What the Head Rector Asked Me for the Crown

The rector of Belmonte Institute had been over sixty for a while, but he wasn’t the kind of old man who let himself go. He wore tailored suits, polished loafers, and a thick ring on his left hand that anyone might have mistaken for an engagement ring. It wasn’t an engagement: it was a ruby he’d bought for himself the day he signed the deed to the building.

He drove a graphite-colored German coupé and always parked in the most visible spot in the lot, where the girls could see him as they came in. We knew him better than he imagined.

My sister Camila and I had been at that private academy for two years, and from the very first day we felt his gaze looking for us in the hallways. Camila is a year older than me and shares my type: brunettes, tall, with that build the school uniform can’t manage to hide. I turned nineteen in March. Valeria, the rector said the first time I took attendance in front of his office, queen’s name.

He had a reputation for taking advantage of people; half the academy knew that. The girls laughed in the bathrooms, told half-finished stories, let details slip. None of them ever finished the sentence. My sister warned me at the start of the semester.

—Valeria, don’t ever be alone with him. Never.

I smiled at her and didn’t answer.

If that door opens, I’d rather be the one who decides when to step through it.

***

On Monday, the posters were up all over the building. “Belmonte Queen Pageant. Registration open in the rector’s office.” Gold letters, a printed crown that looked like it had come from a casino, and below it, his rounded signature. A cash prize, a sash, and, the juiciest part, the institute’s official representation at the year’s events. The kind of thing that fattened résumés and opened doors outside.

In less than two days there were thirty names on the list. My sister refused to take part.

—It’s a circus —she said, chewing her recess sandwich—. He does that so he can get his hands on girls.

—I know.

—And you’re still signing up?

I held her gaze. Camila knew me well enough not to push it. She pressed her lips together, shook her head, and kept eating.

That same afternoon I went to sign up.

***

The office smelled of old wood and the woody cologne he wore too much of. He was sitting behind the desk, with his jacket hanging from the back of the chair and his shirt cuffs folded back twice. When I walked in, his face lit up as if I were exactly what he’d been waiting for.

—Come in, beautiful. Close the door.

I closed it. Not locked, but closed.

—I wanted to sign up.

—Of course you did. Come closer. Fill out this form here, nice and easy.

He pushed a sheet toward me with fields anyone could fill in in thirty seconds. The difference was he didn’t offer me a chair. I leaned over the desk to write and felt, at the nape of my neck, the strange silence of a man holding his breath. My skirt rode up an inch, then two, then three. I didn’t pull it down.

I wrote my name in block letters. My sister would have turned her head to snap at him. I kept writing.

—You’ve got clear handwriting —he murmured over my shoulder—. I like that.

I looked up. He was a handspan away. He smelled of cold tobacco and machine coffee.

—I know what this pageant can mean for a girl like you —he said—. If you’re really interested, come back today at seven. When no one’s around. I’ll tell you how to win.

I thanked him in the softest voice I had. The one model students use. I smiled with my mouth closed, handed back the form, and walked to the door knowing he was watching my shape until the very last step.

***

At ten past seven I knocked on the door. I wanted him to think I wasn’t coming. I wanted his pulse racing ahead of time.

—I thought you weren’t showing up —he said. His tie was loose and he had a low glass in his hand. Whiskey—. Come in.

—I was waiting for the hallways to empty out.

—Smart.

This time he closed it. With a key.

—Sit down.

I sat in the leather armchair in front of the desk, knees together, hands in my lap. He poured himself another finger of whiskey and came closer.

—You and your sister always caught my attention —he said slowly, as if savoring every word—. But with you it’s different. You know what you’ve got. Camila denies it. You manage it.

—Is that good or bad, rector?

—For me? Very good.

He set the glass on the desk. Held out his hand. I took it. He pulled me up without effort, as if I were one of the things allowed in that office.

—A beautiful, smart student, with a body like that —he said, placing his other hand on my waist—. It would be unfair if you weren’t the queen.

—And what’s needed, rector?

I took his tie between two fingers and loosened the knot. I didn’t hurry. I wanted him to understand that I set the pace.

—You have to live up to it.

—I do.

He kissed me. It wasn’t the kiss of a shy man. It was the kiss of someone who knew he owned the office, the building, and, for that night, me. He shoved his tongue deep into my mouth with an old hunger, while his hand slid down my back and squeezed my ass over the pleated skirt. I matched his rhythm and, when he tried to pull back to look at me, I was the one who shoved him against the desk and bit his lip until he groaned.

***

—Take off your skirt —he said, breathing hard.

I took it off slowly, button by button, letting it fall to my ankles. He did the same with my blouse, ripping the buttonholes apart with clumsy fingers. I was left in white underwear, exactly how I wanted him to see me. Lace bra digging into my already hard nipples, tiny panties soaked at the crotch. The rector made a strange sound, halfway between a sigh and a prayer. He sat me on the desk, swept papers and planners aside with his forearm, and bent until his forehead rested against my stomach.

—I’ve been thinking about this for months.

—I know. It shows on your face every time I pass by.

He yanked my bra open and my tits bounced up to his mouth. He attacked them like an animal. He sucked one nipple, bit it, stretched it with his teeth until I let out a small cry. Then the other. He left a mark. I grabbed his bald head and pressed it to my chest, forcing him to suck harder, while he growled against my skin.

—What tits you have, fuck —he muttered—. What tits.

He pulled my panties down with his teeth, tossing them to the floor like a trophy. He spread my thighs with both hands, brutally, and buried his face between them. The gray beard scraped my skin before his tongue found my clit. I closed my eyes. I felt the cool office air against my wet nipples and, beneath that, the warm mouth of a man who had spent far too long imagining this moment.

He was skilled. He wasn’t faking it. He licked my cunt from top to bottom, broad and flat at first, then with the tip of his tongue against my clit, in fast circles that made my thighs shake. His left hand held my hip; his right opened me without asking, two fingers inside, then three. He curled them upward, searching for the exact spot, and when he found it he gave a grunt of satisfaction against my cunt.

—You’re soaked, Valeria. Soaked. Do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about this cunt?

—Tell me, rector. While you eat me out.

He buried his face again. He sucked my clit between his lips, kept it there sucking while he fucked me with his fingers, pulling them out and pushing them back in with a wet sound that filled the office. I breathed through my nose, softly, controlling every sound like someone managing a fund.

—Look at me —he said, lifting his face shiny with my juices.

I looked at him. His eyes were glazed, his mouth smeared, wearing the smile of a man who had forgotten what it was to ask.

—Keep going, rector. Don’t stop until I come in your mouth.

He kept going. He pushed his whole tongue into me, drove it in as if he wanted to drink me dry, and returned to my clit with the pad of his thumb pressing it in circles. His fingers were still inside, three of them, very deep, touching a place no one had touched properly in years. He made me come the first time right there, against the leather of the desk, with my legs closing over his head and my hand bitten nearly to the bone so I wouldn’t alert the whole hallway. My thighs trembled, a hot trickle escaped me and soaked his beard, and he licked it up without pulling away, growling as if I’d given him a gift.

***

Then it was his turn. He reclined in his chair, spread his legs, and pointed to the floor with a gesture that in any other context would have been humiliating. I knelt. Not out of submission: out of strategy. If I wanted the crown, that night I had to stop being myself and become the best memory of his life.

I pulled down his zipper and took out his cock with two fingers. He’d been hard since I came in, thick and veined, the purplish head shining with pre-cum. Bigger than I’d expected from a man his age. I looked at his face while I took him by the base with one hand and used the other to move his heavy, taut balls aside.

—What a pretty cock you have, rector.

—Suck it. Suck all of it.

I ran my tongue underneath, from his balls to the tip, very slowly, feeling the thick vein pulse against my tongue. I licked the head in circles, gathered the clear drop that appeared, and swallowed it. Then I took him into my mouth. Half at first. Then more. I pushed it down my throat until my nose hit his pubic bone and I stayed there, choking, with my mascara tearing up into my eyes.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck —he panted, grabbing the back of my neck—. What a throat you have, princess. What a throat.

I pulled him out, spitting saliva over his cock, then took him in again, moving my head up and down in a slow, obscene rhythm, letting the white thread of spit drip over his balls. I looked at his face while I sucked him and saw in his eyes the same thing I always saw whenever I passed by his office: that for him I was not just a student. I was also an idea, an old fantasy that at last had a name.

I sucked his balls one by one, took them into my mouth, rolled them with my tongue while I jerked his cock with my hand. His head was thrown back and he was moaning without restraint, forgetting the door, the hallway, the whole building.

—Come here —he gasped, yanking my hair—. Come here before I come in your mouth.

He stood me up, turned me around, and pushed my hands against the desk. My face against the wood, my ass raised, my legs parted by his. He opened my cunt with two fingers from behind, spit into his hand, and slicked his cock. I felt the tip enter slowly, thick, forcing me, then the hard shove that ripped a muffled moan from me and filled me completely.

—Ah, fuck, you’re tight. What a cunt you have, Valeria.

The rector clenched his teeth and started moving with the old, stubborn rhythm of a man who knew he was champion in his own office. He grabbed my hips and rammed his cock all the way in each time, pulling almost all the way out to slam back in. The desk creaked. My tits flattened against the wood with every thrust. The sound of his balls slapping my clit filled the office, obscene, wet, impossible to hide.

—Who’s going to be queen, Valeria?

—Me.

—Louder. Say it while I fuck you.

—Me, rector. Me. I’m going to be queen.

—That’s right. Let it spill out of your mouth, pretty little whore.

He slapped my ass hard enough for it to ring in my chest. Then again. He grabbed my hair, jerked my head back, and kept driving into me, now harder, deeper, until I felt my whole body arch. He laughed softly and pushed deeper. It was long. Much longer than I’d expected from a man his age. He changed position, made me lift one knee onto the desk, and speared me from the side. Then he turned me over again, laid me on the wood on my back, spread my legs wide, and drove into me again while looking into my eyes.

—I want to see your face when I come inside you.

—Come, rector. Come inside. Fill me up.

He slammed into me five, six more times, fast, brutal, until he went rigid over me. I felt the cock swell and throb inside, the hot jet of semen flooding me, one, two, three, four pulses, while he clenched his teeth and growled against my neck. His tie still hung from his collar like a surrendered flag and his forehead shone with sweat.

—You’re mine —he murmured when he finished emptying himself—. Even if only for tonight.

He stayed inside a little longer, still hard, moving slowly, savoring the last tremors. When he finally pulled out, I felt his cum sliding down my thigh, warm, thick. He bent down, ran two fingers through my soaked cunt, and put them in his mouth without looking away from my eyes.

I stroked his cheek.

—Tonight, rector. The others, we’ll see.

***

The next day he called me over the intercom at midmorning. The secretary said my name in a strange tone, as if she knew. Camila, sitting three desks away, pinned me with her eyes. I held her gaze and stood up.

The rector was behind his desk, jacket on again, again with the face of an upright man. As if last night had never happened. As if the form wasn’t inside a locked drawer.

—Valeria, you’ve taken a huge step toward the crown —he said without standing—. I was very satisfied with your performance.

—Were you the only one?

—The Institute’s Board of Directors. Twelve founding partners. They want to meet you personally before approving your candidacy. It’s a routine formality.

—Formality —I repeated.

—They’re waiting for you in the Boardroom. Don’t keep them waiting.

I looked at him for a second longer than necessary. He looked back with a calm that told me everything I needed to know. I left the office without answering. I walked down the hallway slowly, measuring each step, feeling the fabric of the uniform against my skin and the weight of what was coming. Under my skirt, the cum from the night before was still marking me like a seal.

***

The Boardroom was at the far end of the second floor. I pushed the double door open and went in. Twelve men, none under sixty. Dark suits, heavy watches, closed folders. At the head of the table, a gentleman with a white mustache and huge hands signaled me to come closer.

—Sit down, miss.

I sat. The chair, alone in the middle of the table, was the stage they had prepared for me.

—The rector told us about your merits —the mustached one began—. We are sincerely pleased. We only have to give your candidacy the final approval.

Another cleared his throat. A third leaned over the table and his tie brushed the edge like a slow snake.

—We trust entirely in the rector’s judgment —the mustached one continued—. But we have our own. We expect you to live up to the circumstances.

And then I heard the lock from the inside. Someone, behind me, had thrown the bolt.

I lifted my chin.

Twelve pairs of eyes. One crown.

—I’m up to it —I said.