Page 90 of Smut Lovers
Chapter One
Raine
D ean Chapman stares coldly at me as he says, “With the recent media attention and the communication we’ve received from state officials — including the governor — we find ourselves in a precarious position.
I’m sorry, Lorraine, but the necessity and integrity of funding is not just a matter of your department but of the university as a whole. ”
While I’m heading a university-funded study on the lack of access to abortions and medically sound women’s healthcare. The so-called abortion deserts that are rapidly expanding across the country.
I am the embodiment of integrity.
The head of Human Resources adds, “We respectfully request that you refrain from making posts or statements which might further incite controversy.”
A ridiculous thing to say. If I know where this is going, if this is the kiss of death I think it’s going to be, I may as well lead a brigade of drag queens with children’s books on gender-affirming surgeries down to the ICE detention facility to brawl with the agents. I owe the university nothing.
Jenna, the department chair for Public Health studies, says more quietly, “Raine, you have been an invaluable member of our program, an absolute joy to work with, but there are forces at work beyond our control. The university’s hands are tied.”
Four years ago, they scouted me for their grad program. Two years ago, they enthusiastically funded my research, the keystone of my dissertation. They paraded me around to prove this university was a bastion of progress in an increasingly radicalized state. I have assistants.
Had. I think I had assistants.
Dean Chapman’s neutral expression tells me he doesn’t fully agree with Jenna, like he’s never been thrilled about funding abortion research but went along with it because it’s the academic thing to do.
“We know this is disappointing, and we want to emphasize this is not an expulsion. You may appeal through the proper channels. But for now, you are being placed on leave, and all program participation is paused, effective immediately.”
It doesn’t sound awful. Some things in this world just need some paperwork and all is well. But this isn’t one of those things.
“And my stipend? My dorm?”
Dean Chapman shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Lorraine. We can’t support you any further. You’ll need to find alternative housing by the end of the week.”
That’s it.
I’m done.
My entire academic career, nearly a decade of higher ed, countless hours of research, gone. I’m not expelled, but this is surely a blacklist. No program will take me now.
What I compromised to get here makes my stomach churn, my lunch threatening to make a reappearance.
I keep myself collected as I nod and leave wordlessly.
There’s no point to formality, not when this was a witch hunt to begin with.
Conservative media took my videos chronicling a trip to South Carolina to help an undergrad get an abortion and twisted them into lies about rounding up 15-year-olds to take them to blue states to get abortions and castrations.
The fact that none of that actually happened didn’t matter. No one cares about proof anymore.
I veer into the first bathroom, where I vomit and then just sit there on the floor, contemplating life.
I have my undergrad in sociology and my master’s in public health.
I have a background leading studies. In normal times, I’d probably be able to land an okay government job. But these aren’t normal times.
My work experience can be summed up with a cozy coffee shop in the basement of the chapel on campus.
I have a little money in the bank but not more than a couple months if I’m paying rent, and I can’t get a place without a job. I can’t get a place pulling shots for minimum wage, either.
I tell myself not to panic over the fact that I’m 28 years old and have nothing except student loan debt.
I hear the outside door open, followed by the click-tap click-tap of high heels. Whoever it is can see me sitting right on the bathroom floor in this stall.
They stop on the other side of my door, lean down, and slide a business card to me.
Black with gold lettering, BBHH, Inc.
“What is this?” I ask.
“An opportunity.” Her voice is prim and matronly, with a faint accent I can’t place. “My business matches fertile people in a variety of scenarios—”
“Fertile?”
“Yes, and I’m currently scouting women for an event at our beach house on Sugarloaf Key. You’ll be compensated $50,000 plus two weeks at the beach house in exchange for allowing ten men unfettered access to your body for two nights.”
I attempt to respond to that insanity and choke on my own spit, giving her the opportunity to continue.
“Should you find yourself pregnant afterward, you’ll be given free room and board and anything else you need for the duration of your pregnancy. You’ll then be paid one million dollars to sign over all parental rights to the father.”
This is a prank. It has to be. Or some wacko trying to prove I’m…a prostitute? I snort. “Lady, I’ve just been ruined academically because I helped one of my students get an abortion.”
“But not you. You didn’t get one. You got pregnant with a professor’s child when you were 20, and he threatened you if you came out about it. You could have gotten an abortion then, but you chose to take a year off of school, have the baby, and put them up for adoption.”
How does she know this? No one knows this. I’ve never told anyone. Not even because of the threats; people will accuse me of hypocrisy because I’m an abortion rights activist who decided against it for myself — because that’s the point. I had a choice, and I exercised it.
Sort of. It was a hard time in my life. But it wasn’t the government that made it difficult, and it shouldn’t ever be.
But it was a closed adoption, and that should have been the end of it.
The woman’s tone softens from the already polite banter to sympathetic. “I’m here to help you, Raine. This is an opportunity of a lifetime for you. You’ll see.”
***
“Ooh, you got a tight cunt, don’t you, you little bitch?”
I hold back my urge to glare at the man who’s pushed me down onto the sofa, stripped my panties off, and pushed up my skirt to shove his dick inside me.
His little dick. I’m not going to criticize him for it — even though he deserves it — because there’s only so much a penis of any size is going to accomplish without further assistance, but I’m not going to get further assistance, either.
Just two nights. I just have to get through that, and then I’ll have enough money to figure my life out.
Potentially go through a pregnancy and give up my baby, but I did it before without regrets.
Jane, the woman from the bathroom, assured me that regardless of how the men treat me this weekend, they’ve been thoroughly vetted to make sure they’ll be good fathers.
This will be another baby going to a better home than I can provide, if I get pregnant at all.
And I’ll never see these men again. I’m not even seeing them now.
They’re all masked. Some are prominent figures I might recognize without the mask, but they’re all billionaires, or close enough to it.
Pencil dick is wearing a cobra mask and has garlic breath, and he could probably crash the US economy.
Even if I did recognize him without the mask, I’d never be in the same room as him again.
There are nine other billionaires in the room and four other women. The women are mostly younger than me, and I’m pretty sure they’ve all been here before. They all seem nice and attempted conversation with me while we waited to be brought into this room, but I was too anxious for small talk.
There’s a sex swing in the middle of the room that’s gotten everyone’s attention.
The leggy blonde in the halter dress clearly designed for easy access — Mac, I think her name is — is strapped up in it now, surrounded by four men, her tits and ass hanging out.
She seems to be living her best life, although it’s hard to tell with the cock she’s being choked on.
One man is rubbing her clit while diligently sucking her nipple, though, which is more than I can say for the Cobra.
The other women are in darker corners, pinned against walls or bent over. One is impaled on a man’s lap while another stands between her legs. I’m not sure who’s in which hole, and I’m not sure I could handle two in the same hole personally, but that looks fun.
Shelly, a petite woman with lush curves and red extensions tucked into her black curls, got stuck with a particularly adventurous pair of men in peacock and owl masks.
She’s been gagged, but she’s still somehow the loudest one, and the Peacock has been fucking her slowly for a while now, but the Owl is still fully dressed, his slacks tented, as he teases her with some sex toy that I swear I catch occasional sparks from.
Shelly wails around the gag suddenly and then goes slack, the Owl catching her with a hand at her throat. That toy has a narrow tip, and I still clench in sympathy when he shoves it into her pussy alongside the Peacock.
She straightens up like she’s just taken 60 volts right to the spine — I think maybe she has — but her gagged scream is all pleasure.
“That’s it,” the Cobra groans, no doubt mistaking my clench for actual pleasure. He thrusts harder, enough I’m worried I’m going to bruise despite feeling only the barest of arousal.
I need to actually enjoy this. I agreed to this. I’m being paid a lot of money for this. The other women are all having a good time, but I don’t doubt that they’re making the best of a weird situation as well.
But then I think get your head in the game and suddenly my brain is all Zac Efron and choreographed basketballs, and I snort.
At first, I’m hoping no one noticed. The Cobra certainly didn’t; with a weak groan, he goes stiff, pumps a couple more times, and then stands up and wanders off.
Whatever.
But then I notice the Owl is staring at me. Everything above his mouth is obscured, but I get the feeling from the tick in his jaw that he’s scowling at me. Somehow, I’m the one who’s done something wrong just because I watched too much High School Musical when I was a kid.
He says something to the Peacock and then hands that toy over before approaching me.
Something about his gait, his prowl, triggers my fight or flight response, and I freeze.