The Tutor's Descent

Professor Harrison's office smelled like old books and stale coffee, the kind of scent that clung to every surface in the English Department building. Emma sat in the worn leather chair across from his desk, her knees pressed together, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield.

"Emma, I need you to understand the gravity of this situation," Harrison said, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "The football program is under scrutiny. If these boys don't bring their grades up, the university loses funding. The athletic director is breathing down my neck."

Emma nodded, her blonde ponytail bobbing. She was the perfect candidate for this—president of the honor society, straight-A student, a junior who'd never so much as gotten a detention in high school. She wore cardigans and pearl earrings. She said "please" and "thank you." She was, in every conceivable way, a good girl.

"I'll do my best, Professor," she said, her voice soft and earnest. "Which players need tutoring?"

Harrison slid a folder across the desk. "Three of them. Their positions don't matter. What matters is that they pass British Literature or they're off the team. The final's in three weeks."

Emma opened the folder and felt her stomach drop. The first photo showed a face she recognized immediately—Connor Blake, the star quarterback. Six-foot-four, shoulders like a linebacker, with a jawline that could cut glass and a reputation for being untouchable. The second photo was Marcus Webb, the tight end, built like a tank with dark skin and a smile that made sorority girls swoon. The third was Jason Cole, the kicker, lean and wiry with tattoos snaking up his arms and a perpetual smirk.

These weren't just football players. These were campus gods. And she was supposed to teach them about Chaucer?

"They're expecting you at the athletic complex tonight at seven," Harrison continued. "Study room B. Don't be late—they're on a strict schedule."

Emma stood, clutching the folder to her chest. "I'll make sure they pass, Professor. I promise."

She didn't know, as she walked out into the crisp autumn air, that she was walking into a trap that would change her forever.

The athletic complex was a fortress of glass and steel, a temple to sports that Emma had never had reason to enter. She showed her ID at the front desk and was directed to a hallway she'd never seen, past trophy cases and framed photos of championship teams.

Study room B was at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. Emma could hear male laughter—deep, booming, confident. She straightened her cardigan, checked that her blouse was buttoned to the top, and knocked.

"Come in," a voice called.

Emma pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was small, dominated by a large table surrounded by chairs. Three massive young men looked up at her entrance, and Emma felt suddenly very small and very aware of her five-foot-four frame.

Connor Blake sat at the head of the table, his legs sprawled out in front of him, wearing athletic shorts and a tank top that showed off muscles that seemed sculpted by Michelangelo himself. His hair was dark and slightly messy, his eyes a startling blue that pinned her in place.

"Well, well," Connor said, his voice a low rumble. "They sent us a babysitter."

"I'm Emma," she said, her voice coming out steadier than she felt. "Emma Prescott. I'm here to help you prepare for your British Literature final."

Marcus Webb laughed, a rich, warm sound that somehow made her skin prickle. "Help us? Sweetheart, we don't need help. We need a miracle."

"Speak for yourself," Jason Cole drawled from his slouched position in the corner chair. He was spinning a pen between his fingers, his green eyes roaming over Emma's body with a familiarity that made her cheeks burn. "I think our tutor here is exactly what we need."

Emma cleared her throat and moved to the table, setting down her bag and pulling out her lesson plans. "I've reviewed your academic records. You're all struggling with the same concepts—medieval literature, Shakespeare, the Romantic poets. If we focus on—"

"Sit down, Emma," Connor interrupted. "You're making me nervous hovering like that."

She pulled out a chair and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle, her posture perfect. "Now, I've prepared a schedule. We'll meet three times a week for the next three weeks. I expect you to have read—"

"Hold up," Jason said, leaning forward. "Three times a week? We have practice, workouts, film study. We don't have time for three study sessions."

"Then you'll make time," Emma said, surprising herself with her firmness. "Or you'll fail."

The room went quiet. Connor's eyes narrowed, and Emma felt a flutter of fear in her chest. She'd heard the rumors about these boys—they operated above the rules, protected by coaches and boosters and the millions of dollars the football program brought in. No one told them no.

But Emma had never learned how to back down.

Connor studied her for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "I like you, Emma. You've got spine. Fine. Three times a week. But we're not reading Chaucer in here. We're going to need... incentives."

"What kind of incentives?" Emma asked suspiciously.

"For every hour we study," Marcus said, his deep voice vibrating in her chest, "you have to give us something. A piece of clothing. A secret. Something to make this interesting."

"Absolutely not," Emma said, standing up. "This is inappropriate. I'm here to tutor you, not—"

"Not what?" Connor asked, standing as well. He moved around the table with the grace of a predator, stopping just inches from her. Emma had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "Not entertain us? Not make this fun? Come on, Emma. We're not asking for much. Just a little... motivation."

She could smell him—clean sweat, masculine musk, something spicy that made her head swim. She took a step back and hit the table.

"I think I should go," she said, her voice trembling.

Connor's hand shot out, not grabbing her, just resting on the table beside her hip, caging her in. "Don't go," he said softly. "Stay. We'll behave. I promise."

His eyes were hypnotic, blue and deep and full of promises Emma didn't understand. She found herself nodding, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"One hour," she whispered. "And you actually have to work."

Connor's smile was victorious. "Deal."

The first hour was surprisingly productive. Once Emma got them focused, they were actually intelligent—Connor had a sharp analytical mind, Marcus had a memory like a steel trap, and Jason had insights into character motivation that surprised her. They worked through a Shakespeare sonnet, Emma explaining the metaphors, the boys asking questions that showed they were actually listening.

But as the hour wound down, Emma became aware of Jason's foot brushing against hers under the table. Of Marcus's arm stretched along the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally grazing her shoulder. Of Connor's knee pressing against her thigh as he leaned in to point at something in her notes.

"Time's up," she said, gathering her papers with shaking hands. "Same time Wednesday?"

"Not so fast," Connor said, his hand covering hers on the table. "We had a deal. Incentives."

Emma looked up, her throat dry. "That was a joke."

"Was it?" Jason asked, moving to stand on her other side. "Because I don't think it was. I think you want to give us something. I think you've been thinking about it all hour."

"You're wrong," Emma said, but her voice lacked conviction.

Marcus stood behind her, and suddenly she was surrounded, caged between three massive bodies. The heat of them was overwhelming, their presence consuming the small room.

"Just one thing," Connor murmured, his hand moving to her cardigan, his fingers playing with the top button. "One little button. That's all. To show you're serious about helping us."

Emma's breath came in shallow gasps. She should push him away. She should scream. She should run.

Instead, she stood frozen as Connor's fingers undid the top button of her blouse.

"There," he breathed, his eyes dropping to the small triangle of skin now exposed at her throat. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Emma couldn't speak. Her body was responding to them in ways that terrified her—her nipples hardening against her bra, a slow throb building between her legs, her skin hypersensitive to every brush of their clothing against hers.

"Wednesday," she managed to choke out, pushing past them and grabbing her bag. "I'll see you Wednesday."

She fled the room, their laughter following her down the hall, and didn't stop running until she was outside in the cool night air, her chest heaving, her mind reeling.

What was happening to her?

Wednesday arrived too quickly and not quickly enough. Emma had spent the last two days in a state of constant arousal, her body betraying her at every turn. She'd touched herself in the shower, imagining Connor's fingers on her buttons, and had come so hard she'd had to bite her lip to keep from screaming.

She told herself she wouldn't go. She'd email Professor Harrison and tell him she couldn't continue. She'd make up some excuse about her course load.

But at 6:45, she found herself standing outside Study Room B, wearing a skirt instead of her usual slacks, a silk blouse instead of cotton. She'd even put on makeup—just a little mascara and lip gloss, enough to make her feel different. Dangerous.

The door opened before she could knock, and Jason stood there, his eyes lighting up when he saw her.

"Emma," he said, drawing out her name like a caress. "You came back."

"I said I would," she replied, trying to sound confident as she stepped past him into the room.

Connor and Marcus were already there, sprawled in their chairs, looking like kings on their thrones. They watched her enter with predatory focus, and Emma felt her resolve weakening under their gaze.

"Close the door," Connor commanded.

Jason obliged, and the click of the lock made Emma's heart skip. "Why is the door locked?"

"Privacy," Connor said simply. "Now. Sit."

Emma sat, smoothing her skirt over her knees, hyperaware of how short it was, how much leg she was showing. She'd told herself she wore it for comfort, but she knew that was a lie.

"Did you do the reading?" she asked, opening her bag.

"We did," Marcus said. "But we want to talk about something else first."

"What's that?"

Connor leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his eyes locked on hers. "We want to talk about you, Emma. About why you're really here."

"I'm here to tutor you," she said.

"Are you?" Jason asked, moving to sit beside her, his thigh pressing against hers. "Or are you here because you want what happened Monday to happen again? Because you want more?"

Emma's face flamed. "That's not—I didn't—"

"You did," Marcus said softly. "We saw how you looked at us. How you breathed when Connor undid your button. You're curious, Emma. You want to know what it would be like. With us."

"I don't," Emma lied.

Connor stood and moved around the table, stopping behind her chair. His hands came down on her shoulders, heavy and warm, and Emma gasped at the contact.

"Your pulse is racing," he observed, his thumbs finding the hollow of her throat. "Your skin is flushed. You're lying, Emma. And that's okay. We like that you're curious. We want to satisfy that curiosity."

His hands slid down her shoulders, over her collarbone, stopping at the top button of her blouse. "May I?"

Emma should say no. She should scream. She should run.

"Yes," she whispered.

Connor undid the button. Then the next one. And the next. Until her blouse was open to her waist, exposing her white lace bra and the swell of her breasts. Emma sat frozen, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, her breath coming in shallow pants.

"Beautiful," Connor murmured, his hands sliding inside her blouse, cupping her breasts through the lace. "So responsive. Look at how your nipples are hardening."

Emma whimpered, her head falling back against his stomach. She could feel his erection pressing against her head, thick and hard, and the knowledge that she was affecting him—that she was making him hard—sent a rush of power through her.

"Please," she breathed, not knowing what she was asking for.

"Please what?" Connor asked, his thumbs circling her nipples, making her arch into his touch. "Please stop? Or please more?"

"More," Emma admitted, the word escaping like a confession. "God, please more."

Jason's hand was on her knee, sliding up her thigh under her skirt. "She's wet," he announced, his fingers brushing the damp spot on her panties. "Fuck, she's soaked through."

"Emma," Marcus said, standing and moving to stand in front of her, his crotch at eye level. "Have you ever sucked cock before?"

Emma shook her head, her eyes wide. She was a virgin—technically. She'd done some things, but she'd never gone all the way, never taken a man into her mouth. She'd always been too good for that.

"Do you want to learn?" Marcus asked, his hand moving to his athletic pants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock.

It sprang out, thick and dark and heavy, and Emma gasped. It was huge—bigger than she'd imagined, with veins running along the shaft and a glistening bead of precum at the tip.

"Open your mouth," Marcus commanded.

Emma parted her lips, and Marcus guided himself inside, his hand on the back of her head. The taste of him exploded across her tongue—salty, musky, undeniably male. He was too big, stretching her jaw, and she gagged as he hit the back of her throat.

"Easy," Marcus soothed, his hand gentle but firm. "Breathe through your nose. Use your tongue."

Emma tried to focus, tried to do as he said. She swirled her tongue around his shaft, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked, and was rewarded with Marcus's groan of pleasure.

"Fuck, she's a natural," Marcus panted. "Connor, you have to feel this."

Connor's hands left her breasts, and Emma felt him moving, felt the chair being turned slightly. Then Jason was there, kneeling between her legs, his face level with her pussy.

"Look at this pretty pussy," Jason murmured, his fingers hooking into her panties and pulling them aside. "So pink. So wet. Has anyone ever eaten you out, Emma?"

Emma shook her head around Marcus's cock, and Jason laughed. "Virgin mouth and virgin pussy. We're going to have fun breaking you in."

His tongue touched her then, a long, slow lick from her entrance to her clit, and Emma screamed around Marcus's cock. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, unlike anything she'd ever felt. Jason's tongue was wicked, circling her clit, dipping inside her, making her hips buck against his face.

Connor had moved to stand beside Marcus, and Emma saw that he'd freed his own cock—thick and long and impossibly hard. He stroked it slowly, watching her suck Marcus, his eyes dark with desire.

"You look so good like this," Connor said, his voice rough. "On your knees, stuffed with cock, being eaten out like a whore. Is this what you wanted, Emma? To be our little fucktoy?"

Emma moaned, the vibration making Marcus shudder. She was overwhelmed, surrounded by male flesh, by pleasure, by the sheer filth of what she was doing. She'd never felt so alive, so completely consumed.

Jason's tongue was driving her crazy, flicking her clit in rapid strokes, and Emma felt the pressure building, the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter.

"She's going to cum," Jason announced, his fingers sliding inside her, curling to hit a spot that made her see stars. "Cum for us, Emma. Cum on my face like a good little slut."

Emma came with a scream, her body convulsing, her pussy clamping down on Jason's fingers. Marcus used the opportunity to thrust deeper, holding her head as he fucked her face with abandon.

"Swallow it," Marcus groaned, his cock swelling in her mouth. "Swallow my cum, Emma. Take it all."

He exploded, hot ropes of bitter seed flooding her throat, and Emma swallowed convulsively, her throat working to take it all. When he finally pulled out, she gasped for air, her chin wet with spit and cum, her eyes watering.

But they weren't done. Connor was there, his cock in his hand, thick and throbbing.

"My turn," he said, his voice dark with promise.

He lifted her from the chair—she was weightless in his arms—and carried her to the table, laying her back on the hard surface. Her skirt was hiked up, her panties pushed aside, and Emma realized with a shock of fear and arousal that they were going to fuck her. All of them. Right here.

"Connor," she whimpered, her hands coming up to press against his chest. "I'm a virgin. I've never—"

"I know," Connor said softly, his hand cupping her face. "And I'm going to take that from you. I'm going to be your first. And then Marcus is going to fuck you. And then Jason. And by the time we're done, you're going to be ours completely."

He positioned himself at her entrance, his thick head pressing against her tight hole. "This is going to hurt," he warned. "But only for a moment. And then you're going to feel so good, Emma. So full. So complete."

He thrust forward, and Emma cried out as her virginity tore, as he filled her in one brutal stroke. The pain was blinding, white-hot, and she thrashed on the table, trying to escape.

"Shh," Connor soothed, holding still inside her, letting her adjust. "Breathe. Relax. Let me in."

Emma forced herself to breathe, to relax her muscles. The pain began to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a sense of completion she'd never known she was missing.

"Move," she whispered. "Please, Connor. Move."

Connor groaned and began to thrust, slow and deep, his cock sliding through her tight channel, hitting places that made her moan. Jason had moved to her side, his cock in his hand, and Emma turned her head to take him into her mouth, tasting her own arousal on his shaft.

Marcus was at her other side, his cock hard again, and she reached out to stroke him, marveling at the weight and heat of him in her hand.

They used her like that for what felt like hours—Connor pounding into her pussy, Jason fucking her mouth, Marcus thrusting into her hand. The room was filled with the sounds of sex—wet slaps, grunts, Emma's muffled moans.

"I'm going to cum," Connor announced, his thrusts growing erratic. "Emma, I'm going to cum inside you. I'm going to fill you up. Tell me you want it."

Emma pulled off Jason's cock long enough to gasp, "Yes! Please, Connor! Cum in me! I want to feel it!"

Connor roared and thrust deep, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into her unprotected womb. Emma felt the hot flood of his seed and came with him, her pussy clamping down, milking him for every drop.

Before she could recover, Marcus was there, flipping her over onto her stomach, pulling her hips up. "My turn," he growled, and then he was inside her, his thick cock stretching her even wider, filling her with Connor's cum as a lubricant.

"So fucking tight," Marcus groaned, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "So fucking wet. You love this, don't you, Emma? Being our cumdumpster?"

"Yes," Emma moaned, her face pressed against the table. "Yes, I love it. Please don't stop. Please fuck me harder."

Marcus obliged, pounding into her with abandon, his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust. Jason moved beneath her, his mouth finding her clit, and Emma screamed as the dual sensations overwhelmed her.

She came again, her body shaking, and Marcus followed, his cock swelling as he added his load to Connor's deep inside her.

Jason was last, pulling her off the table and bending her over the chair, entering her from behind with a single brutal thrust. He fucked her like an animal, grunting and growling, his hands roaming her body, pinching her nipples, spanking her ass.

"You're ours now," Jason panted, his thrusts growing wild. "Say it. Say you're our fucktoy."

"I'm yours," Emma sobbed, her body limp with pleasure. "I'm your fucktoy. Your cumdumpster. Please, Jason. Please fill me up."

He came with a shout, his cock buried to the hilt, and Emma felt the third load of the night flood her insides. She was so full, so completely claimed, and she knew she would never be the same.

When they finally pulled out of her, Emma collapsed onto the floor, her body covered in sweat and cum, her holes leaking, her mind blank with bliss.

Connor knelt beside her, stroking her hair tenderly. "You did so well," he murmured. "So perfect. You're ours now, Emma. Forever."

Emma looked up at him, her eyes glazed, and smiled. "Yours," she agreed. "Forever."

The next three weeks were a blur of classes and sex, study sessions that always ended with Emma on her knees or her back or bent over the table. She was insatiable, addicted to the feeling of being filled, of being used, of being completely owned by these three men.

They taught her everything—how to take a cock down her throat without gagging, how to ride them until they were begging for mercy, how to take two cocks at once, one in her pussy and one in her ass. They stretched her, trained her, turned her from a virgin into a skilled whore who could satisfy them in any way they desired.

And Emma loved every minute of it.

She stopped wearing underwear to their sessions. She stopped wearing bras. She showed up in short skirts and low-cut tops, her makeup heavy, her eyes hungry. She was no longer the good girl—she was their slut, their plaything, their willing slave.

But Connor wanted more.

"There's a party Saturday," he said one night, as Emma lay between them on the floor of the study room, her body still trembling from her third orgasm. "At the athletic house. The whole team's going to be there."

Emma's heart skipped. "The whole team?"

"Fifty-three players," Marcus confirmed, his hand stroking her breast. "Plus coaches. Plus alumni. A lot of men, Emma."

"And we want you to be the entertainment," Jason finished, his fingers tracing patterns on her stomach.

Emma went very still. She'd known this was coming—had known that three men would never be enough for them, that they would want to share her, to show her off. The thought terrified her... and excited her.

"You want me to... to fuck the whole team?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"We want you to be the team mascot," Connor corrected. "Available to anyone we approve. A hole for them to use. A place for them to dump their cum."

Emma's pussy clenched at his words, and Connor laughed. "Look at that. She's getting wet just thinking about it."

"Please," Emma whimpered, not sure if she was begging for them to stop or to continue.

"We'll protect you," Connor promised. "No one hurts you. No one does anything you don't want. But we want them to see you. To know you're ours. To use you like the good little slut you've become."

Emma thought about it—thought about walking into a room full of football players, about being passed around, about being filled with dozens of loads of cum. The image should have horrified her. Instead, she felt her arousal dripping down her thighs.

"Yes," she whispered. "I'll do it. I'll be your team mascot."

Connor's smile was victorious. "Good girl. We'll make sure you're ready."

The preparation started immediately. They trained her to take more, to last longer, to handle multiple partners without breaking. They brought in toys—vibrators and dildos and plugs—and used them on her until she could take anything.

They taught her positions—how to present herself on her hands and knees, how to arch her back to show off her holes, how to spread her legs wide and invite them in. They taught her to beg, to plead, to dirty talk like a porn star.

"Tell me what you are," Connor commanded one night, his cock buried in her ass while Marcus fucked her pussy.

"I'm a whore," Emma gasped, her body stretched impossibly full. "I'm a team slut. I'm a cumdumpster. Please, fuck me harder. Fill me up. I need it."

"Fuck, she's perfect," Marcus groaned, his thrusts growing erratic. "The team's going to love her. They're going to break her in half."

"She can take it," Connor said confidently. "Can't you, Emma? You can take anything we give you."

"Anything," Emma agreed, her mind hazy with pleasure. "I'll take anything. I'm yours."

By the time Saturday arrived, Emma was ready. She'd been waxed and oiled and prepared. She wore a cheer uniform—borrowed from the actual squad, cut short and tight to show off every curve. No panties. No bra. Just her, ready to be used.

Connor drove her to the athletic house, his hand on her thigh under her skirt, his fingers occasionally brushing her wet pussy. "Nervous?" he asked.

"Excited," Emma corrected, and it was true. She was buzzing with anticipation, her body thrumming with need.

The house was massive, a Victorian mansion that had been converted into player housing. Music was already thumping as they pulled up, and Emma could see shadows moving behind the windows—big, male shadows.

"Remember," Connor said, turning to her, his eyes serious. "You can stop anytime. You say the word, and we leave. No questions asked."

Emma nodded, touched by his concern. But she didn't want to leave. She wanted this—wanted to be consumed, to be overwhelmed, to be completely and utterly used.

They entered through the back door, Connor leading her through a kitchen filled with empty beer bottles and half-eaten pizzas. The main living room was ahead, the music louder, the voices a deep rumble of male laughter.

Connor stopped at the doorway and turned to her. "Ready?"