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Ratio slides in, violating your pussy and destroying your walls at a pace opposite of mercy. At every whine you emit, you receive a slap on the cheek and a faster pace. You already came once or twice, but he doesn’t give a shit. He’s only teaching you a lesson, don’t resist, you’re unable to. He has you trapped underneath his large body. You’re too small and weak to fight it.
“P-please sir, slow dOWN—” you cry, and the man above you scoffs darkly, panting like a desperate dog.
“Mm, do you always tell your superiors what to do? Order them around like you do with me?” Ratio asks in-between breaths, his hips showing no signs of slowing down any sooner, fucking your sopping went cunt even if it’s numb and sore. He continues, muttering degrading names under his breath. “Do you think you have the right to? Tell me, darling. Do you?”
He’s angry. You can tell by his tone, his voice, the timbre in which he speaks— he fucking loathes you. You’ve angered him and you’re suffering the consequences. A nauseating feeling settles in your stomach. You don’t want to anger Dr. Ratio, no, not him. His fury hogs your walls like your body is built for it. You deserve his violence, his resentment. You deserve to be filled with his ire and outrage.
“N-no sir,” you managed to whisper in response. It’s surprising that you’re even coherent, with the way he’s mauling you like a predator. Better yet— he isn’t mauling you enough. This isn’t enough. You need to bleed, you need bruises that last for weeks, you need to be fucked so hard that you go to hell.
You failed something, fuck it, you don’t remember what— it doesn’t matter. In exchange for a higher grade, this is your punishment, your redemption. This is your academic worth, and your teacher makes that very clear everytime you go to school. Perhaps this is your only worth, your only meaning. To be a machine and be violently fucked by one or be fucked like one.
He isn’t always aggressive like this— oftentimes he’d gently eat out your cunt as a reward for doing so well on a quiz or an exam. Or if you did an especially amazing job on an essay, he’d praise your intelligence and fuck you slowly in the faculty bathrooms, muttering sweet nothings and kissing you softly as if sex was an act of worship.
No one goes to the faculty bathrooms. You get a few looks here and there— threads of gossip passing by your classmates. They all think you’re a slut. But this is why you have Dr. Ratio, because he’s here to help you.
His help would be sweet and loving, he cares about you so deeply, he always has. Dr. Ratio will treat you with what you deserve if you become what he envisions, because that is your worth.
A failing mark won’t do. Not with your parents, and especially not with Dr. Ratio. A failing mark is practically asking for it. You are his top student after all.
You wanted this.
“You tell me to stop, but I know you want this,” Ratio mocks, his hips stuttering as he hits your uterus. You feel something saline dripping down your face, a mixture of sweat and tears. He suddenly stops his assault, leaning in closely to your neck and sucking a particularly favorite spot. “You want this, don’t you, dear? You never fail. So why now?” His warm breath fans against your skin. The pity in his tone makes you moan— he’s showing you a glimpse of mercy and all you feel is gratefulness.
“Do you still love me, sir?” You asked in a pitch so fearful that you’d be comparable to a trembling mouse. You take his ephemeral mercy as an opportunity to ask for reassurance. You’re pathetic. He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t love failures. You know this, yet you asked anyway, like a puppy begging for attention. You just want to be entertained, to be indulged, to be wanted.
Who are you if you are not wanted?
Ratio only tsks, disapproval contorting his expression. “Zero points. That won’t do. You’re not answering my questions, which means you failed— on purpose.” He thrusts particularly hard on the last few words, resuming his assault as he plays with your breasts. An obscene moan left your lips and it’s only proving him right. You don’t know if you hate it. He doesn’t ask you your reason, but he answers your question. “Do I love you? Mea vita, of course I do…”
He pauses his speech, watching you tremble beneath him in amusement like you’re an adorable prey. He will hunt you before he feasts on you. You only sob under his demeaning gaze.
He grinds his dick in your cunt, keeping your limbs immobile. You can only shut your eyes and pray with hands intertwining your teacher.
“But I can’t… if you keep this up,” Ratio says. You feel sick. “Promise me you won’t do this again?”
You are a child full of contradictions. You want to be loved, but you want to be hurt. You want to be desired, yet you do not deserve it. You want to be lusted for, though you expect benign romance. Oh, you poor thing.
You wanted him to do this to you. You’re a sick whore.
In spite of everything, you ask yourself again— who the fuck are you?
A slap. He slapped you, yet the instinct to scream does not take you. You’re as quiet as a fresh corpse. Your genitals sting, and your face does too, and your eyes burn, your head wants to bash itself inside and out… the ache swells up enough to serve as a comfort in your body, a painful reminder that you exist. It’s grounding, but you are not here. You will not be.
How can you be, if you are not wanted?
Who are you supposed to be?
“Are you okay?” He… he’s gentle. He grabbed your chin and he pulled it closer to himself, inspecting your face as if you were worthy to be examined. He’s showing concern. He’s asking if you’re okay. He wants to preserve you, maintain you, keep you alive. He makes you feel wanted. Nothing else makes you feel wanted. He’s the only one who can make you feel like this.
As conscious as you might be, you don’t speak a sentence, for you can only manage a pitiful mewl. You keep your eyes shut, and you imagine yourself in a place that isn’t here.
“It looks like you’re past your limit…” Ratio says. "Such a fragile, lithe body.”
He doesn’t pull out. He slows down, but he doesn’t stop.
“I didn’t even come yet… How disappointing.”
Your heart aches at the word disappointing. You want to avoid disappointment, yet you make a decision that results in so. You are so confusing. You exhaust yourself. You are exhausted.
“Fine, then. Sleep. I’ve been mean to you, haven’t I?” Ratio coos, caressing your face as he pumps himself deep inside you.
“I’ll be kind… I’ll make it quick.”
The only kindness you receive is his movement accelerating, until he goes back to his aggressive speed. He groans above you, growing frenzied now, completely folding you open and fucking you like it’s do-or-die. Your cunt hurts, but you want that.
“O-oh, fuck—” he cries. “I could get you pregnant…” He could. He can. But he has a husband and a child already. It’s going to get you and him in trouble. He’s wearing protection, right?
Right?
Fuck, your heart sinks, but you don’t get to process it as he screws you like a wild animal, bulldozing your pussy, aiming upwards to pleasure himself and you. You can feel him prodding at your womb. He’s really going to get you pregnant, and fuck— does it sound good…
You’ve decided, then, that he’ll be stuck with you.
You hear his breathing grow rapidly as he gets closer to his climax. And because you’re a sick fourteen year old, fucked up and unfixable beyond repair— you clench around him before he gets the chance to pull out. Your legs hook to each other, essentially locking his seed in.
He practically screams as he coats your plump walls white. Your whole school is going to know he impregnated you, and you fucking loved every second of it, didn’t you?
…You’re starting to sound like him.
You open your eyes, and you see him. More prominently— the panic that paints his face.
“Shit, shit shit shit—” Ratio curses, pulling out of you fast, feeling no remorse for your pain or discomfort. “You fucking slut,” he mutters in fury. “Why the fuck did you do that?!”
He clocks you hard in the face, and that’s going to leave a lasting bruise. “You just wanted to ruin my life, didn’t you?” He chuckles in disbelief. He grins, not in happiness, but in disgusted exasperation. “I can’t fucking believe you.”
The man pushes you off of himself, and you almost fall off the table if your innate urge to survive didn’t tell you to hold on to the desk. The strength was forceful enough to move the table itself. He zips up his pants and he doesn’t bother cleaning you up.
He runs his fingers through his hair and strides around the room, calling you names and preparing for the worst.
You’ve done it. You’re done for. You fucked up his life and you fucked up yours. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted this to happen. This is your fault, and whatever happens from here— it’s a punishment from the divine. You pulled Ratio into your mess, just as he pulled you in his.
He ruined you, and you ruined him.