The vaulted ceiling of the foundation room echoed her frantic heartbeat. I pressed my back against the cool wall, breath held, as the light from the janitor’s flashlight swept past the doorway. He never came in. When the coast was clear, I let out a shaky sigh.

That’s when I heard the low chords of an acoustic guitar. I peeked around a stack of canvases and saw him—my professor, the one whose gaze made my cheeks flare—sitting on a worn couch with his friend, the guitarist and boxer who always smirked at me in the hallway.

“Well, well,” my professor said, not looking up from the fretboard. “Hiding from authority, are we?”

Heat pooled between my legs. “I… got caught up working on my piece.”

His friend laughed, a low rumble. “Or just wanted to see what we get up to after hours.”

They invited me to sit. I couldn’t say no. Between chords and riffs, they recorded a rough track. My voice trembled as I sang backup, but they praised me.

By eleven, the studio was dark except for a single lamp. My professor set down his guitar. His eyes—gray as storm clouds—locked onto mine. “You know why you’re still here, really.”

I didn’t speak. His friend stepped behind me, fingers brushing the nape of my neck. The world narrowed to the smell of sweat, weed smoke, and male dominance.

My professor gripped my jaw, tilting my head back. “Let’s see if that voice can make other sounds.”

They shoved me over a stack of frames. Fingers roughly undid my jeans. My heart pounded as his friend pulled his cock out—