Rogue Room Key

I can see the reflection of my own ass in the physics department's vending machine, the curve of each ass cheek peeking out of my cut off shorts. Not a single person in the common room can peel their eyes off it, and that includes Milo, the only guy in here with the balls to pretend he's not watching. He's wearing an ironic wolf T-shirt and those "I'm so smart it hurts" wireframes, the sort of dork ensemble that comes with a built-in apology for ever being born. There's a geometry test tomorrow, and I haven't done the reading. I need him to give me the answers--again--and he knows it.

"I thought you were going to text me the proofs, like, yesterday," I say, spinning around to make sure everyone in the room notices me before coming up beside him. I put one hand on my hip, the other on the table. He makes an exaggerated show of not looking down my top.

Milo shrugs, all innocent. "You said you wanted to actually learn it this time."

"I say a lot of things," I purr, lowering myself until I can smell his expensive shampoo. "I want to learn how to pass this semester without ever opening the book. You promised to help me."

He glances at his open laptop. "You want to come over to my dorm and, like, review together? My roommate's out." He's doing the nervous-puppy head tilt, like he's never invited a girl to his place, which he absolutely hasn't.

"What's in it for me?" I tease, but there's acid in my throat. The truth is, I don't actually like Milo, or any of the basement-dwelling losers who orbit his gravity well. I just need the grade. But Milo's never been aggressive; he's the kind of safe, fidgety nerd who gets off on being dominated. I'd even let him cop a quick feel if he had the nerve to ask. Over the clothes of course.

He looks down, then up. "I wrote a little cheat sheet for you. But... there's something I need help with... if you're willing."

I cock my head, expecting some anime waifu bullshit. "Go on."

"There's this, uh, group project for my Humanities seminar. It's an adaptation of a play. We need to film a scene, and it requires a... a female lead. For, like, realism. It'll only take a half hour. I'll give you the cheat sheet if you'll be our leading lady."

I've done worse. "Fine. Do you need me to dress slutty?" I'm only half joking.

He pushes his glasses up. "Oh no. We have a costume for you."

I scoff, picturing the Princess Leia buns that would send these guys into a frenzy. I'm sure their browsers are filled with cartoon pin-ups. They wouldn't know what hit them if I played out their fantasies. "You've got a deal."

*

Milo's room smells like lemon Pledge, making me imagine him scurrying around to clean up just for me. The walls are lined with the expected posters--Rick and Morty, a Megan Fox poster from Transformers, some Star Trek ship blueprint. Ned and Charles, two of Milo's friends, are already waiting. They aren't wearing any sort of costume, just their typical mom jeans and golf shirt uniform of the socially handicapped crew they run with. I knew they only wanted me to dress in a costume because they're perverts!

I spot their video camera and Ned gnawing on his lip, and I nearly object to being filmed with them. But I brush it off. If anyone asks, I was volunteering for some kind of extracurricular geek project. Besides, that cheat sheet Milo dangled is as good as mine. I need to clinch that A, and I've coasted this far without cracking a book.

"So what's my motivation, director?" I say, looking for some sort of script on the immaculately arranged desk. I bet he cleaned that with lemon Pledge too.

Milo grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's a modern retelling of a Greek tragedy. You're a prisoner of war, and, uh, we're the revolutionaries. There's a hostage scene. Nothing dangerous. Just pretend you're scared and stuff."

Ned opens the closet and pulls out what looks like a bedsheet, then shakes it until it's a makeshift toga that's been knotted to fasten around my neck. Charles holds up a length of paracord.

"Props," Charles says, voice breaking on the s.

I roll my eyes and pull the toga over my tank top and shorts.

Milo clear his throat. "Could you maybe just wear the sheet? For realism."

I give him the side eye. These perves just want to see my tits better. Whatever. I have great tits. I strip my shorts off under the sheet, and wiggle my tank and bra out of the top, holding the toga in place.

Ned and Charles don't even pretend to look away; Milo stares at his phone, but his cheeks are burning so hard they look fevered. Yeesh, these guys are definitely virgins.

"You gonna tie me up, then?" I say, giving them my best damsel-in-distress. "I hope this is University approved."

Charles steps forward, trying to look tough. He's doughy, with a patchy beard and fingers that shake as he cinches my wrists behind my back. He pulls tight, and the paracord bites into my skin, but I keep my composure.

Ned, meanwhile, loops a strip of red fabric around my head as a blindfold. The world turns warm and dark, muffled sounds and shifting air. Fingers grip my upper arms, and I'm guided backward until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed.

"Are you rolling?" Milo says. "Okay, on three--"

The mattress squeaks as the boys cluster around me, playing at revolutionary guards. I yell and kick my legs, overacting like a B-movie queen, and the guys improv their lines, alternating between fake threats and giggles. How pathetic.

But then it happens. Someone tugs the toga open; cold air hardens my nipples instantly, and my skin turns to gooseflesh. I twist, but the ropes don't budge.

"Hey!" I yell. "Not cool."

Hands close on my breasts, clumsy and frantic. Fingers pinch and paw. My breath catches--part fear, part shame, part something else, a prickling heat in my lower belly that I try to ignore. I can smell Milo's citrusy deodorant. Ned whispers something that makes them all laugh.

Then--wetness. A tongue, lapping at my nipple, awkwardly at first, then more insistent. Teeth graze the tip; saliva runs down my side. I buck against the guys, but they are surprisingly strong, holding me down as they continue to paw at my breasts.

"Get it on camera," Charles says.

"Are you sure--?" Milo starts.

"Dude. She can't do anything."

I struggle under their weight, but the hands are everywhere now, stripping the toga down my hips, exposing my panties. Something shifts in the room's mood--no more giggles, just heavy breathing and a sharp sense of inevitability.

Milo's voice, right at my ear: "You think you're better than us, but I know how to treat a girl like you."

"Fuck you!" I tell him, and the guy crushes his lips against mine. I try to turn my head, but he's pressing me back down into the bed and I have nowhere to go.

A sharp tug, and my panties are gone. I hear Ned inhale. My legs are spread by two pairs of hands, heels digging into the carpet. Something cold and rigid runs along my slit. A finger? A pen? I buck, more from surprise than fear, but the pressure only increases. Something slipping inside me, probing me.

They hold my legs wide and the cool air and silence make me feel like I'm at a doctor's office getting an exam. I can hear their heavy breaths as they probe my pussy. The thin object is replaced by fingers, clumsy and rough.

My body reacts, the traitor. My thighs are slick, my skin electric, my breath ragged. I try to shut it out, to remember I don't want this, but the strange attention--the clinical examination, even if it's grotesque--unlocks something primal in me.

"She's so wet," Ned says, voice trembling with awe.

"Let's see if she can squirt," Charles says.

And then they do everything they can to make me do it.

One of them, eager and inexpert, nuzzles his face between my legs, breathing hot and wet against my clit. He sucks and laps with a hungry, greedy rhythm, pausing every so often for verbal encouragement from one of his buddies.

I hear Milo filming it all, narrating with clinical detachment: "Specimen is responding to stimulus. Initiating phase two." The tone of his voice makes me want to laugh, but also to cry.

Fingers now--two, then three, then four. I think it's Charles, his hands big and doughy, pressing into me with relentless curiosity. The sensation is alien and invasive and somehow glorious. I squirm and arch my back, feeling the rope bite deeper. My hair is soaked with my sweat, sticking to my face in tangled ribbons.