Chapter One

Clara Longley tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear as she surveyed the chaos of her office. The beginning of the fall semester at Georgia State University always brought a particular kind of frenetic energy that exhausted and invigorated her. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty blinds, casting golden rectangles across stacks of feminist journals, dog-eared books, and student papers waiting to be graded.

At twenty-eight, Clara was among the youngest associate professors in the Sociology Department, a fact that some of her male colleagues never failed to subtly emphasize in department meetings.

She smoothed down her loose earth-toned blouse, which did little to conceal the full curves of her breasts, and adjusted the high waist of her jeans. Clara had long ago accepted that her voluptuous figure often led people to underestimate her intellect—a phenomenon she'd documented extensively in her research on the media's treatment of the female body.

Her office walls were plastered with protest posters, feminist artwork, and newspaper clippings about the women's movement. A worn typewriter sat on her cluttered desk beside a cooling cup of coffee and the syllabus for her new course: "Female Representation in Modern Media: Objects and Subjects."

A knock on her half-open door interrupted her thoughts.

"How are your nerves holding up? Did you get your work in for the debate tonight?" Raymond Phillips leaned against the doorframe, his silver hair catching the light, blue eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth.

Clara felt the familiar flutter in her stomach that came whenever Raymond appeared unexpectedly. She straightened her posture; she wanted to meet his expectations.

"Just putting the finishing touches on my notes," she said, gesturing to the scattered papers on her desk. "The debate committee made it clear they want blood on the floor tonight."

Raymond chuckled a deep sound that resonated in the small office. "And you'll give it to them. Just like you gave it to Peterson in last week's faculty meeting."

Clara swallowed hard. "He deserved it. Suggesting that women's studies should be an elective rather than a core curriculum—in 1978, no less."

"I'm not disagreeing." Raymond moved closer, his tailored suit contrasting with the bohemian disorder of her office. "Your passion is what makes you…exceptional, Clara."

"I'm going to need every bit of that passion tonight," she said, pulling out a folder filled with clippings and notes. "Have you seen it? The Brass Keyhole?"

Raymond's expression shifted subtly. "I have. For academic purposes, of course."

"Of course," Clara echoed, unable to suppress a sardonic smile. "And Dennis Carpenter is calling it 'a daring exploration of female sexuality and desire.' A 'cultural watershed.'" She practically spat the words.

"Carpenter's always been more interested in justifying his erections than actual film criticism," Raymond said.

Clara laughed despite herself. "Well, tonight, I'm going to dismantle his entire argument. This film isn't art—it's exploitation dressed up in fancy camera work." She pulled out several photographs from the folder, stills from the movie she'd managed to obtain through her research channels.

"Every scene follows the same degrading pattern. The women are stripped, displayed, and forced to spread themselves openly; then, it's straight to oral sex and anal penetration. There's no plot, no character development—just women being reduced to orifices for male pleasure." Her voice grew heated as she spoke, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Raymond's eyes were sincere and kind. "You've done your homework."

"I've watched it three times," Clara admitted, her voice dropping. "Each viewing was more disturbing than the last. The lead actress—God, Raymond..."

She spread the materials across her desk, revealing meticulous notes on each scene, timestamps, and dialogue transcriptions. "The film is gaining the same cult status as Deep Throat, but at least that pretended to be about female pleasure, however absurdly. This doesn't even try. It's just…" She struggled to find the words.

"Anal sex and submission," Raymond finished quietly.

Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. "Yes."

"What bothers me most," she continued, her voice steadier now, "is how Carpenter frames it as female liberation. As if being coerced into these acts on camera is somehow empowering."

Raymond picked up one of her articles, scanning it thoughtfully. "Your counterargument is solid. The distinction between actual female sexual agency and the male fantasy of female submission packaged as 'liberation.'"

"Exactly." Clara felt a surge of gratitude for his understanding. "But Carpenter has the advantage. He's been the Journal's film critic for fifteen years, and I'm the upstart feminist who can't enjoy a good porno without analyzing it to death," Clara finished wryly. She sank into her chair, acutely aware of Raymond's proximity, as he leaned against her desk.

"You're the scholar who won't let men like Carpenter define what female sexuality should look like," Raymond corrected her.

She looked up at him, at how his silver hair caught the late afternoon light, at the intelligence in his eyes that had drawn her to him as a mentor.

"I'll be in the front row tonight. This is going to be a huge win for the department; I can feel it," said Raymond confidently as he exited her office. "Bring it home tonight, Clara."

After Raymond left, Clara exhaled slowly, trying to calm her nerves. She glanced at her watch—three hours until the debate. The university auditorium would be packed; Carpenter had his followers, primarily male students and faculty, who praised his "intellectual courage" in defending controversial films.

Clara dressed in the faculty bathroom, a ritual of transformation that felt strangely like preparing for battle. She smoothed the tailored burgundy blazer over her cream silk blouse, adjusted the matching pants, and steadied herself on the burgundy heels that added three inches to her height. The black reading glasses remained—she needed them not just for reading her notes but as a subtle barrier between herself and the audience that would scrutinize her every expression tonight.

She turned sideways in the harsh fluorescent light, frowning at her reflection. Her hands instinctively moved to her backside, cupping the generous curve that strained slightly against the fabric of her pants. Too big, she thought, as she always did. She tugged at the blazer, trying to extend its coverage.

"You're going to debate pornography, not your ass," she muttered to herself, echoing the words of her graduate school mentor. Still, she couldn't help the familiar anxiety. In academia, in 1978, a woman's intellect was still often secondary to her appearance, and Clara's body refused to be inconspicuous. Her large breasts and ample rear end seemed to enter rooms before she did, drawing eyes that should be focused on her arguments.

She pulled her thick brown hair into a tight bun, securing it with extra pins, leaving nothing to chance or distraction. The gesture was practical and professional, yet she couldn't help noticing how it emphasized the elegant line of her neck, the delicate curve where it met her shoulder. She applied a touch of muted lipstick, nothing flashy—armor of a different sort.

Clara arrived at the campus auditorium thirty minutes early, her research materials organized in a leather portfolio, her heart hammering against her ribs. The space was already half-filled, mostly with male students lounging in seats, their postures casual, entitled. She spotted several of her female students clustered together near the front, their presence a silent show of solidarity that made her throat tighten unexpectedly.

As she made her way to the stage, she felt eyes tracking her movements.

The auditorium continued to fill, the buzz of conversation growing louder as Dennis Carpenter made his entrance. He strode confidently through the side door, surrounded by a small entourage of film students who hung on his every word.

At forty-five, Carpenter cut an imposing figure—tall and broad-shouldered with a carefully cultivated beard that he stroked when making his most provocative points. His tweed jacket with leather elbow patches was a cliché that he somehow made work. He casually held a snifter of brandy in one hand; Clara watched him work the room, shaking hands, laughing too loudly. When their eyes met across the auditorium, he offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes and a small, patronizing nod.

The moderator, Dr. Eleanor Simmons from the Communications Department, a slender, attractive blonde-haired woman of about forty wearing a brown pantsuit, approached the stage, signaling that they were about to begin. Clara took her position at the podium, arranging her notes one final time. Across the stage, Carpenter lounged against his podium, looking for all the world like he was about to discuss the weather rather than defend a film that featured women being systematically degraded.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dr. Simmons began, her voice carrying through the now-packed auditorium. "Tonight, we address a controversial topic that sits at the intersection of art, censorship, and gender politics. The Brass Keyhole—pornography or revolutionary cinema? Avant-Garde classic or smut?"

Clara's heart fluttered as Dr. Simmons began introducing the participants. Sitting in the front row, she couldn't help but lock eyes with Raymond. Beside him was James Carter, the effortlessly charming professor from the sociology department. His hazel eyes sparkled mischievously, complementing his lean, athletic frame and tousled brown hair that gave him a rugged yet approachable allure. When he flashed her a thumbs-up and a smile that showcased his impeccably straight teeth, Clara felt a warmth spread through her cheeks.

James's presence alone made her pulse quicken. She was captivated by his boyish good looks, which exuded an undeniable charm. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't resist stealing another glance at him before forcing herself to redirect her attention back to the proceedings at hand.

Carpenter went first, his deep voice resonating with practiced authority.

"What we're witnessing with The Brass Keyhole is nothing short of a sexual revolution on celluloid," he proclaimed, gesturing expansively. "Director Martin Reed has created a visual manifesto that liberates female sexuality from the constraints of puritanical thinking. The female performers aren't victims—they're pioneers, boldly exploring the full spectrum of human desire."

Clara gripped the edges of the podium as she delivered her rebuttal, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

"What Mr. Carpenter calls liberation, I call exploitation dressed in the emperor's new clothes," she began. "This film doesn't explore female desire—it caters exclusively to male fantasy while pretending to be revolutionary. The women in The Brass Keyhole aren't subjects with agency; they're objects performing degradation for male viewers under the guise of artistic expression."

The crowd murmured, some nodding in agreement, others shifting uncomfortably. Clara caught Raymond's approving nod from the front row while James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with undisguised admiration.

Dr. Simmons stepped forward. "To provide context for our discussion, we'll view a brief excerpt from the film." She gestured toward the projection booth at the back of the auditorium. "I must remind everyone that this material is explicit and that you are free to excuse yourselves if the clips disturb you."

The lights dimmed, and Clara steeled herself, knowing exactly which scene would be shown-the one Carpenter had specifically requested as "emblematic of the film's artistic merit."

The projector whirred to life, and the screen filled with the ornate interior of a Victorian manor house. The camera panned slowly across polished, expensive-looking furniture and gilded mirrors before settling on a young Black woman in a French maid's uniform. Her costume was a parody of actual work attire—the black satin bodice cinched impossibly tight, pushing her large breasts up and together until they threatened to spill over the white lace trim. The skirt barely covered her thighs, flaring over a ruffled white petticoat.

Clara heard the collective intake of breath from the audience as the camera lingered on the maid's body, fragmenting her into parts—first her glossy lips, then her breasts straining against the fabric, and finally her shapely legs in sheer black stockings.

"Marie-Claire knows exactly what her employer desires," the narrator's voice intoned in a faux-sophisticated drawl. "And it isn't just a clean house."

The maid moved to dust a bookshelf, stretching to reach a high shelf. As she did, her skirt rode up, revealing the bare, round curves of her buttocks. The camera zoomed in slowly, capturing every inch of exposed flesh. No underwear, Clara noted clinically, though her stomach clenched just as the film's director intended.

The maid bent at the waist, reaching under a cabinet. The camera tracked every movement as her skirt rode higher, fully exposing her bare buttocks to the audience. Clara watched stone-faced as several male students shifted in their seats, their reactions painfully obvious. The camera lingered in extreme close-up, capturing the deep cleft between the woman's cheeks, the smooth dark skin glistening under studio lights meant to evoke perspiration from her "labors."

When the maid moved to dust a small bronze statue of a rearing horse on a side table, she squatted on her heels, legs spread wide. The camera angle shifted lower, capturing her from behind, focusing with clinical precision on her exposed genitalia and the tight, wrinkled pucker of her anus. Clara heard a few uncomfortable coughs from the female students in the audience, while some of the men snickered.

The scene's calculated voyeurism became complete as the "lord of the manor" entered the frame—a middle-aged white man in a convincing period costume, his cravat askew, his eyes transfixed on the maid's exposed body. His gaze, like the camera's, was unrelenting, moving from her buttocks to the intimate crevice between them.

"Marie-Claire," he said, his voice thick with exaggerated desire. "I see you've neglected to wear the proper undergarments again."

The maid turned, feigning surprise, her heavily made-up eyes widening. "Forgive me, sir. I find they…restrict my movements when I'm cleaning."

The lord approached her slowly, his hand already moving to the front of his breeches. "Then perhaps you should be restricted. For your own good, of course."

Clara felt a wave of heat rise to her face—not from arousal but from anger. The dialogue was as predictable as it was offensive, reducing what could have been a complex power dynamic to the cheapest of pornographic clichés.

The lights came up abruptly as Dr. Simmons stepped forward. "I believe that gives us adequate context for our discussion," she said briskly, though Clara noted the slight flush on the moderator's cheeks.

Carpenter was already speaking before the projector had fully stopped. "What we've just witnessed is a sophisticated exploration of power dynamics and racial taboos," he proclaimed. "Reed doesn't shy away from America's complex sexual history; he confronts it head-on, challenging us to examine our own reactions."

Clara took a deep breath, grateful for the years of academic training that allowed her to respond analytically rather than emotionally.

"What we've witnessed," she countered, her voice steady, "is the reduction of a Black woman to a collection of body parts for white male consumption. This isn't confronting history—it's fetishizing it. The 'French maid' trope is nothing more than a thinly veiled fantasy of servitude, one that reinforces both racial and gender hierarchies."

Clara could feel her face flush with righteous indignation as Carpenter continued his defense, his voice dripping with pseudo-intellectual justification.

"The film challenges our preconceptions about female pleasure," he argued, gesturing toward the screen. "Reed's camera doesn't shy away from the raw reality of human desire."

"Raw exploitation isn't reality," Clara countered, her voice steady despite her racing pulse. "And what's being presented isn't female pleasure—it's male fantasy projected onto female bodies."

The debate grew heated, with Carpenter dismissing her arguments as "puritanical" and "anti-sex." Clara noticed several female students nodding vigorously as she spoke about the difference between authentic female sexuality and its commercialized simulation.

"The problem isn't sex," Clara insisted, leaning into the microphone. "The problem is power—who wields it, who profits from it, and who is reduced to an object by it."

Just as she was building momentum, Dr. Simmons interrupted. "We have another excerpt that Mr. Carpenter has selected to illustrate his point about the film's artistic merits."

Clara's stomach dropped. She knew what was coming next, the film's most explicit and disturbing sequence. As the lights dimmed again, she gripped the podium edges.

The projector whirred to life, filling the screen with the same Victorian setting. The narrator's voice returned, heavy with affected gravitas.

"Marie-Claire learns the price of her provocations," the voice intoned as the camera panned across the bedroom.

The scene showed Marie-Claire now completely naked, her uniform torn away, her body glistening with sweat under harsh lighting. She straddled the manor lord in reverse, facing away from him, her expression visible to the camera—a grotesque mask of what a male director imagined female pleasure to look like.

The audience shifted uncomfortably as the camera focused on Marie-Claire's face contorted in what was meant to be ecstasy but looked more like pain. Her large breasts bounced violently as the older man's hands reached around to slap them, her large breasts jiggling and her eyes widening with each blow.

"Take it all," the man growled, his face flushed. "Take all of me."

Clara watched, stone-faced, as Marie-Claire struggled visibly, her body tensing as the man attempted to penetrate her anally. The camera zoomed in with clinical precision on this violation, lingering on close-ups that fragmented her body into nothing more than orifices.

"You like that, don't you?" the man demanded, slapping her breasts again as she alternated between screams and unconvincing moans.

"Yes, monsieur," she gasped, though her eyes told a different story, one of discomfort and performative sexuality that had nothing to do with her pleasure.

Marie-Claire's body was a testament to the cruelty of the scene. Sweat glistened on her dark skin, dripping from her forehead and trailing down her abdomen. Her large breasts, the nipples hardened into sharp little peaks, and twin trails of sweat ran down her torso towards her black pubic hair.

Clara's breath caught in her throat, even though she had seen the 'film' before; the lord's large shaft penetrated Marie's asshole, thick throbbing. His heavy balls, swinging below with an almost rhythmic motion, added to the erotic spectacle before them. The man's grip on her hips was unrelenting, every muscle in his forearms tensed as he pulled her down onto his shaft slowly, savoring each inch that disappeared into her bowels.

"Take it all," he growled again, his deep voice echoing like a demon's command through the dimly lit room. And Marie-Claire did, gasping and moaning with each thrust that pounded her violated body.

Between them, there was a conversation of sorts - a grotesque song of pleasure and pain that only they were singing in sync: "Yes, my lord," Marie gasped out between screams and unconvincing moans. Her eyes were saying one thing while her mouth spoke another - they pleaded for mercy just as much as they begged for more.

The camera zoomed in on this spectacle with clinical precision - fragmenting Marie-Claire's body into nothing more than orifices for the man to penetrate and possess, each shot lingering too long on the brutality of it all. Her vocal talents were employed to produce cries that were part fear, part ecstasy - a cacophony of sounds that painted a vivid picture of her misery and 'pleasure.'

The lights came up abruptly, and Clara was already on her feet, her professional composure cracking under the weight of her anger.

"That's enough," Clara said, her voice cutting through the stunned silence of the auditorium. "This isn't art-it's assault captured on film and repackaged as entertainment."

Carpenter smiled condescendingly. "Your emotional reaction only proves my point, Professor Longley. The film provokes strong responses because it confronts uncomfortable truths about power and desire."

"The only truth that scene confronts," Clara fired back, her burgundy blazer rising and falling with her quickened breath, "is that some men find female pain arousing. Marie-Claire's facial expressions communicate distress, not pleasure. Her verbal consent is clearly coerced, and the camera's gaze is unmistakably male-fragmenting her body into consumable parts rather than portraying her as a complete human being."

Murmurs rippled through the audience. Clara caught sight of Raymond in the front row, his expression intense, impressed. Next to him, James leaned forward, his hazel eyes fixed on her with undisguised admiration.

"You're imposing your narrow feminist framework on what is a complex artistic expression," Carpenter argued, his voice taking on the patronizing tone he reserved for female opponents. "Marie-Claire's character is exploring the boundaries of her own desires. The pain you perceive is the ecstasy of surrender."

Clara felt heat rising in her cheeks, not just from anger but from the humiliation of having such explicit material displayed in an academic setting where her colleagues and students were watching. She glanced at the audience and saw several male students smirking, their eyes still glazed from the scene they'd just witnessed.

"Ecstasy of surrender?" Clara repeated, her voice rising. "That's exactly the kind of pseudo-intellectual garbage used to justify exploitation! There is nothing 'complex' about filming a Black woman being sexually violated for white male consumption!"

Her voice had risen too much. She was shouting now, her carefully prepared notes forgotten. Carpenter remained maddeningly calm, adjusting his glasses with theatrical deliberation.

"Professor Longley," he said, his voice dripping with condescension, "your emotional outburst only demonstrates your inability to engage with sexual content objectively. This is precisely why feminist criticism fails to be taken seriously in artistic circles."

The auditorium fell silent. Clara felt as though she'd been slapped. She was playing directly into his hands, becoming the hysterical woman he wanted to portray her as.

"If we examine the cinematography," Carpenter continued smoothly, addressing the audience rather than Clara, "we see Reed using techniques borrowed from Bertolucci and Godard. The high-contrast lighting, the use of extreme close-ups—these aren't pornographic conventions but artistic choices that elevate the material."

Clara struggled to regain her composure, shuffling through her notes. She'd prepared for his technical arguments and had counterpoints ready about how aesthetic choices could serve exploitative ends, but the words weren't coming. The explicit images still lingered in her mind, making it difficult to form the academic arguments she'd rehearsed.

"The lighting and camera angles," she began, her voice less steady than before, "are designed to—to objectify and fragment the female body, not to—"

"To capture the intensity of human connection," Carpenter interrupted. "Reed's genius lies in his willingness to show sex as it truly is—messy, complicated, sometimes painful, but ultimately transformative."

From the corner of her eye, Clara could see several audience members nodding. She was losing them. Worse, she was losing control of the debate.

"That scene shows assault, not sex," she said bluntly, abandoning her academic language. "Marie-Claire is clearly in pain."

Carpenter sighed theatrically. "And now we arrive at the heart of the feminist paradox. When a woman expresses pleasure in ways that don't conform to Professor Longley's approved feminist script, her experience must be invalidated and relabeled. Who's really denying female agency here?"

A few students applauded. Clara felt her stomach twist. This was going terribly wrong. She'd prepared for intellectual debate, not for having to defend the basic humanity of women after watching explicit pornography in front of her colleagues and students.

Before Clara could respond, Dr. Simmons stepped forward. "Mr. Carpenter has requested one final clip to conclude his argument."

The lights dimmed once more, and Clara felt a wave of nausea rising in her throat. She knew what was coming next—the scene that had disturbed her most profoundly during her research.

The projector flickered to life, revealing a sunlit cotton field. Marie-Claire appeared, now completely naked, her body glistening with sweat as she lay sprawled across a crude wooden table at the edge of the field. The camera panned slowly across her exposed form, lingering on her parted lips, her heaving breasts, the dark triangle between her thighs.

Two white French field hands approached, their faces leering as they circled her prone body. Unlike the "lord," these men were portrayed as coarse and unwashed, their shirts stained with sweat, their faces unshaven.

"Look what we found," the taller one drawled, unbuttoning his work pants. "The master's little plaything, all alone."

The second man laughed, already stroking himself through his trousers. "Seems like she's waitin' for us, don't it?"

Marie-Claire's eyes widened in what was meant to be fear but was undercut by the director's insistence that she lick her lips suggestively. The camera zoomed in on her face as the men dropped their pants, revealing thick erect penises that they began to stroke aggressively.

"Please," Marie-Claire whispered, the script forcing her to feign reluctance while her body was positioned in blatant invitation. "My master will punish me."

"We'll punish you first," the shorter man growled, moving closer until his erection hovered inches from her face.

The scene devolved quickly, with both men masturbating over her body as she writhed beneath them, the script forcing her to transition from fear to arousal in a way that made Clara's stomach turn.

When he finally ejaculated—thick streams of semen landing on Marie-Claire's face and breasts—the camera lingered in extreme close-up on her features; one of her eyes was closed shut, covered in thick white cum. Her forehead, cheeks, and chin were covered in the viscous fluid that dripped down her face and pooled between her large breasts.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Marie-Claire whispered in the script's final perversion, her tongue darting out to taste the fluid at the corner of her mouth and lips as the men grinned down at her.

The lights came up, and Clara stood frozen, her knuckles white against the podium edge. The auditorium was uncomfortably silent, the air thick with tension.

Carpenter broke the silence, his voice measured and academic. "What we've just witnessed is Reed's commentary on America's racial history—a bold inversion of power dynamics that forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about desire and taboo."

Clara stared at the blank projection screen, her carefully constructed academic arguments crumbling under the assault of the explicit images still burning in her retinas. The auditorium felt suffocatingly hot, the burgundy blazer suddenly too tight across her heaving chest. Her throat constricted as she tried to formulate a response that wouldn't betray the turmoil within her.

"That's not an inversion of power dynamics," she finally managed, her voice sounding distant even to her ears. "It's a reinforcement of the most vile racial and sexual stereotypes from slavery. Calling this 'art' doesn't erase its exploitation."

But her words lacked their earlier conviction. Worse, she felt a shameful heat spreading through her lower body, a visceral response to the explicit imagery that contradicted everything her intellect stood for. The disconnect between her feminist principles and her body's involuntary reaction left her feeling fraudulent and confused.

Carpenter sensed her vulnerability like a predator scenting blood. "Professor Longley seems uncomfortable with the raw sexuality on display," he said, addressing the audience directly. "Perhaps this discomfort reveals more about her own repression than about Reed's artistic choices."

Scattered laughter rippled through the auditorium. Clara felt her cheeks burning as she struggled to regain control of the debate.

"The issue isn't sexuality," she insisted, her voice unsteady. "It's the exploitation and degradation being marketed as liberation."

But even as she spoke, Clara was painfully aware of the wetness between her thighs, the way her nipples had hardened against the silk of her blouse. Her body's betrayal made it impossible to fully inhabit her intellectual arguments. The words came out hollow, unconvincing.

"Liberation often looks like degradation to those still trapped in conventional thinking," Carpenter countered smoothly. "Reed's genius lies in exposing the thin line between power and submission, between pain and pleasure."

Clara fumbled with her notes, desperate to find the thread of her argument. The debate was slipping away from her. She could feel Raymond's intense gaze from the front row and could imagine his disappointment as she failed to deliver the decisive rebuttal he'd expected.

"The film…" she began, then faltered. "The film perpetuates harmful stereotypes about Black female sexuality, portraying—"

"Portraying a woman embracing her desires without shame," Carpenter interrupted. "Something that apparently makes Professor Longley deeply uncomfortable."

Another ripple of laughter, louder this time. Clara saw several male students exchanging knowing glances. Her humiliation was complete. Not only was she losing the debate, but her body's reaction to the pornographic imagery made her feel like a fraud, her feminist credentials suddenly questionable.

Dr. Simmons stepped forward, perhaps sensing Clara's distress. "I believe we should open the floor to questions from the audience," she announced, effectively ending the formal debate portion.

As hands shot up around the auditorium, Clara fought to regain her composure.

Clara found her voice at last, anger cutting through her shock. "That's not commentary—it's racist. The actress herself has spoken about the filming conditions," Clara said, grasping at straws now.

"The surrender of agency is not ecstasy," Clara countered, removing her reading glasses. "It's surrender of personhood. And let's not pretend the actress playing Marie-Claire had any real choice in how her body was displayed and used in this scene. The power dynamic behind the camera mirrors the one in front of it."

She pulled a document from her folder. "I've interviewed Lucille Watson, the actress who played Marie-Claire. She was only paid $200 for three days of shooting." Clara's voice remained steady, but her eyes blazed. "She described the experience as 'the most humiliating three days of my life.'"

A hush fell over the auditorium. Carpenter's face flushed red.

"Those allegations are unsubstantiated," he blustered. "And irrelevant to the artistic merit of the final product."

"How convenient," Clara said, her voice dripping with disdain, "that the suffering of women becomes 'irrelevant' when it interferes with male pleasure." She turned to face the audience directly. "What we've witnessed tonight isn't revolutionary cinema. It's the same exploitation that's existed since men first realized they could profit from female bodies. The only difference is the pretense of intellectual justification."

The debate had ended in a technical draw—Carpenter's smooth rhetoric against Clara's passionate analysis—but as she gathered her materials, Clara knew she'd lost control of the narrative. She'd allowed herself to be baited into emotional responses rather than maintaining the clinical distance her academic position demanded.

The auditorium emptied slowly, clusters of students and faculty lingering to discuss what they'd witnessed. Clara kept her eyes down, avoiding the curious gazes that followed her. Her body still buzzed with contradictory sensations—intellectual outrage warring with a physical response she couldn't entirely suppress.

"Professor Longley."

The deep voice behind her made her shoulders tense. She turned to find Dennis Carpenter standing too close; his expensive, cloying cologne invaded her space.

"What do you want?" she asked, not bothering to mask her hostility.

Carpenter smiled, his eyes sliding over her body in a way that made her skin crawl. "I wanted to thank you for an…invigorating debate. Your passion is quite something to witness in person."

"Save the condescension," Clara replied, tucking her portfolio under her arm. "We both know you selected those scenes specifically to throw me off balance."

He shrugged, unrepentant. "All's fair in love and academic warfare. Though I must say, for someone so opposed to pornography, you seemed rather…affected by what you saw."

Heat flooded Clara's face. Had her physical response been that obvious? The thought mortified her.

"Don't mistake disgust for arousal, Carpenter," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "The body doesn't lie, Professor. Perhaps there's more to your opposition than purely academic concerns."

Before Clara could respond, Raymond appeared at her side, his tall figure inserting itself between her and Carpenter. "Excellent debate, Dennis," he said smoothly, though his blue eyes were cold. "Though perhaps a bit heavy on shock value, light on substance."

Carpenter's smile tightened. "Phillips. Always rushing to the defense of your protégée. One might wonder about your…investment in her career."

Raymond's expression remained impassive, but Clara noticed his jaw tighten. "My investment is in intellectual integrity, something your review of The Brass Keyhole sorely lacked."

With a mocking half-bow, Carpenter retreated, leaving Clara and Raymond standing alone amid the emptying auditorium.

"You did well," Raymond said quietly, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. "Especially considering the ambush tactics."

Clara shook her head, fighting unexpected tears. "I lost control. Let him bait me into exactly the emotional response he wanted."

"You showed humanity in the face of exploitation. There's no shame in that." Raymond's blue eyes studied her face with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "Though I suspect you're more shaken than you're letting on."

"I'm fine," Clara said, hiding the fact that she wanted to melt into the floor and run from the stage; a chink had been blasted into her intellectual armor, and she knew it.

"I'm ok," Clara said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She clutched her portfolio tighter as if it might shield her from the vulnerability she felt.

As Raymond studied her with concern, a new presence approached from the side of the stage. James Carter moved toward them with the easy confidence that seemed to follow him everywhere. In his mid-twenties, James had the kind of effortless good looks that made both students and faculty take notice—lean and athletic with tousled brown hair that fell just above his sparkling hazel eyes. His neatly trimmed beard added a touch of maturity to his youthful face, and his smile was disarmingly genuine with that charming dimple in his left cheek.

Tonight, James had opted for what Clara privately thought of as his "academic rebel" look: a vintage tweed blazer over a crisp blue button-down shirt, the top two buttons casually undone, paired with well-fitted dark jeans that hugged his narrow hips. The outfit walked the perfect line between professorial authority and approachable coolness—much like James himself.

"That was something else," James said, his voice warm and rich as he joined them. "You held your ground against Carpenter's cheap shots. Impressive, Professor Longley." His hazel eyes met hers with unmistakable admiration, and Clara felt a different kind of heat rise to her cheeks.

"Thanks, but I think we all know who won that round," Clara replied, attempting to sound casual despite the lingering humiliation.

James shook his head, the movement causing a lock of his hair to fall across his forehead. "Winning isn't always about who gets the last word. It's about who makes people think, and you definitely did that." He gestured toward a group of female students huddled in animated conversation near the exit. "Your students over there haven't stopped talking since the debate ended."

Clara followed his gaze, noticing the passionate expressions on her students' faces—something inside her softened slightly.

"I should probably get going," she said, suddenly aware of how much she wanted to escape the charged atmosphere of the auditorium. "I need to...process everything."

Raymond nodded, his silver hair catching the light. "Of course. We can discuss this further at the department meeting tomorrow."

"Actually," James interjected, his smile widening to reveal perfect teeth, "a few of us were heading to Callahan's for a drink. Nothing helps process academic trauma like whiskey and good company." His eyes held Clara's for a moment longer than necessary. "You should join us. Both of you," he added, glancing at Raymond.

Clara hesitated. The thought of being alone in her apartment with the images from the debate still fresh in her mind was suddenly unbearable. But the alternative—socializing after such a raw, exposing experience—seemed equally daunting.

"I don't know if I'm up for a crowd tonight," she admitted. The thought of sitting in a bar, fielding questions about the debate while still processing her conflicted reactions, made her stomach clench.

"It's just a few of us," James assured her, his voice dropping slightly as he stepped closer. "Me, Diane from Women's Studies, and Mark from Film. No Carpenter loyalists, I promise." His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a warmth radiating from him that Clara found difficult to resist.

Raymond cleared his throat. "I have a faculty senate report to finish tonight," he said, checking his watch. "But Clara, you should go. It might do you good to decompress with colleagues who understand what you're up against."

Clara felt caught between them—Raymond's measured concern and James's inviting warmth. The contrast between the distinguished silver-haired mentor who had guided her career and the charismatic younger professor who looked at her with undisguised interest was not lost on her.

"One drink," she conceded finally, smoothing down her blazer. "Though I'm not promising to be good company."

James's face lit up. "I'll take moody and brilliant over dull and cheerful any day." He offered his arm in a playfully gallant gesture. "Shall we?"

As they walked out of the auditorium, Clara was acutely aware of Raymond watching them leave, his expression unreadable. The weight of his gaze followed her out the door and into the cool Atlanta evening.

Callahan's was mercifully dim, the wood-paneled walls and low amber lighting creating an atmosphere that felt separate from the academic world they'd just left behind. James guided Clara to a corner booth where Diane and Mark were already nursing drinks.

"Here's our woman of the hour," James announced, his hand resting lightly on Clara's lower back as he ushered her into the booth. The casual touch sent an unexpected tingle up her spine.

Diane, a petite woman with prematurely silver hair cropped short, raised her glass. "To telling Carpenter exactly where he can stick his 'artistic merit,'" she toasted.

Mark, bearded and bespectacled, nodded enthusiastically. "That takedown of his 'cinematography' argument was masterful, Clara. I'm using it in my Film Theory class tomorrow."

The validation from her colleagues began to soothe Clara's raw nerves. James slid into the booth beside her, his thigh pressing lightly against hers in the cramped space. He signaled to the waitress.

"Whiskey, neat, for me," he said, then turned to Clara. "And for the professor who just survived trial by pornography?"

"The same," Clara replied, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Make it a double."

The conversation flowed more easily than Clara had expected, with her colleagues dissecting the debate and offering their own.

Clara was swept away by James Carter. With his gorgeous looks, wits, and cologne, how could someone so handsome be attracted to her?

Clara's double whiskey arrived, amber liquid catching the bar's dim light. She took a healthy swallow, welcoming the burn that traveled down her throat and bloomed in her chest. As the alcohol's warmth spread through her body, she felt her rigid posture begin to soften.

"God, I needed this," she murmured, setting the glass down. The whiskey was already dulling the sharp edges of her humiliation.

"I'd say you earned it," James replied, his voice low and intimate despite the bar's background noise. "Standing up there while Carpenter forced everyone to watch what was essentially hardcore pornography disguised as 'art'—that takes guts."

Clara felt a flush creep up her neck that had nothing to do with the whiskey. James was sitting close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy with hints of citrus and spice. Unlike Raymond's more traditional, expensive scent, James's cologne had a youthful, vibrant quality that suited him perfectly.

"What bothers me most," she admitted, taking another sip, "is that I lost control. I let him get under my skin."

James leaned closer, his hazel eyes intent on hers. "That's because you actually care. Carpenter treats this like an intellectual game, but you understand what's at stake."

His words were validating, but Clara couldn't help noticing how his gaze occasionally dropped to her lips when she spoke, or how his knee pressed more firmly against hers under the table. Was he flirting with her? The possibility sent a confusing thrill through her still-sensitized body.

As the night progressed and their colleagues departed one by one, Clara found herself alone with James, their conversation flowing as freely as the whiskey. His intelligence matched his looks—sharp, quick, with unexpected depths. When he spoke about his work in urban sociology, his passion reminded her of her early academic days, before committees and department politics had tempered her enthusiasm.

"You're staring," James said suddenly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Clara blinked, mortified to realize he was right. The whiskey had lowered her guard, and she'd been openly studying the way his beard framed his jawline, how his throat moved when he swallowed his drink.

"Sorry," she said, gazing at her nearly empty glass. "It's been a long day."

"I wasn't complaining." James's voice had a husky quality now, his confidence both irritating and intriguing her. He was so young—at least three years her junior. Yet there was nothing boyish about the way he looked at her, nothing immature in the deliberate way he shifted closer.

"I should probably head home," Clara said, though she made no move to leave. The thought of her empty apartment felt suddenly lonely compared to the warm cocoon of their booth, with James's attention wrapped around her like a blanket.

"Why don't you come over to my place for a nightcap," James suggested, his voice dropping to that intimate register that seemed to bypass her intellect and speak directly to her body. "I can call you a cab later."

Clara knew she should refuse. The professional part of her brain, which had meticulously built her reputation as a serious academic, was screaming warnings about department gossip and power dynamics. But another part, a neglected, hungry part that had been awakened by the day's strange confluence of public humiliation and private arousal, was already deciding.

"One more drink," she heard herself say, the words hanging between them like a promise they both understood went beyond alcohol.

Outside, the Atlanta night embraced them with unexpected warmth for early spring. James hailed a cab, and as they slid into the back seat, Clara felt reckless and more alive than she had in months. His hand found hers in the darkness, fingers intertwining with a casual intimacy that sent electricity up her arm.

"2145 Ponce de Leon," he told the driver, then turned to Clara with a smile that made her stomach flip. "It's nothing fancy. A graduate student's salary doesn't go far, even for junior faculty."

The cab ride was brief but charged with tension. Every bump in the road pressed their thighs together, and every turn gave James an excuse to steady her with a hand on her knee. By the time they reached his building—a converted Victorian house divided into apartments—Clara's skin felt too tight, her body too warm.

James's apartment was on the second floor, accessed by a creaking wooden staircase. He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her enter first. Unlike her cluttered, book-filled space, his apartment was surprisingly minimal. Mid-century furniture, clean lines, and walls adorned with black and white photographs of urban landscapes.

"Bourbon?" he offered, moving to a small bar cart in the corner. "Or I have wine."

"Bourbon," Clara replied, needing the liquid courage. She wandered to his bookshelf, scanning titles to ground herself in something familiar. His collection was impressive—critical theory, urban studies, and, to her surprise, several feminist texts she recognized, including her own published dissertation.

She pulled it from the shelf. "You read this?"

James approached with two glasses, handing her one. "Twice," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Your critique of visual objectification in mainstream media was what made me want to meet you in the first place."

Clara didn't lose sight of the irony—that her scholarly work on objectification had led to this moment when her body thrummed with the desire to be touched and wanted. She took a large swallow of bourbon, welcoming the burn.

"Why did you invite me here, James?" she asked directly, tired of the academic dance of words they'd been performing all evening.

He set his glass down and stepped closer. He was a foot from her now. "Being honest, or should I be a gentleman?"

"Be honest," Clara said, her voice barely above a whisper. The bourbon's warmth had settled low in her belly, mingling with a different kind of heat.

James took another half-step closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "I invited you here because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since the day we met at the faculty mixer." His voice was low, intimate. "Not just your mind—though God knows that's formidable enough—but all of you, Clara."

His honesty disarmed her. In academic circles, desire was dressed up in theoretical language and abstracted until it was safe. This direct acknowledgment of wanting was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I'm your senior colleague," she reminded him, though her body betrayed her as she swayed slightly toward him.

"And I'm a grown man who knows exactly what he wants." James reached out, not touching her yet, but his fingers hovered near her cheek. "The question is, what do you want, Clara?"

What did she want? The whiskey had loosened something in her, something that had been tightly coiled since the moment Carpenter had flicked on that projector. The images that had flashed across the screen had awakened a hunger she'd been denying, one she channeled into her secret writing but never allowed herself to experience fully.

"I want…" she began, then faltered. How could she admit that beneath her feminist theory and academic rigor, she wanted to be touched, to be taken, to surrender the constant control she maintained?

James waited, patient, his eyes never leaving hers. In them, she saw not just desire, but understanding.

"I want to stop thinking," she finally said, "just for tonight."

It was all the permission he needed. James closed the distance between them, one hand cupping her face while the other slid around her waist, drawing her against him. His lips found hers with surprising gentleness, a questioning kiss that quickly deepened as she responded.

Clara's glass slipped from her fingers, landing harmlessly on the carpet as she reached up to grasp his shoulders. The solid feel of him beneath her hands was intoxicating. His kiss became more insistent, his tongue sliding against hers as his hand at her waist slipped lower, squeezing the curve of her ass through her sensible pants.

A small moan escaped her, and she felt him smile against her mouth.

"I've imagined that sound," he murmured, trailing kisses along her jaw to her ear. "But reality is so much better."

His words sent a shiver through her. Clara's hands moved of their own accord, tugging his shirt free from his waistband, desperate to feel skin. James responded by walking her backward until she felt the edge of his desk press against her thighs.

James was kissing her insistently now, his lips hot and demanding against hers. His hands moved with confident purpose, one tangling in her hair to tilt her head back, the other sliding up her ribcage to cup her breast through her blouse. Clara gasped against his mouth, her body responding with an eagerness that shocked her. It had been over a year since she'd been touched like this—her last encounter was a forgettable night with a visiting professor whose name she could barely recall now. That man's hesitant fumbling couldn't compare to James's skillful way of unraveling her defenses.

"God, you're beautiful," James murmured against her throat, his beard creating a delicious friction against her sensitive skin. "I've watched you in faculty meetings, so composed and brilliant, and all I could think about was making you come apart."

His words sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs. Clara's hands trembled as she worked at the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against hers. James helped her, shrugging the garment off to reveal a lean, muscled torso that made her mouth go dry. The contrast of his tanned skin against the pale expanse of her own as he began unbuttoning her blouse was mesmerizing.

"Too many layers," he complained playfully, making quick work of her conservative attire. When her blouse fell open, revealing a practical white bra that suddenly seemed embarrassingly plain, James's eyes darkened. "Perfect," he breathed, bending to press his mouth to the swell of her large breasts above the fabric.

Clara let her head fall back, surrendering to sensation. James's hands were everywhere—skimming her sides, unzipping her pants, cupping her through the thin cotton of her underwear where she was already embarrassingly wet. The intellectual part of her brain tried to protest—this was reckless, unprofessional, potentially disastrous—but her body had seized control, arching into his touch like a cat.

James suddenly turned her around, his movements confident yet gentle. Clara gasped, surprised by the sudden shift, her glasses slightly askew on her nose.

"Let me look at you," he murmured, reaching to remove her cream silk blouse, which fell to the floor beside them. His fingers moved to the clasp of her bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. "I've imagined this too many times."

Clara felt a flush of self-consciousness as her large breasts spilled free, pale and heavy in the apartment's dim light. Her academic mind wanted to cross her arms, to hide her softness, but the hunger in James's eyes kept her arms at her sides.

"You're even more beautiful than I imagined," he whispered, his voice husky with desire as he reached for the waistband of her pants. Clara stood frozen, caught between embarrassment and mounting arousal as he slowly lowered the zipper and slid them down her legs, leaving them pooled around her ankles above her black heels.

Standing in only her simple cotton underwear and glasses, Clara felt painfully exposed. Her soft, rounded belly, the generous curve of her hips—all the parts of herself she carefully concealed beneath scholarly attire—were now on display for this younger man's appraisal.

"Turn around," James commanded softly, his hands on her shoulders guiding her to face away from him.

Clara complied, her heart hammering in her chest. She felt his strong hand on her, nothing but her underwear, her glasses, and her heels. The cool air of the apartment pebbled her nipples and raised goosebumps across her exposed skin.

James's warm palms smoothed over her shoulders, down her back, his touch reverent as he explored every inch of her pale skin. Clara trembled, acutely aware of how vulnerable she was, bent slightly over his desk with her pants still around her ankles.

"Your body is incredible," he whispered, his lips replacing his hands as he kissed down the length of her spine. Each press of his mouth sent shivers cascading through her. His hands cupped her breasts from behind, fingers teasing her nipples into hard peaks while his mouth continued its downward journey.

Clara's large breasts swayed gently as she shifted, a soft moan escaping her lips when James's teeth grazed the small of her back. His hands moved to her hips, then slid around to caress her stomach, tracing patterns across the flesh she usually kept hidden beneath structured clothing.

"Every curve," he murmured against her skin.

His words dissolved her embarrassment into pure need. His palms skimmed down to her thighs, then back up to cup her generous ass, squeezing appreciatively.

Before she could protest again, he pressed his lips to the soft curve of her right buttock, then her left, reverent kisses that made her shiver. His beard tickled her sensitive skin as he trailed his mouth across the dimples at the base of her spine. Clara felt his thumbs slowly, deliberately spreading her apart, exposing her most private places to his gaze.

"James," she gasped, a flush of heat radiating from her face down to her chest. No man had ever looked at her so intimately, so thoroughly. She felt the cool air against her exposed flesh, felt how vulnerable and open she was, bent over his desk with her pants still bunched around her heels.

"Trust me," he murmured, his breath hot against her most intimate flesh. "You're magnificent."

Clara's fingers gripped the edge of the desk as James spread her wider, his face moving closer. She felt his nose press against the cleft of her buttocks, nuzzling deeper until it brushed against her tight, untouched opening. A strangled sound escaped her throat—embarrassment and arousal tangling into something primal as he inhaled deeply as if savoring her scent.

"Oh god," she whimpered, her vocabulary deserting her completely as his hot breath washed over her exposed anus, then lower, teasing the slick folds of her sex. Her brown pubic hair was already damp with desire, her body betraying how desperately she wanted this despite her intellectual protestations.

"Your smell is intoxicating," James murmured, his thumbs still holding her spread wide open. "Better than bourbon."

Clara trembled, suspended between mortification and desperate need. The feeling of being so lewdly displayed, her virgin anus puckered and exposed to his hungry gaze, was overwhelming. No one had ever looked at her there, touched her there. It was forbidden territory, unexplored even in her most private fantasies.

"We should turn the lights off," she tried again, her voice barely a whisper. "Please, James."

His response was to press a lingering kiss directly against her tight opening, his lips soft but insistent against the sensitive nerves there. Clara's knees nearly buckled at the shocking intimacy of the contact.

"No lights off," he said firmly, his words vibrating against her flesh. "I want to watch your body respond to every touch, see how wet you get when I taste you here." His tongue flicked experimentally against her anus, a brief, electric contact that drew a startled cry from her lips.

Clara's head dropped forward, her glasses sliding down her nose as James continued his exploration, alternating between gentle kisses on her buttocks and teasing licks at her most private entrance. Each touch sent jolts of forbidden pleasure radiating through her body.

James's hands moved restlessly as he worshipped her body, alternating between spreading her asscheeks wider and reaching around to cup her soft, feminine belly. His fingers splayed across the gentle curve there, appreciating its yielding warmth as his tongue worked between her exposed holes with devastating precision.

"You taste divine," he murmured, his voice vibrating against her sensitive flesh as he dragged his tongue in a long, deliberate stroke from her dripping pussy up to her tight, virginal ring. Clara whimpered, her body trembling uncontrollably as he lingered there, circling the puckered entrance with the tip of his tongue.

"Nobody's ever…I've never…" she gasped, unable to form coherent sentences as James pressed more insistently, the tip of his tongue breaching her for just a moment before retreating. The forbidden sensation made her dizzy with shame and desire.

His beard scraped deliciously against her tender flesh as he moved lower again, lapping at her pussy in broad, hungry strokes before returning to her ass, establishing a rhythm that left her never knowing where his talented mouth would focus next. Each time his tongue returned to circle her tight opening, Clara felt herself surrendering a little more, her body relaxing into the taboo pleasure.

"You're soaking wet," James observed, his voice thick with arousal as he paused to catch his breath. One hand slid from her asscheek to trace the slick evidence of her desire that had begun to coat her inner thighs. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is still catching up."

Clara's sweaty lower back glistened in the apartment's dim light as she arched, pressing herself shamelessly back against his face. Her glasses had slipped farther down her nose, and wisps of hair had escaped her once-neat bun, giving her a debauched appearance that would have mortified her in any other context.

James gripped her hips, pulling her more firmly against his mouth as he buried his face between her cheeks again. This time, his tongue pressed more insistently against her rear entrance, working in small, persistent circles that made Clara cry out in shocked pleasure. Her thighs quivered violently as he reached around to stroke her clit in time with the movement of his tongue.

"Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her academic vocabulary reduced to primal syllables as James worked her body with ruthless skill. His fingers dug into the softness of her belly, claiming the flesh she usually hid, breaching her ass with short, penetrating strokes that sent lightning bolts of pleasure up her spine.

Clara's mind emptied of everything—the debate, Carpenter's smug face, the academic politics—leaving only the overwhelming sensation of James alternating between her holes, his tongue claiming territories she'd never allowed anyone to explore. She was sweating now, her body slick with desire and exertion as she surrendered completely to his tongue.

"Goddamn, you are beautiful," James breathed, removing his mouth from her quivering anus and giving her asscheeks a playful slap. He stood behind her, his hands sliding around to grope her large tits as he pressed kisses along the back of her neck. His cock, still confined in his pants, pressed hard against the cleft of her ass.

He whispered hotly in her ear, his breath making her shiver. "Go get us two whiskeys. When you come back, you're going to suck my cock."

The crude command, delivered in his educated voice, sent a fresh wave of wetness between Clara's thighs. She nodded wordlessly, blushing furiously as she tried to stand upright. Her pants were still bunched around her ankles, restricting her movement. She awkwardly shuffled toward the kitchen, intensely aware of James's gaze on her naked body.

The journey across his apartment was an exercise in vulnerability. Clara felt every jiggle of her large breasts, every quiver of her soft belly, every brush of air against her wet, exposed sex. Now, naked except for her heels, pants hobbling her ankles, and glasses perched precariously on her nose, she felt strangely liberated in her exposure.

Clara found the bourbon bottle in the kitchen and filled two glasses with trembling hands. Her reflection in the window above the sink startled her—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, hair coming undone. She barely recognized herself, this wanton woman with desire-glazed eyes.

When she returned, glasses in hand, she stopped short. James had removed the rest of his clothing and was sitting on the couch, completely nude. His lean, muscular body was beautiful in the dim light, but it was his cock that drew her eyes—thick and long, at least nine inches, standing proudly from a nest of dark hair. Clara swallowed hard, suddenly aware of how inexperienced she truly was. This was easily the biggest cock she had ever seen.

She approached slowly, still hobbled by her pants, and handed him a glass. James took it with a smile that was equal parts tenderness and hunger. He downed the whiskey in one smooth motion, his eyes never leaving hers. Clara followed suit, welcoming the liquid courage as it burned down her throat and spread warmth through her body.

"Now," James said, setting his empty glass aside and leaning back, his legs spread wide, "I believe you have something to do."