The edges of the room began to bleed with a faint, unnatural purple hue. A creeping, magical hallucination. Raven’s illusion magic was aggressively tearing away the polite, refined veil of academia, forcing her to see the deep rot beneath, and maliciously twisting her own body’s reaction to the unfolding nightmare.

She tried to wrench her gaze away from Harline’s violently bouncing flesh and the wet, rhythmic slapping sounds. She forced her heavy, drug-addled head to turn.

It only offered a new, even more vulgar display of depravity.

’N-no... this is hell... I- I..."

Four men had physically lifted Yinna from the polished mahogany. They dumped her unceremoniously onto the plush, expensive carpet. Her ripped champagne dress was tossed carelessly aside, leaving her completely naked, her soft, youthful curves pale under the unforgiving, bright chandelier light.

A fresh batch of six professors circled her prone form like starving hounds. They rapidly shed their tailored jackets and slacks, their gazes roving hungrily over Yinna’s totally exposed body.

"Look at this messy bush," one of the older, esteemed deans sneered. He knelt down and kicked her parted knees even wider, pointing a finger at her crotch. "Hairy shit. This bitch doesn’t even bother shaving clean for us."

"Who gives a fuck? A hole’s a hole," another spat back. He stripped away her sheer lace panties and grabbed Yinna forcefully by her hair. Lifting her limp head off the carpet, he forced his thick, veiny cock past her glossed lips. He started fucking her mouth brutally, his hips snapping forward while she choked softly—’Hkkh... mmph...’—in her deep, drug-induced stupor.

At the exact same time, another man settled between her pale, spread thighs. He gripped her hips tightly, lined himself up, and buried himself deep inside her pussy in a brutal, rapid missionary pace, groaning out loud at the incredibly tight, wet friction his meat encountered.

They established a sickening, dual rhythm. One after another, the professors took their turns, trading her mouth and her pussy seamlessly, swapping crude, filthy praises over her pliant, heavily-used body.

"Tight little slut," one grunted heavily, his hairy chest slick with sweat as he pumped deep into Yinna. "But she’s nothing compared to what Thornwood will be."

The bald professor fucking Harline paused for a moment, his hips still pressed deep inside the older woman’s dripping core. He turned his sweaty, flushed face directly toward Marla. "Oh, we’re going to tear Thornwood apart. Every hole she has."

"Yeah," the man currently fucking Yinna’s mouth agreed, his voice thick with unhinged, feral lust. "Once we drain these two completely, we’ll gang-bang Marla right here in the very center of the room."

"The potent drug will have her begging for our cocks by then," Director Haas taunted. He leaned down directly over Harline’s bouncing, flushed chest, opening his mouth wide over her dark areola.

He sucked the nipple incredibly hard, ’slurp’, pulling it into a stiff, wet, aching peak, but his dark eyes never left Marla’s.

He was aggressively kissing the unconscious woman, suckling her breast like a starved infant, but performing the vulgar act solely to mock Marla. "At least let’s show her exactly what we’ll do to her," he whispered wetly around the nipple. "Show her exactly what we’re going to do to that tight, untouchable, gorgeous body."

The relentless, wet slap of flesh hitting flesh. ’PAH! PAH!’ The guttural, animalistic groans of corrupted, lust-filled men. The stifling, heavy smell of sweat, intense arousal, and spilled wine. The glowing purple haze crept closer and closer along the very edges of her vision, trapping her completely in Raven’s brutal, eye-opening, horrific illusion.

Marla’s vision blurred rapidly. Hot, angry, terrified tears spilled over her dark lashes, tracking hot paths through her immaculate makeup. Her long legs felt like heavy lead, her core throbbing relentlessly with a chemically induced ache she utterly, totally despised.

’I need to run,’ she thought, the sheer, unadulterated panic screaming through the thick purple fog clouding her mind. ’I need to run.’

’Pah. Pah.’

The rhythmic, wet slap of flesh against flesh started up. A chorus of skin slapping against thighs, paired with the soft, drugged whimpers of women who were half-asleep, being violated on the very table they were supposed to be honored at.

"’Stop—’" Marla moved. Or tried to. Her body was operating three beats behind her intention.

One of the professors near her stepped forward. She shoved both hands into his chest — a real shove, her palms finding the lapels of his jacket — and he stumbled backward a full step before simply going down, dropping like his legs had been cut from under him.

He hit the marble floor and didn’t get up.

He died.

She didn’t understand that.

Nor could she understand, especially considering the devil had just erased the one who dared to lay a hand on his property.

There was no time to understand it.

She lurched forward, one hand catching the back of a chair.

’Move. Keep moving. Get to the door.’ The door was thirty feet away and felt like thirty miles and the sounds coming from behind her — the crack of flesh, a man’s groaning exhale, the high-pitched squeak of the table shifting against the floor —

Marla’s legs stopped cooperating entirely.

She pitched forward.

The floor came up fast.

A hand caught her waist.

Not from beside her. From behind — both arms, one across her ribs and one low across her hip, pulling her upright against a chest that was warm and solid and smelled like something cold and clean with smoke underneath, and her knees were still failing her but she was ’held’, actually held, and she was crying.

She hadn’t noticed the tears until her vision blurred with them.

"You—" Her voice cracked. "You trashy—you disgusting—all of you—"

She was shaking. The sounds from behind her were worse now — multiple sets of footsteps, male laughter with no attempt at discretion anymore, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin starting up like a metronome that made her stomach heave.

"You filthy, disgusting—"

She tried to wrench herself around and the hand at her hip adjusted, supporting rather than restraining, and she turned enough to see the face behind her.

Her heart stopped.

Then restarted, wrongly timed, slamming too hard against her sternum.

"’You,’" she breathed.

Raven looked down at her with those too-cold, too-calm eyes — dark irises edged with something that wasn’t quite human in the light — his jaw angled, one corner of his mouth carrying that particular expression she’d spent seventeen days trying to stop thinking about.

"Um, Professor, It seems you are rather cornered here."

"You arrived," she said, stupidly, because it was the only thought that made it out.

"I did," he said. His voice was exactly what she remembered. Low. Unhurried. The voice of someone who was never surprised by anything.

A scream from somewhere behind her — not pain, which was almost worse — followed by the relentless ’Pah Pah’ of the table’s legs grinding against marble in a rhythm that had nothing to do with legacy or academia or any of the things the portraits on the wall were supposed to represent.

Marla’s hand found his collar.

Her knuckles pressed into the fabric. She wasn’t sure if she was pulling him closer or steadying herself against him. Both, probably. Neither explanation she’d admit to.

"Take me away from here," she said. Her voice was low and she hated how raw it sounded. How close to breaking. "Take me ’somewhere.’ Anywhere that isn’t—I don’t care—I can’t—"