- no control, pure animal response. She came so hard she sobbed, half from bliss, half from the weight of what was being rewritten in her body.

Zoe kissed her through it.

Held her trembling form.

Let her fall.

Emily blinked, dazed, utterly ruined.

Zoe leaned close, voice low, almost gentle. She lay back, arms open, hair wild, legs spread, intense looking her Emily and licking her lips coated with Emily's juices and patiently waited. She knew what Emily will do, for she knew she has broken her.

Emily rose onto trembling elbows.

Looked at Zoe -- naked, expectant, still slick from her work -- and crawled forward.

This time, it was Emily's turn.

To explore. To taste.

To give.

And in giving... she finally crossed over.

After several hours, Emily collapsed backward into a pile of velvet curtains, sweat glistening on her skin, hair a mess, breathing ragged.

Zoe crawled up beside her, lips and chin slick, and kissed her cheek.

"Told you I don't miss."

Emily turned her head slowly, still stunned.

"You should be illegal."

Zoe smirked.

"I probably am in several counties."

The first whispers started around 10:07 a. m.

"Did you hear someone got Zoe'd last night?"

"Prop room. Same pattern. Late entry, early exit, dazed smile."

"Another one falls..."

The Queer Improv group took it further:

"We lost another chem major. Zoe's collecting STEM girls now like Infinity Stones."

Danielle was lying on her bed in an oversized tee and no pants, thumbing through her phone, feet swinging lazily. The night had been uneventful by her standards -- she'd already texted three girls, two exes, and liked Zoe's post of a suspiciously artistic shot of torn fishnets and strawberries captioned "Wasn't me."

She didn't look up when Emily walked in.

"So, how's Zoe's cult? Weekly meetings or just orgasms and prayer hands?"

Emily dropped her bag, shut the door with a click, and turned the lock.

That made Danielle pause.

She looked up -- slowly -- and met Emily's eyes.

They weren't soft anymore.

They were sharp.

Intent.

Dangerous.

"Morgan?"

Emily stalked forward.

Danielle sat up. Instinctively wary.

"What are you doing?"

Emily reached the bed, climbed onto it on all fours, and straddled Danielle's lap.

Then leaned in.

Nose to nose.

And smiled.

"Making you see stars."

Danielle blinked.

"Wait--"

Emily kissed her -- hard. Not tentative. Not exploratory. She kissed her like she was claiming territory, teeth dragging across Danielle's bottom lip, tongue darting in without asking.

Danielle moaned before she could stop herself.

Emily pulled away just enough to say:

"You talk a lot for someone who's about to beg."

Danielle's breath caught.

Then Emily slid down her body with feral grace, fingers already tugging Danielle's shirt up, tongue darting out to flick a nipple the moment it was bared.

Danielle gasped.

"Jesus--what the hell--"

Emily didn't answer.

She kissed her way down Danielle's stomach, every inch touched with purpose -- wet, sucking kisses that left red marks in their wake. Her hands spread Danielle's thighs open without hesitation, and when Danielle squirmed?

Emily pinned her with a look.

That same sharp, knowing smirk Zoe had once worn.

Only now?

It was Emily's.

"Hands above your head."

"What if I don't--oh fuck--"

Emily licked her -- slow, one stripe from base to clit, then stopped.

"What did I just say?"

Danielle shivered.

Raised her hands.

Emily rewarded her with another lick. Firmer. Slower.

Then a gentle suck on her clit that had Danielle gasping, back arching off the mattress.

"You're not supposed to be this good," Danielle breathed.

Emily didn't answer.

She slid two fingers in -- slow, deep -- and crooked them just right.

Danielle bucked.

"Oh--shit--Emily--"

Emily moaned into her.

Not fake. Not performative.

Hungry.

She curled her fingers again. Her tongue moved faster, in time with the building heat of Danielle's gasps, her moans rising into desperate, incoherent pleas.

"Please--please don't stop--don't--"

Emily stopped.

Lifted her head.

Danielle whimpered, hips chasing air.

"You want to come?"

Danielle nodded frantically.

Emily leaned in, kissed her inner thigh, bit down just enough to sting.

"Then beg."

Danielle groaned. Eyes fluttered.

"Please. Please, Emily, make me come. Fuck--please--"

Emily smiled.

And obliged.

She devoured her -- tongue and fingers synchronized, relentless. Every swirl was practiced now. Every flick a promise.

Danielle screamed her release.

Climax hit her like a slap -- hard, helpless, ragged. Her entire body spammed, her toes curled, her hands fisted the sheets like she was clinging to life.

Emily didn't stop until she had to.

Until Danielle was gasping, twitching, begging her to stop through gritted teeth.

She crawled back up, licking her lips, and whispered into Danielle's ear:

"Now you know what Zoe taught me."

Danielle blinked through the haze.

"She created a monster."

Emily grinned, kissed her again.

"No. She just unleashed one."

Some girls find themselves in the library.

Some in the lab.

Emily Morgan?

She found herself over a girl who happens to be the visiting niece of some girl converting her with a wicked tongue, a laminated coupon, and a prophecy to fulfill next to Danielle who was furiously face sitting on the girl the niece came to visit.

And honestly?

Extra credit never felt so good.