The next morning, Monday, found Musab walking through the hallway of Scholar's Academy with a half-smile that hadn't left his face since Saturday's rainstorm. His hair was still damp from the shower, his book bag slung over one shoulder, and he could still feel Fizbah's nails on his back, hear her gasping his name in her kitchen. He rounded the corner toward the library — the one place he knew he'd find Arsala between first and second period, hiding from the morning chaos in her usual back corner — and there she was, already waiting, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a textbook open in her lap that she wasn't reading. She looked up when his shadow fell across the page, her dark eyes narrowing. "You're late." He dropped his bag and slid down the wall to sit beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Missed me?" "I heard you were busy this weekend." Her voice was flat, but her hand found his thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle just above his knee. "Fizbah's house. Her parents out of town. The rain." She ticked them off like items on a list. "Small school. People talk." He didn't deny it. He didn't even look away. "Jealous?" "No." Her hand tightened on his thigh. "But you owe me." He grinned, that crooked half-smile that made her stomach flip no matter how many times she'd seen it. "What do you want?" She closed the textbook, set it aside, and leaned back on her hands, her legs stretching out in front of her. She was wearing her school skirt, short enough that the hem rode up her pale thighs when she moved. "Right here. Right now. I want you to fuck me like you mean it, not like I'm a secret you're keeping." Her eyes flicked to the library entrance — empty, no one due for another twenty minutes. "Armish is on lookout duty. She knows I'm here with you." He didn't ask how she'd arranged that. Arsala always arranged things. He leaned over her, one hand on the linoleum beside her hip, the other finding the hem of her skirt. "Legs wide," he said. "That's how you like it, right?" She was already spreading them, her knees falling open, her skirt riding up to her waist. No panties. She'd come here ready. "That's how I like it," she confirmed, her voice already breathless. He pushed her skirt higher, ran his hand up the inside of her thigh until his fingers found her wet. She was already slick, already waiting, and she let out a sharp gasp when he slid two fingers inside her. "Fuck —" "Shh," he murmured, his mouth close to hers. "Library, remember?" He moved his fingers slow, watching her face — the way her lips parted, the way her eyes lost focus, the way her hips rolled against his hand. Her fingers found his belt, working the buckle open with practiced ease, and when his cock sprang free, hard and already leaking, she wrapped her hand around him and guided him to her entrance. He pushed in, slow, letting her feel every inch, watching her mouth fall open in a silent O. She was tight and hot, her legs wide, her heels digging into the linoleum for leverage. He fucked her with long, deep strokes, one hand gripping her hip, the other pressed over her mouth to muffle her moans. She came fast, her cunt clenching around him, her back arching off the floor, and he followed a moment later, burying himself deep and pumping his cum into her with a groan that he tried, and failed, to contain. She lay there, panting, her legs still spread, cum leaking down her thigh. "I'm still mad about Fizbah," she said, her voice shaky. "But that helps." He kissed her forehead, pulled out, tucked himself back into his pants. "I'll make it up to you." She sat up, wiped her thigh with her skirt, and grinned. "You already did."
Tuesday night, Musab's penthouse. Armish lay curled against his side on the couch, her long legs draped over his lap, the city lights glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts, nothing else, her hair loose from its usual ponytail, falling in black waves over her shoulders. She traced patterns on his chest with her fingertip. "Arsala said you fucked her in the library yesterday." He didn't flinch. "She tell you that?" "She tells me everything." Armish looked up at him, her dark eyes unreadable. "I don't mind. She had you first. She gets a share." She shifted, straddling his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips. "But I want tonight." Her voice was soft, intimate, nothing like the loud, bubbly cheerleader captain the school saw. This was the Armish only he knew. "I want you slow. I want you to look at me. I want to feel you." He ran his hands up her thighs, under the hem of the t-shirt, finding her bare hips. "Whatever you want." She leaned in, kissed him — slow, deep, her tongue sliding against his, her hips grinding against his growing hardness. He lifted the t-shirt over her head, baring her breasts, and laid her back on the couch, his mouth tracing down her neck, her collarbone, her sternum, until his lips closed around one nipple. She gasped, her fingers threading through his hair, holding him there. He took his time. He kissed every inch of her — her stomach, her hips, the inside of her thighs — until she was squirming, until she was whimpering, until she grabbed his hair and pulled his face up to hers. "Fuck me," she whispered. "Please. I need you inside me." He positioned himself at her entrance, looked into her eyes, and pushed in slow. She gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He fucked her with long, slow strokes, his forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling, her soft moans filling the room. She came quietly, a shuddering release, her body tightening around him, her mouth finding his in a kiss that tasted like tears. He came inside her a few strokes later, burying his face in her neck, feeling her pulse racing against his lips. Afterward, she lay on his chest, her ear over his heart. "I love you," she said. "I know," he said. She laughed, swatting his arm. "You're supposed to say it back." He smiled, his hand stroking her hair. "I love you too, Armish." She kissed his chest, settled deeper into him, and let the city lights blur through the windows until she fell asleep in his arms.
Wednesday, after the final bell, Musab was heading toward the parking lot when a hand caught his wrist and pulled him into the empty chemistry lab. Fizbah. She pushed him against the door the moment it clicked shut, her mouth on his, her hands already at his belt. Her hair was wild around her face, her brown eyes dark and hungry. "I've been thinking about Saturday all week," she said, her voice rough, her breath hot against his throat. "I can't focus. I can't sleep. I need you again." He didn't argue. He lifted her onto the lab table, pushed her skirt up around her waist, and found her already soaked through her panties. He pulled them aside and drove into her with one hard thrust. She cried out, her head falling back, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "Yes — like that — don't be gentle —" He grabbed a fistful of her long brown hair, pulled her head back, and fucked her hard, the table scraping against the floor with every thrust. She loved it rough — he'd learned that on Saturday — and she took everything he gave her, her moans turning into gasps, her nails raking his back through his shirt. "Turn around," he said, pulling out. She scrambled off the table, bent over it, her hands flat on the surface, her round ass presented to him. He didn't wait. He pushed into her cunt from behind, then pulled out, slid higher, and pressed against her other hole. She stiffened for a second, then relaxed, her voice a whisper. "Yes. Do it." He pushed into her ass slow, watching her body take him, her fingers white-knuckling the edge of the table. She let out a long, low moan, her back arching, her ass pressing back against him. He fucked her steadily, her hair tangled in his fist, his other hand gripping her hip, the sounds wet and obscene in the empty lab. She came with a scream, her whole body shuddering, and he followed, pulling out and cumming across her lower back in hot, thick streaks. They stood there for a moment, breathing hard, the chemical smell of the lab mixing with the musk of sex. She straightened, turned, and kissed him softly, a contrast to the roughness of the last ten minutes. "Same time next week?" she asked, a smirk playing on her lips. He grinned. "I'll check my schedule."
Thursday, the library again. Musab had Arsala pressed against the back wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, her skirt bunched around her hips, when he heard it — a sharp intake of breath that wasn't from Arsala. He froze, looked over his shoulder, and saw nothing but rows of bookshelves. "What?" Arsala asked, breathless. "Nothing." He started moving again, but his eyes scanned the gap between two bookshelves, and there — a flash of movement. A girl ducking back, the hem of her uniform skirt disappearing behind a row of encyclopedias. He recognized her. Maryam Ali. She was in Arsala's class, a quiet girl with dusky skin and straight black hair, always watching, always hovering at the edges. He'd caught her staring at him in the hallway before, but he'd never thought much of it. Now she was hidden in the stacks, watching him fuck Arsala, her hand probably between her own thighs. He didn't stop. He didn't call her out. He kept fucking Arsala, kept her moaning against his mouth, and when he came, he made sure Maryam saw — made sure she saw Arsala's legs trembling, heard her cries echoing off the tall shelves. When they finished, when Arsala straightened her skirt and kissed him goodbye and slipped out of the library, Musab stayed behind, adjusting his belt, pretending to browse a book on the nearest shelf. Maryam didn't move from her hiding spot. He could feel her eyes on him. He didn't look at her. He just smiled, faintly, and walked out of the library, knowing she'd be back tomorrow.
Friday, after school. The library was empty. Maryam sat in the back corner, the same spot where she'd watched Musab fuck Arsala the day before, her knees drawn up to her chest, her heart hammering. She'd replayed it in her head all night, all day in class — the way he'd moved, the sounds Arsala made, the way he'd looked right at the gap in the bookshelves and known she was there. She touched herself now, alone in the quiet, her hand sliding under her skirt, her fingers finding the wet heat between her legs. She closed her eyes and imagined it was his hand, his fingers, his cock. She bit her lip to keep from moaning. She was so lost in it that she didn't hear the footsteps until they were right in front of her. Her eyes snapped open. Musab stood over her, his book bag slung over one shoulder, a faint smile on his lips, his sharp blue eyes fixed on her hand between her thighs. She didn't pull away. She couldn't. "I thought I might find you here," he said, his voice low, amused. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her hand stayed where it was, frozen. He crouched down in front of her, close enough that she could smell him — grass, sweat, expensive cologne. "You were watching yesterday." It wasn't a question. She nodded, her throat dry. "Did you like what you saw?" Her voice came out a whisper, barely audible. "Yes." His smile widened, a slow, dangerous thing. "Good." He reached out, took her wrist, and pulled her hand away from between her legs. Her fingers were slick, glistening under the fluorescent lights. He looked down at them, then back at her face. "Next time, you don't have to watch from the shelves. You can join." He released her wrist, stood up, and walked away, his footsteps echoing through the empty library. Maryam sat there, her hand still wet, her heart pounding, her thighs pressed together, feeling his words settle into her skin like a promise she intended to collect.
Maryam sat frozen for a long moment after Musab's footsteps faded, her hand still wet, her breath shallow. Then she wiped her fingers on her skirt, stood on trembling legs, and walked out of the library with a purpose she hadn't had before. She found him near the soccer field, leaning against the goalpost, checking his phone. He looked up when her shadow crossed the grass, and that half-smile returned. "Change your mind?" She stopped a foot away, close enough to smell his cologne again. "I want to tell you something. About me." He pocketed his phone, crossed his arms, waited. She took a breath.
"I'm seventeen," she said. He didn't react, so she kept going. "I know I look older. Everyone says that. And I know you fuck girls older than me, usually. But I've been watching you for months. Not just yesterday. In the hallways, at games. The way you move, the way you talk." She paused, her dusky skin flushed under the afternoon sun. "I have an OnlyFans. I started it six months ago. I make good money. I film myself with toys, sometimes with guys I find online. Nothing serious. Just content."
Musab's eyebrows lifted, his blue eyes running over her body—her straight black hair, the curve of her waist under the school uniform. "Seventeen," he repeated. "That's—" "Young, I know. But I'm legal in this country. My face isn't in the videos. It's just my body, and I get paid." She pulled out her phone, unlocked it, and turned the screen toward him. Her OnlyFans dashboard: a subscriber count in the low thousands, a steady stream of notifications. "I want you to be in one of my videos."
He stared at the screen, then at her. "Why me?" "Because I've seen you with Arsala. With Armish. With that girl Fizbah. You have a big dick, Musab. And you know how to use it." Her voice was steady, almost clinical. "You don't have to show your face. I'll handle the lighting, the angles. It's just a fuck. You get to cum inside me, and I get to sell it." She scrolled to her gallery, tapped a video. The screen filled with a close-up of a black dildo sliding into her, her dusky thighs spread wide, slick and glistening. Her own moans filled the space between them, tinny through the phone speaker.
Musab watched, his jaw tightening. She swiped to another clip—a white boy with a thin cock fucking her from behind, her ass bouncing, her voice gasping "yes, yes." Another clip: her on all fours, a purple toy buried deep, her hand reaching back to spread herself. The videos were raw, amateur, real. He felt himself harden in his pants, his pulse thrumming. She stopped the playlist and looked up at him, her brown eyes dark. "I want you instead. Just once. To see what it's like with someone who actually knows what he's doing."
He ran a hand through his hair, his mind spinning. Armish. The promise he broke. The triad. If they found out he was filming porn with a seventeen-year-old— "No face," he said. "No one can know." "I told you. I never show faces. Just bodies. You'll be anonymous." She stepped closer, her hand resting on his chest, her fingers warm through his shirt. "I've seen what you do. I know you're not afraid to take what you want. So take me. Tonight. My house." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a scrap of notebook paper, folded small. She pressed it into his hand. "My address. Nine o'clock."
He looked at the paper: a street name, a house number, written in a shaky hand. He folded it into his pocket. "Tonight." She smiled, a real smile, nervous and eager. Then she rose on her toes and kissed his cheek, quick and soft, before stepping back. "Don't be late," she said, and turned, walking away across the field, her straight black hair swaying with each step. He watched her go, her dark brown body silhouetted against the setting sun, and felt the paper in his pocket like a brand. Behind him, the library lights flickered on, and the school fell quiet.