The university library was a maze of dusty tomes and dim corners, the kind of place where secrets could hide in plain sight. It was late, the stacks deserted, the only sound the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Nour, a 22-year-old Lebanese beauty, sat at a secluded table, her modest hijab framing a face that could stop traffic—full lips, dark almond eyes, a quiet grace that screamed tradition. Her long skirt and loose blouse hid a body that turned heads, but she was loyal to her boyfriend, Sami, a sweet nerd who worshipped her. Still, whispers about Sami’s old high school bully, Ziad, had always lingered in her mind—tales of his cock, thick and legendary, that made her blush and clench her thighs in secret.
She was flipping through a textbook when Ziad swaggered in, all muscle and menace, his tight shirt showing off a chest built for trouble. His smirk was a weapon, eyes locking on her like a predator. “Hey, sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning against the table, close enough to smell his cologne, all leather and spice. “Ain’t you the girlfriend of that loser, Sami?”
Nour’s cheeks burned, her heart kicking up. “Don’t talk about him like that,” she snapped, voice sharp but trembling, her fingers gripping the book. “He’s twice the man you’ll ever be.” But her pulse raced, and between her legs, a traitor heat bloomed—she’d heard the rumors, fantasized about Ziad’s cock late at night, her fingers slipping under her skirt, imagining him taking her.
Ziad chuckled, low and dirty, leaning closer. “Defensive, huh? Bet you’re curious, though. Let’s play a game. Trivia. You win, I leave you alone. I win, you’re mine—right here, in this library.”
Her eyes widened, outrage flaring, but her pussy throbbed, soaking her panties under her “good girl” skirt. “You’re disgusting,” she hissed, but her voice wavered, and she nodded, pride demanding she fight, even as her body screamed for defeat. “Fine. Ask away.”
The trivia was brutal—history, literature, questions she should’ve aced. But Ziad was relentless, his smirk growing as she fumbled, her mind clouded by the heat pooling low. “Last one,” he said, voice a growl. “Name the capital of Lebanon in 1920.” She froze—Beirut, but her brain short-circuited, his presence overwhelming. “Damascus,” she blurted, wrong, and his grin was a guillotine.
“Game over, princess,” he said, standing, towering over her. Nour’s breath hitched, her ego crumbling, the “perfect” girl reduced to ash. He grabbed her wrists, yanking them behind her back, his grip iron, pinning her against the table. “No one’s here,” he murmured, breath hot on her neck. “Just you and me.”
She squirmed, “Stop it, you pig,” but her voice was weak, her skirt riding up as he pressed closer, his bulge grinding against her ass. He reached under, tugging her panties down, the cotton catching on her thighs before pooling at her ankles. Her pussy was slick, betraying her, and she bit her lip, shame and need warring inside.
“On your knees,” he growled, releasing her arms but keeping one hand on her shoulder, guiding her down.
She sank, knees hitting the carpet, her hijab slightly askew, eyes level with his zipper. “I’m not doing this,” she muttered, but her hands trembled, and when he unzipped, his cock sprang free—thick, heavy, shaved clean, a fucking monument that made her gasp. The rumors were true, and her mouth watered.
“Suck it,” he said, voice rough, and she leaned in, reluctant, lips brushing the tip, salty and hot. She took him slow, gagging as he filled her mouth, her tongue flicking, pretending resistance but sucking deeper, her throat stretching. He groaned, “Fuck, you love this,” and slid a hand under her skirt, fingers finding her pussy—drenched, swollen, lips parted like a slut in heat. “Look at this,” he laughed. “Wet as fuck. You’re no good girl.”
She pulled off, gasping, “Shut up,” but dove back, sucking harder, sloppy, drool slicking her chin, her hijab brushing his thighs. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, betraying her hunger, and she moaned, muffled, loving the humiliation, her pride a ghost.
He yanked her up, spinning her around, bending her over the table, her skirt hiked up, ass bare. He grabbed her arms again, pinning them tight behind her back, his cock nudging her entrance. “You’re my secret whore now,” he growled, thrusting in—hard, deep, splitting her open. She yelped, “Oh God,” her pussy gripping him, wet and greedy, the table creaking under her weight.
He fucked her like a beast, each slam a nail in her coffin, her hijab slipping, hair spilling free. “Sami’ll never know,” he snarled, “But you’re mine—my slut to fuck whenever I want.”
She moaned, “Yes—fuck me,” hips rocking back, meeting him, her pussy dripping down her thighs. The library was silent, their secret locked in the stacks, her surrender total.
She came hard, a shuddering, “Fuck, I’m—” her pussy spasming, soaking his cock, thighs trembling. He kept going, relentless, until he unloaded—hot, thick, filling her as she gasped, “More.” They collapsed, her sprawled over the table, skirt a mess, panties gone, his cum leaking onto her thighs.
He pulled out, zipping up, smirking. “You’re my secret now, Nour. I’ll fuck you again, and Sami’ll never know. You’ll be my slut, won’t you?”
She nodded, panting, fixing her hijab, voice low, “Yes. Our secret. I’m yours—fuck me whenever, treat me like a slut. He can’t know.” She smoothed her skirt, grabbed her books, and walked out, head high, the perfect Lebanese girl again. But under the table, her panties stayed, a silent vow of her new role.
