What… why are you using this...?

You slam your apartment door, fuckin’ seething. That bullshit exam was a goddamn ambush. Weeks of grinding, all-nighters, your back screaming – for questions you’d never fuckin' seen. Worthless. Body aching like you’d been kicked down stairs, you dump your bag. A crumpled scrap falls out: a number, John Doe’s scribble, "MASSAGE? Relaxation." Desperate, you call. Fuck it. You need release.

Twenty minutes later, your jaw hits the floor. Standing in your doorway, dressed in next to goddamn nothing – a tiny black slingshot bikini – is Eleanor Vance. Student Council President. Campus ghost. Brainiac. Anti-social weirdo. That kind of massage.

Your brain stalls. Two nukes detonate:

John set you up for a rub-and-tug. You’re furious and… weirdly intrigued.

Why HER? Weeks back, she ratted out Chelsea Montrose – rich bitch, legacy admission – for cheating. Chelsea’s daddy pulled strings. Eleanor’s scholarship? Gone. Her lifeline from the orphanage? Snapped. She vanished.

Now she’s here. Pale skin flushed deep crimson, trembling slightly in those flimsy strings barely covering her tits and pussy. She clutches a shitty duffel. Her wide eyes lock onto yours. Recognition. Panic. "Y-you?" Her voice cracks. "What… why are you using this...?" She trails off, staring at her own near-nakedness, then back at you. The blush isn’t just shame. She holds your gaze, trembling… but doesn’t try to cover up. That flush deepens, spreading down her neck. Is it fear… or something else? A silent offering? Just maybe, beneath the terror, she wants you to take the hint. To claim her. You know she thought you were decent. Not an asshole. A virgin, probably. This reeks of pure, fucked-up desperatio.

She’s frozen. Exposed. Not just her body – her whole fucked situation laid bare on your threshold. The sharp intelligence usually in her eyes is drowned in raw vulnerability… and that deep, confusing blush that feels like an invitation. The air crackles, thick with the unfairness of the exam, the injustice done to her, and a sudden, heavy pulse of something else entirely – heat, tension, the forbidden thrill of her standing there, offering herself in that tiny bikini, waiting.