Chapter Two

Clara awoke with a start, head still a little boozy, shocked to be in James's apartment, one of her soft thighs draped over his waist, her head on his softly rising muscular chest; it had happened, last night, he had fucked her face, tits, came on her asshole, she shuddered with the memories, curiosity getting the better of her she lowered the sheets past his morning wood, revealing his ripped abs, rock hard nine-inch cock and balls.

She inhaled sharply, the sight of him stirring something primal within her. Her fingers hovered tentatively over his shaft, the heat of him radiating against her palm.

Clara traced her fingertips along the length of him, watching with fascination as his cock twitched beneath her touch. The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden stripes across his body. She felt a rush of power, different from last night when she had surrendered to his demands; his cock pushed into her mouth as he used her.

"My turn," she whispered, her voice barely audible in the quiet apartment.

She shifted her body, careful not to wake him, and positioned herself between his legs. The sheets rustled softly as she moved, her breasts swaying, nipples hardening in the cool morning air. Clara lowered her head, letting her thick brown hair brush against his thighs, a teasing prelude that made his cock jump even in his sleep.

Her tongue darted out, tasting the saltiness of him, circling the swollen head with deliberate slowness. James moaned in his sleep, his hips lifting slightly. Clara smiled, enjoying this reversal of control, this moment of having him unconscious and vulnerable beneath her ministrations.

"My way," she murmured against his skin, taking him deeper into her mouth, savoring the weight of him on her tongue.

Her hand cupped his balls, gently squeezing as she worked her mouth over him, setting her own rhythm, ignoring the soreness in her jaw from last night's rougher treatment. She was determined to make him come awake to pleasure, to show him she wasn't just a passive recipient of his desires.

James's breathing quickened, his eyelids fluttering. Clara increased her pace, her free hand sliding up his taut stomach, feeling the ridges of muscle tense beneath her touch. A part of her wondered what her feminist collective would think of her now, on her knees between a man's legs, but she pushed the thought away. This was about her desire, her choice, her power.

His cock pulsed against the roof of her mouth as James finally opened his eyes, confusion giving way to pleasure as he registered what was happening.

"Jesus, Clara," he gasped, reaching for her hair, but she caught his wrist, pinning it to the mattress.

"No," she said, releasing him from her mouth with a wet sound. "You don't get to direct this time. Just lie back and take it."

James's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and arousal darkening his hazel irises as he nodded slowly, surrendering to her command. Clara felt a surge of satisfaction course through her veins, hot and electric. She maintained eye contact as she lowered her mouth back to his cock, taking him in deeper than before, feeling him hit the back of her throat.

"Fuck," he groaned, his fingers clutching the sheets instead of her hair, knuckles whitening with restraint.

Clara hummed against him, the vibration making his hips buck involuntarily. She pulled back, letting saliva coat his length as she worked him with her hand, her grip firm and confident. The wet sounds of her ministrations filled the apartment, punctuated by James's increasingly desperate moans.

"You like this," she said, not a question but a declaration. "You like me taking what I want."

Her breasts were heavy against his hairy balls as she held his shaft, lifting off his shaft, her gaze never leaving his eyes, before lowering back down and taking him all the way in, gagging a little, a tear at the corner of her eyes as her nose hit his pubic hair. The vulnerability of that moment—her struggling to accommodate him completely—only heightened her sense of control. She was choosing this difficulty, this discomfort, for her own satisfaction.

James's breath hitched, his abdomen tightening as he watched her throat bulge slightly around his girth. "Christ, Clara," he whispered, his voice strained.

She pulled back, saliva connecting her swollen lips to his cock in a glistening thread. "Don't say anything," she commanded, her voice husky. "Just feel it."

Clara wiped the tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand, a delicate and defiant gesture. She moved, her soft belly sliding against his muscular thigh. She sucked him deep, studying his handsome face as he moaned in pleasure; the feeling of him down her throat made her pussy throb. She needed to taste him.

The anticipation built within her, a delicious ache between her legs that demanded satisfaction. Her tongue swirled around his shaft as her lips tightened, creating the perfect suction. James's hips began to tremble beneath her, his control slipping away with each passing second.

"I'm going to—" he started, but Clara silenced him with a sharp look, her brown eyes commanding his submission.

She increased her pace, her head bobbing rhythmically, the wet sounds of her mouth on his cock filling the sun-dappled bedroom. Her hand squeezed the base of his shaft, feeling the pulse of blood beneath her fingers. She wanted this—wanted to feel him come undone by her will, not his own.

James threw his head back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as his cock swelled against her tongue. Clara felt the first hot spurt hit the back of her throat, salty and thick. She moaned around him, the vibration sending him further over the edge as he emptied himself into her eager mouth.

She didn't swallow immediately, letting his essence pool on her tongue, savoring the taste of his surrender. Salty but slightly sweet…him. When she finally did, it was with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving his face, making sure he watched her take every drop of him inside her mouth.

"Fuck," James breathed, his chest heaving. "That was—"

"Mine," Clara finished for him, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. "That was mine."

She crawled up his body, her soft curves pressing against his hard planes, her wetness evident against his thigh. The morning light caught in her tousled hair, transforming it into a halo of brown silk. In this moment, she felt powerful, liberated from the passive role she'd assumed last night.

James sighed softly, his hand on her pale hip. "Last night, are you okay? " he asked gently.

Clara paused, her body still hovering over his, the question hanging between them in the warm morning air. Her body was covered in the pink marks of his desire, her hips, breasts, and neck covered in small pink marks, some of which would bruise. She wasn't sure if she was 'ok' with it, but at least for this morning, she was. A flicker of vulnerability crossed her face before she masked it with a small, enigmatic smile.

"I'm more than okay," Clara replied, her voice low and measured. She traced a finger over one of the pink marks on her breast, feeling a pleasant twinge of sensitivity. "Last night, you took what you wanted. This morning, I took what I needed."

James looked her deep in the eyes, his face so handsome, she wanted to melt. He leaned forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed his lips against hers. His kiss was soft but insistent, his tongue swirling in her mouth, tasting the remnants of his release. His hand tightened around her soft hip, fingers pressing into the tender flesh marked by last night's passion.

Clara moaned against his mouth, her body responding instantly to his touch. She felt herself yielding, the power she'd so carefully cultivated beginning to slip away. For a moment, she nearly succumbed once more to the intoxicating pull of his desire, the heat of his body against hers threatening to consume her resolve.

But somewhere beneath the fog of arousal, clarity emerged. She had a cat to feed at home and work waiting on her desk—the half-finished article on women's reproductive rights due to the journal by Monday. More importantly, she needed space away from this man, this cock that she felt strangely possessive of. Distance to process what had happened between them, what it meant for her carefully constructed independence.

Reluctantly, she pulled away from his kiss, her lips tingling with the ghost of his touch.

"Breakfast?" James murmured, his hazel eyes still heavy with satisfaction, one hand lazily stroking her back.

Clara kissed him again, quickly, this time, a punctuation mark rather than an invitation. "I need to go home," she said, her voice firmer than she felt inside.

She slid from the bed, acutely aware of his gaze tracking her movements as she gathered her scattered clothing from the floor. Her fingers trembled slightly as she fastened her bra, stepped into her slacks, and pulled her wrinkled blouse over her head. The fabric felt rough against her sensitized skin, a reminder of last night's abandon.

James watched her silently from the bed, his eyelids growing heavier each minute. The combination of his early morning release and the lingering effects of last night's whiskey was pulling him back toward sleep. By the time Clara had slipped her feet into her heels, put on her blazer, and collected her purse, his breathing had deepened, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of slumber.

She paused at the bedroom doorway, looking back at his naked form sprawled across the rumpled sheets. Something tightened in her chest—not quite regret or longing, but a complex emotion she wasn't ready to name.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath her feet as she walked through his apartment. The morning sun illuminated the glasses of whiskey and the couch cushions on the living room floor—evidence of how quickly they'd fallen into each other last night. Clara paused, bending to retrieve her earring from beneath the coffee table, the memory of James pushing her against the wall, his hands urgent and demanding, sending a fresh pulse of heat between her thighs.

Outside, the morning air hit her like a slap, jarring her senses with the contrast between the intimate warmth of James's apartment and the brisk reality of the walk to her Virginia Highlands neighborhood. Clara wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly exposed despite being fully dressed. Her body ached pleasantly, reminders of James's attention marking her in places hidden beneath her clothing.

She walked quickly, heels clicking against the sidewalk, past the bakery where young couples shared Sunday pastries, past the newsstand where a grizzled man arranged the morning papers. The normalcy of the world around her seemed absurd after what she'd just experienced, after what she'd just done.

By the time she reached her apartment building, Clara's thoughts had begun to crystallize. She climbed the creaky wooden stairs, conscious of the dampness between her legs and the lingering taste of James in her mouth. Her hands shook slightly as she fumbled with her keys, pushing open the door to her sanctuary.

Her cat, Kara, greeted her with an indignant meow, weaving between her ankles as Clara made her way to the kitchen. She filled the food bowl mechanically, her mind elsewhere.

"I know, I'm late," she murmured to the cat, who ignored her in favor of the kibble.

Clara moved to the bathroom, shedding her clothes along the way. She stood naked before the mirror, cataloging the evidence of the night before—the faint bruise forming at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the red marks on her breasts, and the slight swelling of her lips. She looked thoroughly fucked, thoroughly claimed.

And yet, this morning, she had claimed him back.

The shower was hot, almost scalding, as she stepped under the spray. She closed her eyes, letting the water cascade over her face, washing away James's scent, the dried sweat, the remnants of their encounter. But it couldn't wash away the memory or the conflicting emotions swirling within her.

As she scrubbed her skin, Clara's thoughts turned to her women's group, to the discussions they'd had about sexual liberation, about reclaiming female pleasure from the patriarchal structures that sought to control it. What would they think of her now? Had she liberated herself by taking what she wanted from James or participated in her objectification?

The questions followed her as she dried off, as she dressed in clean clothes, today something more daring, a tight red t-shirt-no bra, with a graphic of Che Guevara that stopped just above her bellybutton, and tight denim jeans and comfortable white Adidas sneakers. as she made her first cup of coffee of the day. She carried the steaming mug to her desk, running her fingertips along the edge of her typewriter.

The half-finished article stared back at her accusingly. Words about women's autonomy, about the right to control their bodies and desires, seemed to mock her now. Clara set down her coffee and sank into her chair, the wood creaking beneath her weight. Her nipples hardened against the thin cotton of her shirt, the fabric rubbing against them with each movement, a constant reminder of James's mouth on them just hours before.

"Fuck," she whispered to the empty apartment, Kara having retreated to her favorite sunny spot on the windowsill.

Clara rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, determined to focus, to reclaim her intellectual self from the sensual creature who had taken over her body in James's bed. She typed a few sentences, then stopped, fingers hovering over the keys. The words felt hollow, disconnected from the woman she was becoming.

The phone rang, startling her. Clara hesitated, letting it ring three times before reaching for the receiver, already knowing who it would be.

"Hello?" she said, trying to sound casual as if she hadn't just had James's cock down her throat.

"Clara," it was Simone, a friend from the department, her melodious voice filled with mischief. “What happened to you last night, girl? Word on the street is you and James Carter left Callahan's arm in arm. Dish the details."

Clara's grip tightened on the receiver, heat rising to her cheeks. She hadn't expected word to travel so quickly. The academic circles of Atlanta were smaller than she'd like to admit.

"Simone," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "you know better than to listen to campus gossip."

"Oh, please," Simone's rich voice carried a note of amusement. "I've got firsthand accounts of the two of you leaving Callahan's together."

Clara closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her forehead. The memory of James's gaze across the dimly lit bar flooded back—how his eyes had tracked her movements all evening, how the heat between them had built with each shared glance until conversation became impossible and touch became inevitable.

"It was nothing," Clara lied, wincing at how unconvincing she sounded. "We had a few drinks and talked about departmental politics. That's all."

"Mmhmm," Simone hummed skeptically. "And I suppose those drinks and departmental politics also involved his tongue down your throat?"

"Fuck," Clara breathed, closing her eyes.

"Indeed," Simone laughed, the sound warm and knowing. "So are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to come over and drag it out of you? How big was it?"

Clara glanced at her reflection in the small mirror hanging by her desk. The woman staring back looked flushed, her eyes bright with guilt and lingering desire. The marks on her neck were partially visible above the collar of her t-shirt.

Clara sighed, tracing the edge of her scarf with her free hand, making sure it concealed the evidence of James's passion. "I don't know what you want me to say, Simone."

"The truth would be nice," Simone replied, her voice softening. "I'm not judging you, Clara. God knows we've talked enough about sexual liberation in our group. I just want to make sure you're okay."

Clara's gaze drifted to the feminist manifesto pinned above her desk, words she'd underlined and highlighted during countless late-night study sessions. The irony wasn't lost on her.

"He was forceful, but in a good way," she admitted finally, the words hanging in the air of her apartment. "But god was it…intense."

"Intense good or intense bad?" Simone pressed.

Clara closed her eyes, remembering the way James had looked at her as she sucked him this morning, his eyes dark with desire and something else—something that made her stomach flutter.

"Both," she answered honestly. He took control in a way that should have made me furious. Instead, I…" She trailed off, unable to articulate how completely she had surrendered to him and how liberating that surrender had felt.

"Instead, you loved it," Simone finished for her, no judgment in her tone. "There's no shame in that, Clara. Pleasure is pleasure."

Clara ran her fingers over her throat again, remembering the feeling of James's huge shaft plunging down her throat, his balls hitting her nose-the perverse pleasure she had felt as she licked his asshole.

"It was nice; he was a gentleman," she lied.

"A gentleman?" Simone's laugh was rich and knowing through the phone line. "Girl, your voice drops half an octave when you're not telling me everything. Come on."

Clara felt her face flush hotter. She twisted the phone cord around her finger before continuing nervously.

"Fine," she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper even though she was alone. "It wasn't gentle. It was…primal. And I let him do things I've never..." She paused, suddenly aware of how wet she was becoming just describing it. "Things I never thought I'd want."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Simone's voice took on a hungry edge. "Details, Clara. I need details."

Clara closed her eyes, images flashing behind her eyelids—James's shaft down her throat as she looked around wild-eyed underneath him, his cum shooting down her throat.

"He…dominated me," Clara finally said, her free hand unconsciously moving to her breast, feeling her nipple harden beneath the thin cotton. "And this morning, I thought I was taking back control, but even then…" She trailed off.

"Even then, he owned you," Simone finished, her voice almost a purr. "Damn, girl. James Carter. Who would have thought that boyish professor had it in him?"

Clara sank deeper into her chair, conflicted emotions warring within her. "What does that say about me, Simone? About everything I stand for? I spent last night on my knees, literally worshipping a man's cock like some submissive fantasy."

"It says you're human," Simone replied, her tone softening. "Look, I'm coming over. This isn't a phone conversation."

Before Clara could protest, the line went dead. She hung up slowly, her gaze drifting back to her unfinished article. The words blurred before her eyes, feminist theory suddenly seeming abstract and distant compared to the visceral reality of her body's betrayal.

She tried to focus, typing a few sentences about reproductive autonomy, but all she could think about was the way James had looked at her when she swallowed his cum, and how it had sent electric shocks of pleasure through her core.

Twenty minutes later, a sharp knock at her door announced Simone's arrival. Clara opened it to find her friend standing there, tall and striking in her fitted fatigues and combat boots, her natural afro framing her face like a dark halo. Simone's ebony skin was perfect, and her piercing gaze took in Clara. She smiled, gently removing the scarf around Clara's neck and examining the marks there.

"Well, well," Simone said, her dark eyes widening as she examined the marks on Clara's neck. "When you said 'dominated,' you weren't kidding."

Clara flushed, taking the scarf back from Simone's fingers and stepping aside to let her friend enter. She closed the door quickly, suddenly aware of her neighbors and how exposed she felt even in her apartment.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Clara said, retying the scarf around her neck.

Simone raised an eyebrow, moving past Clara into the apartment. "Those marks tell a different story." She settled onto the mustard yellow sofa, crossing one boot over the other. "And I want to hear every word of it."

Clara hesitated by the door, caught between embarrassment and the unexpected urge to share everything, to process what had happened through confession. She moved to the kitchen, buying time.

"Coffee?" she called.

"Stop stalling," Simone replied, her voice firm but gentle. "Come sit down."

Clara returned with two mugs, handing one to Simone before perching on the armchair's edge across from her. Kara appeared from nowhere, jumping into Clara's lap as if sensing her need for comfort.

"I don't even know where to start," Clara admitted, stroking the cat absently.

"The beginning is usually good," Simone said, sipping coffee. "Or the part where he marked you up like a territorial animal."

Clara's hand flew unconsciously to her neck again. "It wasn't just him," she said quietly. "I…I asked for it. Begged for it."

Simone leaned forward, her eyes intense. "Did he force you?"

"God, no," Clara replied immediately. "Everything was consensual. More than consensual. It was…" She paused, searching for the right words. "It was like he unlocked something in me, something I didn't know was there. Or something I've been denying."

"Something that contradicts every feminist theory paper you've ever written?" Simone suggested, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Clara nodded, relief washing over her at Simone's understanding. "Exactly. I spent the whole night submitting to him, Simone. Literally on my knees, worshipping his cock like it was…" She trailed off, embarrassment winning momentarily.

"Like it was what?" Simone pressed, leaning closer.

Clara met her friend's eyes. "Like it was all I'd ever wanted. And this morning, I thought I was taking back control, but even then—"

"Even then, you were still serving him," Simone finished, her voice low, "How big is he?"

Clara felt her cheeks burn hotter. She looked away from Simone's penetrating gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on her rug fascinating.

"Big," she admitted quietly. "Bigger than I expected. Thick, too." Her voice dropped even lower. "I could barely get my mouth around him."

Simone whistled softly. "Professor Carter's been hiding more than just his controversial theories on urban development, it seems."

Clara laughed despite herself, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "You have no idea. The way he filled my throat…" She trailed off, memories flooding back—the weight of him on her tongue, the stretch of her lips, the tears that had sprung to her eyes as he pushed deeper.

"And you loved every second," Simone observed, not a question but a statement.

Clara nodded, unable to deny it. "That's what scares me, Simone. I've spent years arguing against the sexual objectification of women, writing about reclaiming our bodies from male desire, and then I…" She gestured helplessly. "I spent the night begging a man to use me."

Simone set her coffee mug down and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Listen to me, Clara. There's a world of difference between being objectified against your will and choosing to explore your desires." Her dark eyes were serious and intense. "Feminism isn't about denying pleasure—it's about having the freedom to choose what brings you pleasure without shame or judgment."

"But what about power dynamics?" Clara argued. "Everything I've written about the patriarchal structures that shape desire—"

"Can still be true while you enjoy a man's cock down your throat," Simone interrupted bluntly. "You can critique systems of oppression and still have your own complicated desires. The personal doesn't have to perfectly align with the political every damn time."

Clara let out a long breath, feeling something uncoil inside her. "I didn't expect it to be so…liberating. Giving up control like that."

"Sometimes submission is the ultimate form of power," Simone said softly. "You chose to give yourself to him, Clara. You can choose to take yourself back whenever you want."

Clara's fingers retraced the marks on her neck, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's the thing. I'm not sure I want to take myself back. Not yet, anyway."

Simone's eyes darkened slightly, something flashing across her face too quickly for Clara to interpret. "So what happens now? Are you going to see him again?"

"I don't know," Clara admitted. "We didn't really talk about it. I just…left this morning."

"Ran away, you mean," Simone corrected, her tone gentle but knowing.

Clara sighed. "Maybe. Yes. I needed space to think."

"And now that you've thought?"

Clara met her friend's eyes. "I want to see him again.

"Okay, that was after the debate. Let's talk about the debate," Simone said, her face now serious. " Are you okay after that?"

Clara's expression clouded, the pleasant haze of sexual memories abruptly replaced by a darker shadow. She tensed and clutched the coffee mug tightly between her palms.

"The debate," she repeated, the words like ashes in her mouth. "God, I almost forgot about that nightmare for a few hours."

Simone's expression softened, her hand touching Clara's cheek gently. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No, I need to," Clara said, setting down her mug with a decisive clink. "I can't just pretend it didn't happen."

The memory washed over her in a sickening wave—the packed auditorium at Emory, the bright lights, the predominantly male audience. She'd been invited as the feminist voice to debate Carpenter, the nationally renowned film critic known for his scathing reviews and provocative ideas about women, about "The Brass Keyhole," a controversial film that claimed to explore female sexuality while actually just exploiting women's bodies.

"He eviscerated me, Simone," Clara whispered, tears suddenly welling in her eyes. "In front of everyone."

"He was a pig," Simone replied fiercely. "An entitled, misogynistic pig."

Clara closed her eyes, Briggs's sneering face appearing in her mind. His smooth and cultured voice had cut through her arguments like a knife through butter.

"'Perhaps, Ms. Longley,'" Clara quoted, mimicking his condescending tone, "'if you spent less time being offended and more time understanding the artistic merit of the film, you might recognize that what you call exploitation is a celebration of the female form.'"

A tear slipped down her cheek, and Simone caught it with her thumb, her touch gentle but firm.

"And then," Clara continued, her voice breaking, "when I tried to explain the difference between authentic female sexuality and the male gaze, he cut me off and said—"

"'I think we've had quite enough feminist theory for one evening,'" Simone finished, clearly having heard this before. "'The audience came to hear about cinema, not a lecture from Women's Studies.'"

Clara nodded, more tears falling now. "And everyone laughed, Simone. They all fucking laughed."

Simone moved from her seat to perch on the arm of Clara's chair, wrapping a strong arm around her shoulders. "They laughed because they're part of the problem. Because men like Briggs make them feel comfortable in their mediocrity."

Clara leaned into her friend's embrace, drawing comfort from her solid presence. "I froze. After all my preparation and all my research, I just fucking froze. I couldn't think of a single response. I just sat there, humiliated, while he smirked at me like he'd proven some point about women being too emotional for intellectual debate."

The unexpected warmth of Simone's lips against her cheek startled Clara, pulling her from the memory of her humiliation. She turned slightly, finding Simone's face mere inches from hers, those dark eyes holding something Clara had never fully acknowledged.

"He didn't prove anything," Simone said softly, her breath warm against Clara's face. "Except that men like him are terrified of women like you."

Clara swallowed, suddenly aware of the shift in energy between them, of Simone's arm still wrapped protectively around her shoulders. "I didn't feel very threatening last night. I felt small."

"And then you went home with James Carter," Simone observed, a curious edge to her voice as she pulled back slightly. "Interesting choice after being publicly humiliated by a man."

Clara flushed, the observation striking uncomfortably close to something she hadn't wanted to examine. "It wasn't like that," she protested weakly.

"Wasn't it?" Simone's fingers traced an idle pattern on Clara's shoulder. "You didn't want to reclaim some sense of control by surrendering it completely? There's a certain logic to it."

Clara stared at her friend, momentarily speechless at the insight. "I…I don't know. Maybe." She shook her head, confused by the tangle of emotions—the lingering shame from the debate, the unexpected pleasure with James, and now this new tension with Simone.

"Did it work?" Simone asked, her voice dropping lower. "Did letting Professor Carter mark you up make you feel better about Briggs tearing you down?"

"That's not fair," Clara whispered, but she couldn't meet Simone's eyes.

Simone's hand moved to Clara's chin, tilting her face gently but firmly. "I'm not judging you, Clara. I'm trying to understand." Her thumb brushed over Clara's lower lip, the touch electric. "I want to help."

Clara's breath caught in her throat. In all their years of friendship, all their late-night discussions about politics, feminism, and sexuality, Simone had never crossed this line. She had never quite revealed the desire that now burned plainly in her eyes.

"Simone," Clara breathed, uncertain what she was asking for.

"Not today, babe," Simone said wistfully, standing suddenly and offering her hand. “Let's take care of you. How does a girl's day in sound: a pizza, two bottles of white wine, and some trashy television?"

Clara felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment as Simone's hand extended toward her. Whatever the moment between them had been, it passed like a cloud over the sun, leaving Clara unsure if she'd imagined the intensity in Simone's eyes.

"That sounds perfect," she said, taking Simone's hand and pulling herself to her feet. Their fingers lingered together longer than necessary before Clara broke the contact, moving toward the kitchen. "I think I have a bottle of Chablis in the fridge already and a bottle of decent brandy in the cabinet."

"Always prepared," Simone called after her, settling back onto the couch and kicking off her combat boots. "I'll order the pizza. Still like pepperoni, mushrooms, and olives?"

Clara pulled open the refrigerator door, welcoming the cool air against her flushed face. "You know me too well," she replied, finding the wine and retrieving two glasses from the cabinet above the sink.

She heard Simone on the phone; she was ordering from Mellow Mushroom, their favorite pizza spot."Pizza's ordered," Simone said casually as she put the receiver down as if she hadn't just sent Clara's pulse racing. "Thirty minutes till paradise babe."

As she uncorked the bottle, Clara's mind drifted back to James, his weight in her mouth, and the marks hidden beneath her scarf. She wondered what he was doing now—if he was thinking of her or had already moved on to grading papers, dismissing their encounter as just another conquest.

"Earth to Clara," Simone's voice broke through her reverie. "Where'd you go just now? Or should I say, to whom?"

Clara returned to the living room, wine glasses in hand. "Sorry," she murmured, passing one to Simone. "Just…processing everything."

Simone accepted the glass, her fingers brushing Clara's deliberately. "Processing James Carter's dick, more like."

Clara laughed despite herself, dropping onto the couch beside Simone. "God, is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who knows you as well as I do," Simone replied, taking a sip of wine. "Your eyes get this faraway look, and you bite your lower lip just..." She reached out, her thumb grazing Clara's mouth, "…there."

Clara's breath caught, her lips tingling from the brief contact. She took a large swallow of wine, trying to steady herself. The dynamic between them had shifted subtly but unmistakably, and she wasn't sure how to navigate this new terrain.

Clara touched her scarf self-consciously. "I don't kiss and tell."

"Bullshit," Simone laughed, deep and rich. "You've shared every sexual encounter you've had since freshman year. Remember that disaster with what's his name from Political Science?"

"David," Clara groaned, covering her face. "God, don't remind me."

"Three pumps and a sorry," Simone quoted, raising her eyebrows suggestively and grinning.

Clara nearly spilled her wine in her haste to answer the door, grateful for the interruption. She set her glass down and hurried to the entryway, fumbling with her wallet.

"Coming!" she called, pulling a ten bill from her purse.

When she opened the door, a tall, lean, awkward man in his early twenties stood, his eyes locked on Clara's chest. He stammered, "Uh, one pepperoni, mushroom, and olive pizza," he managed, his eyes still fixed on Clara's chest, the outline of her nipples visible through the thin red t-shirt. "Seven dollars and fifty cents."

Clara crossed her arms over her chest, the movement drawing his gaze momentarily to her face before it drifted downward again. "Here," she said curtly, thrusting the ten at him. "Keep the change."

The delivery boy lingered a moment too long, his mouth slightly open. "Thanks, miss. Enjoy your…pizza."

Clara closed the door more forcefully than necessary, turning to find Simone watching her with amusement.

"Poor kid probably just got the highlight of his week," Simone said, rising from the couch to take the pizza box from Clara's hands. "You might want to consider a bra before answering the door next time."

"I forgot I wasn't wearing one," Clara admitted, feeling flush. She followed Simone into the kitchen, where her friend opened the box. The rich aroma of cheese and spices filled the small space.

"Sure you did," Simone teased, grabbing plates from the cabinet. "Nothing to do with getting used to the male gaze after your night with Professor Bedroom Eyes."

Clara rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "You're impossible."

"And you're avoiding my questions," Simone countered, sliding a slice onto each plate. "So, what happens next with James?"

Clara leaned against the counter, considering. "I don't know. Part of me wants to pretend it never happened."

"And the other part?" Simone pressed, handing Clara a plate.

Clara took a bite of pizza and stalled. The cheese burned the roof of her mouth, but the pain was almost welcome—a distraction from the confusing swirl of emotions.

"The other part," she finally said, her voice low, "wants to knock on his door right now and let him do whatever he wants to me."

Simone's eyes darkened, her fingers tightening slightly around her wine glass. "That's quite an admission from someone who wrote that scathing critique of sexual power dynamics last semester."

"I know," Clara sighed, carrying her plate to the living room. "That's what's driving me crazy. Everything I believe intellectually seems to be at odds with what my body wants."

Simone followed, settling beside her on the couch, closer than before. "Maybe it's not as contradictory as you think. Sexual submission doesn't have to undermine your feminist principles."

"Doesn't it?" Clara asked, genuinely curious. "How do you reconcile the desire

Clara turned to her television, a bulky Zenith Space Command console TV that dominated the corner of her living room. The high-end model, a graduation gift from her parents, featured a built-in ultrasonic remote control—a luxury that had seemed extravagant at the time but now felt like a small comfort. She clicked through the channels, the distinctive clunk-clunk sound of the remote punctuating the tension in the room.

"Nothing like mindless television to avoid difficult conversations," Simone observed dryly, taking another slice of pizza.

Clara idly flipped through the channels, each offering a momentary distraction from the conversation she wasn't ready to have. An old western, a sitcom rerun, a PBS documentary—she stifled a yawn as she sipped her wine and ate her pizza.

"Wait," Simone said suddenly, leaning forward. "Go back one."

Clara clicked the remote, surprised when channel 34 flickered to life. The screen was unusually clear for such a high-numbered station, displaying a sleek, corporate-looking logo with what appeared to be a serpent's eye at its center. Below it, elegant script proclaimed: "Eve's Legacy: Rediscovering the natural order."

"What is this?" Clara asked, setting her wine glass down. "I've never seen this channel before."

"Must be one of those new experimental cable stations," Simone replied, eyes fixed on the screen. "They're popping up everywhere these days."

The logo faded, replaced by a young woman sitting behind a desk with perfectly coiffed blonde hair. She smiled directly into the camera, her expression inviting and somehow unsettling.

"Welcome back to Eve's Legacy," she said, her voice melodious and soothing. "Today, we're continuing our exploration of feminine fulfillment in the modern world. The question we're asking is: Has the pursuit of equality left women more frustrated than ever?"

Clara snorted, reaching for the remote. "Great. Just what we need—more reactionary garbage."

"Wait," Simone said, placing her hand over Clara's. "Let's see where she's going with this. Know thy enemy, right?"

Onscreen, the blonde woman continued, "Our bodies contain ancient wisdom that our minds have been trained to ignore. When we deny our natural inclinations toward submission and nurturing, we create internal conflict that manifests as anxiety, depression, and sexual dissatisfaction."

Clara felt a strange chill run down her spine. The woman's words echoed her conflicted feelings from earlier as if someone had been listening to her private thoughts.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered but didn't change the channel.

The program cut to a montage of women in various settings—a harried executive dropping papers, a young mother smiling serenely at her baby, and a woman kneeling before a man whose face remained just out of frame. The voiceover continued: "Research shows that women who embrace their natural role experience greater happiness and sexual fulfillment than those who fight against it."

"What research?" Clara scoffed, but her voice sounded weak even to her ears.

Simone shifted beside her, their thighs touching on the couch. "This is some dangerous propaganda," she said quietly, but she too seemed unable to look away.

The blonde reappeared, her smile wider now. "After the break, we'll hear from women who have discovered the liberation that comes with surrender. Stay with us."

Clara and Simone stared at the screen in stunned silence as the program cut to a commercial break. The first advertisement began with a slow pan across an immaculate suburban kitchen. Sunlight streamed through gauzy curtains, casting everything in a dreamy, golden haze.

"Introducing Sparkle Clean," a deep male voice intoned as the camera revealed a woman on her hands and knees, completely naked except for a pair of pink rubber gloves. Her large, heavy breasts swayed beneath her as she scrubbed the gleaming tile floor, her tanned back arching dramatically.

"Jesus Christ," Clara whispered, unable to look away.

The woman's blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders as she looked up at the camera, her lips parted in exaggerated pleasure. "Sparkle Clean makes my floors shine," she cooed, "which makes him happy."

The camera panned to reveal a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, lounging in a chair at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. He lowered the paper just enough to reveal his chiseled jaw and approving smile.

"For the woman who knows her place," the male narrator continued as the naked woman crawled toward the man, her breasts dragging across the wet floor, "Sparkle Clean delivers results he'll notice."

The commercial faded to the product—a bottle of floor cleaner—before transitioning seamlessly to the following advertisement.

"What the actual fuck?" Simone breathed, her fingers digging into Clara's thigh.

The second commercial opened with an elegant living room, all clean lines, and modern furniture. A handsome man in a navy blue suit stood by a large window, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler.

"A man's home is his castle," the narrator began, his voice rich and authoritative. "And every castle deserves proper maintenance."

The camera slowly tracked across the room to reveal a naked woman with caramel-colored skin squatting on her heels, dust cloth in hand. She wiped a coffee table with deliberate, sensual movements, her large breasts jiggling with each stroke, nipples erect in the air-conditioned room.

"Dust-Away furniture polish," the voice continued as the woman bent forward, her back arching impossibly, exposing her puckered asshole to the camera as she reached to clean the far edge of the table. "For surfaces, he'll want to touch."

The man set down his drink and approached the woman, his hand reaching out to caress her exposed ass. She looked over her shoulder, her red lips curving into a grateful smile.

"Thank you for letting me clean for you," she purred, her voice breathy and submissive.

The man nodded approvingly as the woman turned back to her task, the camera lingering on her splayed thighs and the glistening hint of her sex.

"Dust-Away," the narrator concluded as the product appeared onscreen.

"What the hell kind of channel is this?" Clara whispered, her fingers trembling as she reached for her wine glass. She drained it in one long swallow, the alcohol burning a path down her throat.

Simone's expression had hardened, her jaw clenched tight. "This is beyond pornography—this is psychological warfare. It's like they designed it to undermine everything we've been fighting for."

Clara clicked the remote, surprised when channel 34 flickered to life. The screen was unusually clear for such a high-numbered station, displaying a sleek, corporate-looking logo with what appeared to be a serpent's eye at its center. Below it, elegant script proclaimed: "Eve's Legacy: Rediscovering the natural order."

The two women fell silent as a promo began. Haunting flute music played over panoramic shots of open plains and rugged mountains. The scene cut to a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black cowboy hat, his brown western shirt unbuttoned to reveal a muscular, hair-dusted chest. He stood with casual dominance against the backdrop of a setting sun; one arm wrapped possessively around a woman of striking beauty.

The camera lingered on the Native American woman's face—high cheekbones, full lips, dark and luminous eyes. She wore an elaborate feathered headdress, the vibrant colors contrasting with her copper skin. Her nude body pressed against the cowboy's clothed form, her arms wrapped around his waist as she gazed up at him with unmistakable adoration.

As the camera panned downward, it revealed the curve of her back, a view of her breast from behind, and the swell of her buttocks, stopping just above where the cowboy's large hand rested possessively on her skin. The title "Redskin Romance" appeared in stylized font across the bottom of the screen.

"Damn," Simone whispered, leaning forward. "That looks kind of...good."

Clara felt heat rise to her cheeks. "It's too much on about twelve different levels," she said, but she couldn't tear her eyes away as the promo continued.

The cowboy tilted the woman's chin up with his finger, his touch commanding yet gentle. The camera zoomed in as their lips met, her body melting against his as he deepened the kiss. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across her bare buttock, squeezing possessively.

"Too much, yes," Simone agreed, her voice lower than usual. "But don't you dare change the channel?"

A smooth female announcer's voice purred over the sensual imagery: "Today at 2 pm: Redskin Romance. A cowboy finds his destiny in the arms of a tribal princess. She resists. He persists. Nature takes its course."

"Jesus Christ," Clara murmured, unable to look away. "This is what they're putting on cable now? It's practically pornographic."

"Extremely," Simone added, yet she remained transfixed. "Native American fetishization, colonial power fantasy, the works."

The promo faded to another segment—a talk show featuring a poised blonde woman in a conservative dress interviewing a distinguished older man in a three-piece suit. The lower third identified him as "Dr. Wallace Hunter, Evolutionary Psychologist."

"Women naturally seek protection and guidance," the man said, his tone reasonable and academic. "The modern feminist movement has created a generation of confused, unhappy women fighting against their biological imperatives."

Clara snorted. "Oh, please. This is such garbage."

But as the camera cut to women in the audience nodding thoughtfully, Clara felt an uncomfortable tightening in her chest. The blonde host smiled warmly at Dr. Hunter.

"So what you're saying," she clarified, "is that women who embrace their natural submissiveness find greater fulfillment?"

"Precisely," he replied. "Studies show that women who accept male leadership report higher satisfaction in relationships, more frequent orgasms, and lower stress levels."

Both women were chuckling and laughing; Simone snorted while finishing her wine, "This shit reminds me of that horny professor we had in the 'History of Women's Liberation' class.

It was 1:45 now; Clara and Simone said nothing; a silent understanding lay between them; they were both going to watch Redskin Romance.

Clara clicked off the TV, but her finger hovered over the remote's power button. "We should probably turn this trash off," she said.

"Probably," Simone agreed, reaching for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. "But we're not going to, are we?"

Clara bit her lower lip. "It's just so...wrong."

"Completely," Simone said, settling back into the couch, their shoulders touching. "Which is exactly why we should watch it. Research purposes. Know thy enemy and all that."

Clara laughed, a nervous sound that didn't quite mask the heat building low in her belly. "Right. Research."

They finished their pizza in charged silence, the clock on Clara's wall ticking inexorably toward 2:00 pm. When the minute hand finally clicked into place, Channel 34 dimmed momentarily before the film began.

There were no credits or rating warnings—just an immediate establishing shot of the Montana wilderness circa 1870. The camera panned across vast, untamed landscapes before settling on a Native American encampment nestled in a valley.

"At least the production values are decent," Clara murmured, tucking her legs beneath her on the couch.

The story unfolded quickly: Morning Dove, daughter of a tribal chief, was bathing alone in a secluded stream when cowboy Jake Remington stumbled upon her. The actress playing Morning Dove was stunning—long black hair cascading down her back, water droplets glistening on her copper skin as she rose from the water, startled by Jake's presence.

"Jesus," Simone whispered as the camera lingered on Mourning Dove's nude form, her full breasts heaving with each breath, dark pubic hair covering her sex, water streaming down the curve of her waist to her hips.

Jake, played by a ruggedly handsome actor with piercing blue eyes, made no attempt to look away. Instead, he removed his hat, revealing thick brown hair that reminded Clara uncomfortably of James.

"You're trespassing, white man," Morning Dove said, her accent a Hollywood approximation of Native American speech patterns that made both women cringe.

"Can't trespass on what ain't claimed," Jake drawled, his eyes traveling slowly over her body. "And darlin', that view's worth hanging for."

Clara shifted uncomfortably, acutely aware of Simone's proximity, the heat radiating from her friend's body. The scene continued as Morning Dove tried to cover herself, Jake approaching with slow, confident strides.

"This is so wrong," Clara whispered, but she couldn't look away as Jake backed Morning Dove against a rock, trapping her with his larger frame.

"Then why does it feel so right?" he growled in the film, echoing Clara's conflicted thoughts with eerie precision.

When Jake kissed Morning Dove roughly, one hand tangling in her wet hair while the other gripped her bare hip, Simone made a soft sound beside Clara—something between a gasp and a sigh. Clara glanced over to find her friend's eyes fixed on the screen, lips parted, the pulse at her throat visibly quickening.

Onscreen, Morning Dove struggled briefly before melting into Jake's embrace, her resistance crumbling as his hand moved to cup her breast. The camera zoomed in as his thumb circled her nipple, which hardened visibly at his touch.

"I should hate you," Morning Dove whispered, her voice breathy with desire.

"But you don't," Jake replied, his confidence absolute as he grabbed Morning Dove's ass firmly.

Clara felt a surge of heat between her legs, her body responding traitorously to the scene. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to ease the building pressure.

"This isn't right," she said, her voice strained.

"Absolutely," Simone agreed, shifting closer. "Colonialism, racism, sexism—the unholy trinity."

Yet neither woman reached for the remote as Jake unbuckled his belt, the camera panning to Morning Dove's face—her expression transforming from reluctance to hunger as she watched him free himself from his jeans, revealing a thick, veiny erection and heavy balls framed by dark pubic hair.

"Tell me you want this," Jake commanded, holding his cock firmly, his other hand on her neck, forcing her gaze to his crotch.

Morning Dove's resistance visibly crumbled as she whispered, "Yes…I want this," her voice thick with surrender.

Clara felt her breath quicken as Jake pushed her down to her knees, his cock inches from her gasping lips.

"I shouldn't want this," Morning Dove whispered, her eyes fixed on Jake's throbbing member. "My people…your people..."

"There are no people here," Jake growled, his hand still firm on her neck. "Just a man and a woman."

Clara shifted again, painfully aware of the wetness gathering between her thighs. She glanced at Simone, whose chest rose and fell rapidly, her dark eyes reflecting the television's glow. Neither spoke as Morning Dove's full lips parted, her tongue darting out to taste the glistening tip of Jake's cock.

The camera lingered on her face—the conflict, the surrender, the awakening hunger—before panning out to show her taking him into her mouth. Jake's head fell back, his strong hands tangling in her wet hair as he guided her movements. She was making sloppy mouth noises as Jake pushed into her mouth; a bulge could be seen in her throat; she was wide-eyed, looking up at Jake with hatred and desire, his thick shaft down to the pubic hair in her throat.

"Christ," Simone muttered, draining her wine glass. Clara couldn't tell if her friend's flushed cheeks were from the alcohol or the explicit scene unfolding before them.

Clara stood, mumbling, "I…you…we need another drink. " She staggered to her kitchen and poured two double whiskeys before returning to the couch and passing Simone a glass.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, warm hues painted Clara's apartment in a cozy embrace as she and Simone shared laughter and clinking glasses. The air crackled with a mix of tension and excitement, their senses tingling from the provocative allure of Channel 34's programming.

Chuckles intertwined with an undercurrent of arousal, silently acknowledging the forbidden thrill ignited by the channel. With each sip, their connection deepened, drawing them closer in a magnetic pull towards newfound liberation. Their laughter echoed off the walls until the screen abruptly flickered into static, cutting through the charged atmosphere like a sharp blade.

Reality intruded upon their intoxicating moment of camaraderie and exploration. Buzzed from alcohol and intrigue, Clara and Simone exchanged knowing glances as Channel 34 dissolved into white noise. An unspoken question lingered between them as darkness claimed the screen: who was broadcasting this and why?