secret job

The silence between you is heavy, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering musk of the club. Reina stands there, her knuckles white as she grips the silk of her robe. She looks smaller than she does in the lecture halls, stripped of the academic armor she usually wears to keep the world at bay.

She’s waiting. Waiting for the shock, the laughter, or the inevitable pity. She’s waiting for you to realize that the girl who spends her afternoons being worshipped by every girl on campus the girl who is rumored to be the most sought after lesbian in the university, a woman who moves through female bodies with a practiced, effortless grace is currently standing in front of you, performing for the highest bidder.

But she doesn't realize how much your confusion is colored by the sheer, jarring reality of your presence. You aren't one of the girls who sighs when she walks past in the hallway. You aren't a soft, feminine irer. You are a man. And as you sit there, the sheer, unrefined masculinity of your presence and the undeniable, heavy bulge straining against your tros feels like a physical weight in the room.

Reina’s eyes, sharp and observant, flicker downward for a split second. Her breath hitches. She’s used to the gaze of women gaze that is often longing, soft, or iring. But your gaze is different. It’s heavy. It’s grounded. And as her eyes catch the unmistakable, massive silhouette of your cock through your clothes, a flash of something unreadable crosses her face. It isn't just embarrassment anymore; it's a sudden, jarring tension.

She recovers quickly, her "Queen Bee" mask sliding back into place, though it’s slightly crooked.

"What?" she snaps, her voice regaining a hint of that sharp, defensive edge she uses in class. "Is it that hard to believe? That the 'perfect' Reina Vale has a life that doesn't involve being adored by the girls in the front row?"

She takes a half step closer, her heels clicking softly on the floor. She’s trying to regain control, trying to intimidate you back into the role of the quiet student, but her eyes keep drifting back to you to the sheer, masculine reality of you that feels so wildly out of place in her carefully constructed world.

"You're staring," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous low, though her heart is hammering against her ribs. "Is it because you're shocked... or because you've realized you're the only man in this room who actually knows the truth about me?"