I woke up with a smooth leg draped over my thigh and recognized it as Shavonne’s by touch, even before memory returned. I retreated to my own room and my own bed, but not without glancing into Alicia’s room and finding her still deliciously spilled across her sheets. Not an inch of her had been composed or retracted during sleep. I wished for her to wake like that.

Sleep came again, but it was shallow, and I woke with an ache buried somewhere between my brain and my thighs. I shrugged it off and went to pee. I stared in the mirror—maybe too long—before brushing my teeth and trying to fit myself back into my body. Theory lingers. Practice wears.

When I returned, both Shavonne and Alicia were sitting at the table—a slow, quiet adjustment made under loose T-shirts and over coffee. Something small, but utterly important: Alicia wasn’t wearing underwear.

She’d become us.

I smiled at her, and she sat a little wider, claiming her space. I smiled brighter and kissed her cheek as she tilted it towards me.

“Second semester,” I sighed. “You girls ready for the grind?”

“I’ll coil into near slither,” Alicia said softly, then took my hand. “But I know how to uncoil without snapping.”

“Grind?” Shavonne shrugged. “They’ll beg at my temple before anything me is ground. What about you, Hannah?”

“I’ll fuck,” I said. “Or be fucked. It really is the same thing.”

We dressed and let ourselves be swept up in the world of Harvard. A defiant surrender to a system none of us believed in—not truly—but had to adapt to, just to keep momentum.

Even on the first day, it was evident the institution had tightened the vise a notch. Adjusted the mold. Narrowed the gaps of freedom. Shaping the future of America—and the world—into their image. Compressing will, personalities, and desires into something clean, corporate, and institutionalized.

I sat in class and watched them try to make sense of morality, perversions, kinks, and justice, as if those weren’t just prettier names for power. The air was filled with compliance: raised hands, eager nods, perfect teeth saying all the right things.

My pussy would slide off that shit like water on a freshly waxed hood.

And yet—I took notes. Highlighted. Let them shape the lie while I studied its edges. That’s the trick: don’t reject the mold too early. Learn its curves. Then snap it in half from the inside.

One week turned into the next.

There were parties at first—fucking through the night—but it wore students down. The parties dwindled into weeded-out stillness, and the fucking turned to slumbered releases, without any real intent.

People slipping into the mold in quiet surrender.

For me, it finally meant substance.

Social Psychology—for me, it was about why people fuck, and who they fuck. Developmental Psychology had its weight, sure, but what triggered me, what truly narrowed everything, was a chance to choose: Criminal Behavior.

It let me see behind the curtain—not by careful study, but by pulling back the covers and seeing people naked, with nothing left to lie with. How systems, not choice, shaped them. I’d scratched the surface before, but this was the shit that kept me up until the early hours, craving more.

Left hand in panties. Book in the other.

Why Kelly was solitude on a mountainside. Why Alicia needed to be pulled apart and reconstructed.

Why I fucked my brother.

Shavonne became a larger mirror—examining gender and sexuality within social structures, including race, class, and power in America.

I’d argue that the powers of the Bible corrupted America and hid under a veil of morality—while prostitution, drugs, and pornography fueled the economy.

Shavonne became my echo, reinforcing my arguments with language, patterns, and narrative. She became a lens through which I could observe, an explanation for what I’d missed. She found the cracks in my armor—and fucked me silly when I failed.

She became a woman not only weaponized, but precise. Her aim tightened. Her fire became focused. She met me in argument, in theory—In bed.

She became the dominance I craved. Because I couldn’t fuck what didn’t fuck back.

Alicia didn’t coil into herself. I think she was even surprised to see how she became her studies. No longer driven by expectation. By necessity.

She fucked her boyfriend on Saturdays and sent him home when she was done. They’d eat lunch together. Sometimes study. But that was it—an anchor—a weight against Shavonne and me.

And yet, when Saturday lingered into Sunday, she’d slip herself under our sheets, brush against my thigh, or swallow Shavonne’s breasts, and do either soft or hard.

And she could do hard.

I taught her that between Chinatown and the Sunset Strip.

We became our own study group—a dangerous echo chamber of theories justified, not peer-reviewed, but agreed upon: the mind, the money, and the society of sex. In our bubble, Harvard was frowned upon.

“We should open a brothel,” Shavonne said over pizza.

If you didn’t know her, you’d mistake it for a joke—just a line thrown out over one beer too many.

“Where?”

“The thickest thick of the Bible Belt. Alabama, Mississippi—”

She grinned.

“Georgia. Wouldn’t keep you too far off your brother. You’d ruin the inventory.”

“It only makes sense from a perversion perspective,” Alicia argued. “Average income doesn’t support a sustainable business.”

She smirked.

“I guess that’s why people down south fuck family, Hannah?”

Blades out.

“There’s a difference between fucking family and being fucked by family, Alicia.”

“Ouch,” she said. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I never do,” I smiled. “I play to win.”

We needed to get out, not from our room or Harvard, but from Cambridge altogether.

Boston. With a Black empress as our guide, and a need to purge our motivation.

Three girls checking in, a suite with purpose, a Friday so vile it needed to be forgotten. We had dinner together, a war room to sharpen the lack of a plan, and to direct the course of whim.

“I’m not wearing panties,” Shavonne declared, mid-theorizing why doing everything on a whim was better than her introducing us to places.

“Not since yesterday,” I yawned.

Alicia blushed, a slow flush climbing her neck as she shifted in her seat. Her fingers disappeared under the table, moving gracefully and deliberately. A pause—then the faint slide of lace against skin. She pulled them free, balled them in her fist, and without a word, dropped them into her wine glass. Silk on glass. Quiet defiance.

“You bitches should send out memos when there’s a change in uniform,” she chuckled.

“And you should let your pussy breathe more often,” I countered.

“Easy, sister,” Shavonne broke in. “First time we met her, she was coiled inside her hole. This is an improvement.”

Improvement? This was Alicia 2.0, with fight mode engaged.

“Yeah,” she said, “and now I make you whimper with my hand coiled inside you—and you still look pretty in the morning.”

“Only on the outside, darlin’,” Shavonne breathed back.

I think it was a compliment.

We built a tab of slow-working poison and poorly executed choices.

Then, we hit the town.

Boston by night in mid-February can be anything. The temperature had risen, but still—a cold wind swept through the dirty streets. Rotten snow and crusted salt, mixed with the wet melt of virgin dreams. Not ours, hell no, but the girls and boys jumping in and out of traffic, trying to find a place that would accept their fake IDs.

“Just decide already,” Shavonne complained. “My pussy’s almost frozen solid.”

Some places were too loud. Others too crowded. Some too decadent. Others not enough.

“Here,” I said, stopping in front of a dimly lit bar, soft soul spilling through its doors.

“You’re fucking kidding, right?” she said.

“God, no,” I said. “This is exactly it. A place that will welcome you with a warm embrace and soften you slowly—until you melt into the surroundings. A place no students would go. Where the cocks—or pussies, I really don’t care—will be seasoned, enduring, and just restrained enough that perversion will feel like gospel.”

The door opened with the softest groan—old wood, heavy brass, and years of secrets sealed into the hinges.

Warmth hit us like an exhale. Slow, thick, and spiced with whiskey, clove, and something deeper—flesh, maybe. Or regret.

Inside, the lights were low, the color of honey spilled over old leather. Booths nestled in the corners like whispers. The bar ran long, polished by elbows and decades. Every stool was imperfect, as if it had its own story—its own unique stain.

No one turned to stare. But they saw us.

Of course they did.

The music was not quite jazz, not quite soul—something older. Dirtier. It licked at your spine and reminded you that rhythm was born in basements and breathless backs.

A woman sang from the corner. She wore satin and time. Her voice was a smoke-wrapped apology. Her neckline was deep, the split in her dress long, and every note laced with a slow, hypnotic hum.

There were no students. No IDs being checked. Just eyes, and fingers tracing the rims of glasses like slow foreplay.

Married couples who treated the place as foreplay for years—where the barkeep knew their preference, their bill, and their tip before they ever stepped inside.

Men slowly debating poetry, art, and the decay of humanity over whiskey half their age.

“This is it,” I whispered.

Shavonne grinned.
Alicia’s nipples said everything.

“Fuck me raw,” Shavonne whispered too loud.

“They might,” the barkeep said with a smile. “What’ll you ladies have?”

“Something that tastes and feels like this,” I answered, throwing my arms out toward his bar.

“I can do better,” he grinned. “I can make each one of you ladies feel like inventory.”

I have a responsive pussy. She purred at the absurd idea.

He worked slowly, meticulously—almost like a mad professor balancing peace and terror.

He turned to me first and slid a glass slowly across the bar.

“For the mind that cuts deeper than the tongue—The Velvet Guillotine. Rye. Cherry. A hint of walnut. It’ll hit even your chest before grounding you in just the right amount of heat.”

His voice was smooth—almost part of the soft song that tingled down my spine.

“Don’t want your name. But I’d call it that if I knew.”

Then he turned to Alicia, and I felt almost jealous. He had that hold on you when he spoke, and it left you slightly empty when he didn’t.

“For the quiet one who’s starting to like the sound she makes—The Spine Beneath Silk. Gin. Elderflower. A whisper of absinthe. Enough to let you forget the script and allow—”

He topped her glass with a spoonful of creamy foam.

“—improvisation.”

Then his voice shifted—lower, firmer—when he met Shavonne’s gaze.

“You speak Boston’s own tongue,” he said, “But you’ve never considered setting foot in here before.”

He slid a heavy crystal rocks glass across the worn wood.

“And for the goddess who doesn’t need a crown, just a room. Overproof dark rum. Blackstrap molasses syrup. Chili for burn.”

He smiled—slow, certain.

“I call her Dominion.”

This wasn’t smooth talk or flirting. It was precise, calculated dismantling.

“Can we fuck him?” my pussy purred.

“Hush, he’s gay,” I answered back.

Shavonne lifted her glass first. Of course she did.

“To sin.”

Alicia followed, slower, deliberate. Her fingers curved around the flute like she’d been born to hold it.

“To study.”

I raised mine last—The Velvet Guillotine glowing like blood under low light.

“To never being peer-reviewed.”

We drank.

Slow.

Letting it hit lips, tongue, throat.

Letting it coat something holy on the way down.

Letting it begin.

“Oh my fucking God,” Shavonne whispered, settling her hands on the bar. “I might have cum a little.”

He was right. It hit my chest first—all of it, both of them—before settling like a deep heat between my ass and cunt.

“I’ll have another,” I moaned, not even halfway through the first.

Alicia’s eyes glazed a little. She leaned in, whispering low:

“I’m not sure what happens next… but if I get any looser, I’ll pee myself.”

Our barkeep returned from pouring a dark red wine—deep and still—into the glass of a woman twice my age. Her eyes were lazy, knowing. Her smile licked the coating off my curiosity.

“I’m August,” he said.

Then he looked at each of us, slow and unblinking.

“Now… tell me what you’re really here for.”

“I need another glass of this before that can be answered truthfully,” I said.

He smirked.

“I get it. You want the slow death.”

We huddled together.

Maybe the Pussyteers had ventured too far into the unknown—but we made a whispered promise of no surrender.

We finished our drinks, and August returned with hot, damning refreshments.

“We don’t get many students in here,” he said. “Professors? Absolutely. We have that kind of… flavor, if you please.”

He wiped the bar with a rag, slow and circular.

“We don’t get many new faces either. I could check your IDs; they’d tell me you were twenty-three—but you’re not.”

He poured himself a whiskey. Straight up. Clean down.

“Girls your age go through the bars, the nightclubs, the discos. They don’t end up here. The three of you think you’ve outgrown that scene.”

Even Shavonne’s breath hitched at his calm intensity.

“So,” he said, sliding three tequilas across the bar, “what’s your kink? Seasoned cocks with knowing thrusts? Threesomes between married couples?”

Alicia’s nipples threatened to cut through her blouse.

I didn’t even want to escape the slow slumber in my head.

“A transgendered singer who fucks as soft as she sings? Anything in here is on the table. Well… apart from the barkeep. My boyfriend keeps me in a cage. Because, well… you can imagine.”

We finished our drinks and let the room consume us.

They were all soft-spoken, passing us through the space like leaves rustling in autumn wind. Not a storm—just that gentle, still-warm breeze between summer and winter.

I found myself kissing a woman near sixty while her husband recited poetry that sounded like bullshit—but tickled down my spine anyway.

Alicia was half-spread on a table in the corner, two men in their fifties sucking her toes while a third poured wine straight into her mouth.

Shavonne was always more direct. She was already grinding wet onto a man’s lap, drinking his whisky, and telling dirty secrets to his friend.

And the singer?

She sang deeper.

Dirtier.

More molten.

She crooned low, her mouth barely moving—like the notes were pulled from somewhere deeper than her lungs, dragged up from between her thighs, and aged in smoke. Her eyes didn’t blink. Not once. Just stared into something none of us could see.

The room flickered slightly—not the lights, but reality. Someone snapped their fingers behind me, and I swear it echoed like a gunshot in syrup.

A woman in red—who may or may not have been there earlier—spun slowly in the center of the room, alone, her hands held out as if she were balancing two invisible lovers. Her heels clicked against the wood like a clock running out of time. Then, she was joined by a man—not her husband, perhaps an ancient lover wrung out of the walls somehow.

Alicia laughed, then moaned, then gasped—all in one breath.

I turned and saw one of the men tracing something on her stomach. Symbols. Or letters. I couldn’t read them, but they itched behind my eyes.

Shavonne leaned back on the couch now, lips glossy, eyes dark. The man she’d been grinding on was gone—replaced by someone older, or maybe younger, or perhaps he’d always looked like that. She didn’t seem to notice. Or care.

The woman I’d kissed leaned over and whispered in my ear. Her voice smelled like cinnamon and rot.

“You girls know what you’re doing,” she said. “But do you know what you’ve called?”

I didn’t answer.

Because the singer was still singing, the tequila was still warm in my blood, and I wasn’t sure if I still had a name.

We provided a hotel name and room number. Someone called a taxi. Maybe two. Maybe three.

I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t want to stay. I wanted what I had and what would come next.

At least—I believed I did.

I think we left in different cars. The singer had given me a cigarette that wasn’t exactly straight, and August had sent us off with a final drink that tasted like cactus and pussy.

The ride back wasn’t a blur. It was worse. It was soft focus. I couldn’t remember whose hand was on whose thigh or whether I’d climbed into the taxi alone. Shavonne might have been in the front seat, whispering to the driver—or maybe straddling him. I couldn’t see Alicia. She could’ve been fingering me. Maybe that’s where my hand was?

The hotel lobby glowed too white. We stuck out—smeared eyeliner, wine-stung cheeks, bare thighs under coats that weren’t closed properly. Alicia dropped her keycard twice. Shavonne blew a kiss to the man at the desk and told him to forget our names.

The elevator mirrors made everything worse. We were three versions of the same undone thing—mascara, heat, breath on glass. I leaned my forehead against the chrome wall and tried to remember if I’d smoked the singer’s cigarette or just kept it between my fingers like a promise. Or if I’d sucked her cock.

Someone moaned. Maybe me. Maybe all of us.

The hallway was too long, too quiet. Every step echoed. Each door looked the same, like the night might loop forever. A girl in a silver dress passed me; she looked like a dream, and perhaps she was. I lingered in her eyes; she remained on mine. I might have asked her to fuck me. She slid into a room like silk, drowning in the night.

Someone swiped a card, and the light changed from red to green. Room 1406. Or maybe 1409. Who gives a fuck.

The door opened like a mouth, and we stepped inside. Not roommates. Not friends. Not students. Just girls full of strangers, tastes, touches—all of it still dripping.

The minibar was emptied. In me. On me. On them. Everywhere.

Joints were lit, and I’d become naked without knowing. I didn’t remember undressing. Maybe I hadn’t. Perhaps it had peeled off me slowly, like heat rising from skin until there was nothing left to hold.

I found Shavonne the same, although someone was already drowning between her thighs. She sent me one of those hazed looks that, on any other day, would’ve meant she was about to eat me raw.

I even felt it. That pull. That hunger. Only it wasn’t her. I found a balding head between my thighs, and he knew what he was doing.

Alicia had a boyfriend. She didn’t seem to remember. Most likely didn’t care. She kissed the singer—our singer—her mouth soft and open....