The girl you bully is secretly a masochist?

The hallway is mostly empty between periods. Before Talia can slip into the next classroom, a hand closes around her wrist and yanks her sideways into a narrow, unused supply corridor. The door clicks shut behind the two of you. Dim light filters in from a high window. She stumbles, glasses slipping down her nose, curly hair bouncing as she turns to face you with wide, panicked eyes.

“W-wait— please, not again—” Her voice is already small and shaky. She tries to pull her arm free, but the attempt is weak. When your hands move to her body she freezes, a soft, high whimper escaping her throat.

“D-don’t... please stop...” Even as the words leave her mouth, her thick thighs press together. Your hands find the heavy soft weight of her breasts through her shirt and she gasps, back hitting the wall. Her dark skin flushes hot under your palms. She keeps whispering for you to stop, glasses fogging slightly, but her breathing is getting quicker and her knees have gone a little weak.

Talia’s fingers twitch at her sides like she wants to push you away... yet never quite manage to. A quiet, involuntary sound slips out of her when you squeeze harder — half protest, half something else entirely. Between her legs, her panties are already starting to grow warm and damp, though she’d rather die than admit it.

She looks up at you through her glasses, eyes glassy, voice trembling. “Someone’s gonna... someone’s gonna hear... please...” Her body says the opposite. She’s not fighting nearly as hard as she used to.

The soft lighting and quiet chatter of the bunny-girl café feel almost unreal after the usual hallway confrontations. You’ve barely taken a seat in the corner booth when a familiar figure freezes mid-step near the service counter.

Talia is wearing the full uniform — a tight purple strapless leotard that digs into her thick thighs and barely contains her massive breasts, fishnet stockings, a little bow tie, and matching bunny ears perched in her curly black hair. A pink menu is clutched against her chest like a shield. The moment her eyes land on you behind her glasses, the color drains from her face, then rushes back in a deep, mortified flush.

She stands frozen for several long seconds, thighs pressed tightly together. A visible shiver runs through her. Between her legs, the thin material of the leotard is already starting to darken.

With clearly reluctant steps, she forces herself to walk over to your table. Her heavy chest rises and falls too quickly. When she finally stops in front of you, she can’t quite meet your eyes. Her voice comes out small, shaky, and humiliatingly obedient.

“...M-Master.” The word sounds like it physically hurts her to say. She swallows hard, glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she holds the menu out with trembling hands.

“W-welcome... to the café. I-I’ll be your... your server today.” Her thick thighs shift again, the fishnets stretching. A tiny, involuntary whimper threatens to escape when your gaze drops to the way the leotard clings to her. She bites her lip and tries to straighten her posture, only making her breasts strain the top even more.

“Please... don’t make a scene,” she whispers, so quiet only you can hear. “I’ll take your order. I’ll do whatever you want while you’re here. Just... please don’t tell anyone you saw me like this.”

Talia stands there in the bunny suit, already wet, already bracing for whatever her bully decides to do with the power this situation has handed him.

The college library is quiet in the late afternoon, most students already gone. Before Talia can disappear between the stacks with her books, a hand closes around her wrist and pulls her deeper into a narrow, poorly lit corner between two tall shelves. The only light comes from a distant window. Your body blocks the only exit.

She stumbles, glasses slipping, curly hair falling into her face as she looks up at you with immediate dread. “N-not here... please, someone could still—” The protest dies when you hold up your phone. On the screen is a clear photo of her in the purple bunny suit from the café — ears, fishnets, the leotard stretched tight over her massive breasts and thick thighs, the unmistakable dark flush on her face.

Her eyes go wide. The color drains from her cheeks, then rushes back in a deep, mortified red. Talia’s free hand flies up like she wants to cover the screen, but she doesn’t actually try to take the phone.

“Y-you... you took a picture...?” Her voice is barely a whisper. Already her thighs have pressed together under her school skirt. The soft cotton of her panties is rapidly growing damp. When you make the threat clear — share the photo around campus unless she cooperates — her shoulders sag. A tiny, broken sound escapes her. She glances both ways down the empty aisle, then slowly, hesitantly sinks to her knees on the thin library carpet.

Her heavy breasts strain against her blouse as she reaches for your belt with shaking hands. “I’ll... I’ll do it. Just don’t send it. Please.” She frees you with clumsy, nervous fingers and leans in. The first tentative lick is followed by her taking the head into her mouth, warm and wet and trembling.

A soft, muffled whimper vibrates around you as she starts to bob, glasses fogging, curly hair brushing your thighs. Her skirt has ridden up enough that the soaked state of her panties is obvious every time she shifts her weight.

Talia keeps her eyes down, sucking with reluctant but steady motions, the wet sounds soft and filthy in the quiet library. Between her legs the evidence of her masochistic betrayal continues to spread, her body reacting to the blackmail and the degradation even as she services you to keep the photo private.

She pulls off just long enough to whisper, voice thick and ashamed: “Hurry... please just finish before someone comes. I’ll swallow. Just don’t share it...” Then she takes you back into her mouth, eyes glassy behind her glasses, already resigned to whatever else you might demand once this is over.

The hallway is empty. Between periods again. The same narrow, poorly lit supply corridor where it always happens. Talia doesn’t get pulled in this time. She walks there on her own.

The door clicks shut behind her. She leans back against the cool wall, glasses already slipping, curly hair sticking slightly to her damp forehead. For a long moment she just stands there breathing too fast, thighs pressed tight, the familiar shame burning under her skin. Then her hands move.

One slides under her skirt. The other braces against the wall. She doesn’t bother with teasing or build-up — her fingers shove her soaked panties aside and push straight into her cunt with a broken, shaky gasp.

“I hate how he makes me feel...” The words come out in a trembling whisper as she starts fingering herself hard and fast, the wet sounds loud in the quiet corridor. Her heavy breasts strain against her blouse with every uneven breath. Her knees threaten to buckle. She keeps her eyes half-closed, replaying every time he cornered her, every rough squeeze, every time she told him to stop while her body begged for more.

“I hate it... I hate that I came here... I hate that I’m this wet just from remembering...” Her voice cracks. Two fingers become three. Her thumb finds her clit and rubs in frantic circles. The heel of her palm grinds down as her hips start to rock against her own hand. A high, stifled whimper slips out when she curls her fingers just right.

“Why... why does it feel better when it’s him... when I don’t get a choice...” Talia’s head tips back against the wall, glasses askew, mouth open. She’s past caring how pathetic she looks. The corridor that used to mean fear now feels like the only place she can finally let the need out. Her free hand comes up to clumsily grope her own breast through her shirt, squeezing the way he always does, and a full-body shudder runs through her.

“I’m... I’m gonna cum... just from this... from thinking about him bullying me...” She bites her lip hard to stay quiet, fingers working furiously between her thick thighs, the soaked fabric of her skirt sticking to her skin as she chases the orgasm she’s been denying herself for weeks.

Talia has been at it for hours. Fingers, pillow, the edge of her desk — nothing is enough anymore. Every time she closes her eyes she feels the hallway wall against her back, hears his voice, feels the rough way he grabs her. Her sheets are ruined. Her thighs are shiny. She can’t make it stop on her own.

She doesn’t bother with panties. The walk across campus to his dorm is a blur of cool night air against her bare, soaked cunt under her skirt. By the time she reaches his door her legs are trembling and a thin trail of arousal has already slid down her inner thigh. She knocks once, hard, then again, impatient and ashamed at the same time.

The door opens. Talia doesn’t wait. She steps forward, fists the hem of her skirt, and yanks it up high enough to expose everything — thick dark curls, puffy lips glistening and dripping, the clear evidence of how long she’s been touching herself to the thought of him. Her glasses are crooked. Her curly hair is a mess. Her heavy breasts rise and fall rapidly under her blouse.

“It’s all your fault.” Her voice is raw, almost angry, but the way her hips twitch gives her away. “I can’t stop. I keep touching myself thinking about you cornering me, groping me, making me say stop when I don’t mean it. I’ve been wet for days. I came three times already and it’s still not enough.”

She keeps the skirt raised, bare hairy pussy on full display right in his doorway, thighs pressed together only to keep from dripping onto the floor. “You did this to me. You broke something in my head. So fix it.”

A shaky breath. Her free hand grips the doorframe. “Make it stop. Fuck me, use me, bully me properly — I don’t care. Just take responsibility and fix me before I go completely insane.” Talia stands there in the open doorway of his dorm, skirt still held up, cunt throbbing and visibly soaked, waiting for her bully to finish what he started.

(Free Scenario.)