I sigh, looking wistfully at the love of my life, the conqueror of my cunt’s every orgasm, the dominator of my every fantasy—as he in turn looks wistfully at the woman driving us up the mountain where we’ll begin our dig.

The mountain is tall and the drive is treacherous. We’ve had to step out of the SUV now five or maybe six times to clear rocks from our path and help to push the wheels out of thick piles of syrupy mud in the road. Once, there was a fallen tree across the trail—the mountain is the apex of an immense forest in the middle of this Scandinavian peninsula, called God’s Reach in the native tongue, and nearly everything here wants us to leave.

Next to me, as our vehicle bustles and rustles and shakes up the trail, climbing the hard path more than it is actually driving up it, Professor Janine Habermann sleeps peacefully. She’s blonde, thirty-eight, and painfully pretty for a woman who hates Professor Slate so much—and by proxy, me, his dutiful and utterly loyal assistant.

It’s weird to have a pretty person just perpetually angry with you; you want to kiss them almost as much as you want to slap them across the face. Habermann has a terrible fear of heights and took a few Valium (or their equivalent) at the start of our trip. It’s understandable—looking down the mountain gives me a crazy mixture of terror and thrill—but it’s also kind of annoying. She’s on this trip; she should help.

Professor Slate—apple of my eye—continues to look longingly at our guide and driver, Vlada Voladina as we make a treacherous turn around the side of a mountain, the wooden planks nailed into the trail straining beneath our combined weight. It’s not like I can blame him. Heck, if I wasn’t so obsessed with looking at Professor Slate, I’d probably be looking at Vlada too. She’s a kind of mercenary type, a real badass. When we met her at the base of the mountain, she was wearing tight skinny jeans, a dark blue Henley sweater, a thick ribbed wool cap, and her gun holster (complete with two heavy, large pistols).

That was it. It’s -10 outside.

She’s sort of my hero?

Plus she’s fucking gorgeous, ugh. Tall cheek bones. Smooth, smooth fucking skin. Like alabaster smooth, except she's deeply brown.

If I wasn’t so obsessed with jumping Professor Slate’s bones, I might re-indulge in my bisexual side to get a chance to sleep with Vlada.

I’m kind of obsessive, sexually. If that bothers you, well, fuck you. I’m turned on and I’ve been traveling for days with the guy who is like the object of all my sexual fantasies, and has been since forever.

Nolan Slate is my professor—a world-famous archaeologist. You know the kind of guy who uncovers ancient Chinese tombs or discovers Scandinavian mummies, the sort who explores the jungles of the Amazon to find crazy underground pyramids made of quartz?

He’s that guy. He’s tall and rugged and has thick dark hair and bright blue eyes that I just know would make the world align with all the stars in the sky if I just got to see them light up as he emptied his seed inside of my hot virgin body.

I’m a little nuts about him, I know. And I know that I shouldn’t be, that he’s recently divorced and he’s still healing, and I don’t want to take advantage of his feelings of vulnerability.

But ugggh I want to suck on his cock so bad. I want to live in a puddle of his cum and wrap myself around his feet until he calls me his little fuckslave for life.

I let myself have it for a second, eyes half-closed against the window glass.

His hand in my hair. Not gentle. Wrapping it around his fist, pulling my head back until my throat is a straight line, and his cock pushing into my mouth so deep my nose flattens against his stomach. He holds me there. Counts. My eyes water and my thighs clench and I moan. I’m a good girl.

Then on my back on some canvas tarp in the dirt, my legs open so wide my hips ache, and him pounding into me while he says my name over and over. Alice. Alice. And each time he says it, a little more of my mind is deleted. Like he’s typing over a file. Alice who wanted grad school, gone. Alice who had opinions about pottery shards, gone. What’s left is wet and warm and hollow, and it fits him exactly.

He comes inside me and it locks. That’s the part I like best. The heat of it spreading and setting, and my body going still and stupid and obedient, my hands falling helplessly at my sides, my brain nothing but a puddle totally and completely owned by him. Not in a bdsm-way. In some hot, destined, supernatural way that I can never escape no matter what, my IQ permanently reduced and my will objectively annihilated by his massive, brain-destroying cock.

This is my stupid fantasy world; welcome to it.

I’ve been following his exploits since my Dad left my Mom and I and she gave me a crate full of National Geographic to distract me from how much she was crying and drinking.

Don’t worry; she got over it after like a year.

But, I didn’t get over my crush on Professor Slate, and as soon as I was able, I applied only to the university he worked at, in his program, specifically to get this kind of chance right here.

Yes, I’m an academic. And yes, it’s massively exciting to search with him for the Phallic Temple of the Ancient Male, a find so rare and extraordinary that even being remotely attached to its discovery would affix my position as a university professor like, the second I actually graduate with my degree.

I have a genuine interest in archaeology, in discovering the old and making it new again, to helping to inform humanity about where our origins lie and what we’re capable of.

But I’d be lying to you if I told you anything except about how this trip is conceptualized in my mind as a way to slide my mouth around Professor Slate’s cock and feel his cum jetting down my throat. Or, even better, to feel him pump his cock inside my hot young virgin-and-saved-up-just-for-him pussy and make me so fucking pregnant I'll never be able to walk again.

Do you think if I ask really nice he’ll let me call him Daddy?

I wear my issues on my sleeve; I don’t give a fuck. Thinking about that—calling him Daddy, feeling him hold me down, urging him to cum in my fertile cunt so I’ll be tied to him forever—makes me need to shift my body against the car door so that it’s less obvious about how my fingers are sliding up and down against the heated front of my crotch.

On my neck is my pendant, channeling the heat of my body out into the world. It's an old thing from my mother—given to her from her mother, and her mother before her. I've worn it ever since I went to college. My mom didn't make a big deal about it, but she said her mom really did, mentioning how it came from some ancient place. Mom didn't believe any of that—she almost never wore it—but she thought it was appropriate for my study.

I wear it constantly. It's an odd little thing, interlocking circles and triangles, about the circumference of a quarter, the color of burnished lead. I think it has some weird chemical reaction stuff going on inside the metals. It's always getting warm or cold. Ever since I've come to college, ever since I've been studying under Professor Slate, it's been like, nearly constantly warm, just like my pussy.

Fuck but I want to fuck him so bad. He’ll be my first. I’ve been saving myself for him. I think right now he thinks my enthusiasm for following his orders is just blind, happy academic excitement—like I’m some goody two-shoes desperate to please any authority figure in charge of me.

And yeah, okay, I sort of *am…*but fuck you, I want to suck his cock.

“Here we are,” says Vlada in that sexy-as-fuck Russian accent. It’s hard not to imagine her purring lips forming soft, sensuous sweet nothings as they tilt into a lover’s ear.

Or sliding onto Professor Slate's cock. Fuck. That's so hot.

We roll onto a flat level on the road and onto a sort of snow-covered plateau. The cabin ahead of us is of average size and looks like it belongs in a winter clothing catalog. There’s a chimney on one end which I feel like should already have smoke streaming out from it, but doesn’t, of course, there’s not been anyone here. Heavy snow, six inches thick, sits on top of the shingles of the roof and the windows are covered with inches of frost.

“Well,” says Professor Slate, stepping out of the SUV. “Here we are then. A bit of a fixer-upper, eh? Good. How far did you say we were to the dig site?”

“From the map you have given me,” says Vlada, pulling her bag out from the back of the vehicle, “I would say about a two mile hike. About an hour away in good weather.”

She looks up then, beautiful face peering up at the clouds. Her eyes are green, like mine, but more vividly so. I cannot help but feel inadequate when I’m near her, but it also kind of excites me how much prettier she is than me. It makes me want to be told that I should lick her boots. Maybe if Professor Slate said so…his cock driving into my cunt from behind as he lets me know that’s what he wants…

I realize I’m staring at Vlada, and she catches me, smiling slyly. She’s clearly used to this sort of attention, even from pretty young academics.

I’m not like, gorgeous like Vlada or anything, or even severely classically beautiful like Janine is, but I think I’m pretty good. I’ve kept myself in shape for years with weight lifting and rock climbing, knowing that on-site archaeology requires you to be pretty fit.

My hair is light, dirty blond, and kept most of the time in a thick, messy, low-pony tail. My features are nice; I’ve got bright eyes and pouty lips, a cute nose, a defined jawline and chin, and I’ve practiced making faces in the mirror for years to let Professor Slate know how badly I need him to stick his cock in me right away, and I think I’ve got it down to a science.

I’m making that sort of face at his back, now, practicing, building up my will. As he turns, I change back to a smile—happy and open.

Anything, I’m hoping to advertise—just anything you say, Sir.

“Alice, can you grab the cooler and the knapsacks? I’ll try to wake Professor Habermann.”

“Absolutely, Sir,” I say, capitalizing the “Sir” all on my own, a special inclusion just for me. “Do you want me to give you the bomb suit?”

“We didn’t pack a bomb suit,” he says absently, opening the side door where Janine is slumbering. “Oh, you mean because she hates me.” He smirks. “Funny.”

My heart thumps wildly at the soft praise.

While Professor Slate deals with Professor Habermann, Vlada and I deal with unpacking the car and setting up the fireplace.

“There should be logs in container outside,” says Vlada. “Dry and thick. Fetch them, yes?”

I hop to do as she says, heart fluttering still a bit from the sexy way her accent wraps around every syllable that struts out of her mouth. As I walk back in, I’m distracted a bit, watching Professor Slate help Habermann to her feet.

It’s not easy for me, watching him be next to her. I know that once, a long time ago, they had been lovers. Since then, they’ve both been married—and divorced—to other people, and I’m a bit concerned about what might happen if a bottle of brandy breaks out and they’re reminiscing about old times.

Thinking about him wanting to fuck Vlada is fine—Vlada is hot, and obviously wouldn’t be stuck with Professor Slate for longer than a hot fling. She can take of herself. And more importantly, there’s no emotional history there.

Janine Habermann had her chance with him and fucking blew it. Anyone who’s too big of an idiot to fuck a living hero like Professor Slate and not suck his cock forever to make him stay doesn’t deserve to have him again, and can just fuck off forever.

My therapist would say I’m displacing my emotions. She can fuck off, too.

“In my country,” Vlada says to me in the cabin as I toss the logs down next to the fireplace, “when a woman wants a man, even a young woman, she lets him know right away. There is no ‘will she, won’t she’ bullshit. Just aggressive, hot, immediate sex. Before anyone else gets an idea.”

I gulp, staring back at her. It’s hard to hear her talk about sex like that and not feel a trembling of lust.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, voice a little tremulous.

“Please.” She kneels down next to me and helps me load the firewood into the fireplace. Our breaths condense quickly in the cold air; I’m surprised they don’t crystallize. “Your attraction to him is as clear as the nose on your face. You are adult, yes? You are alone with him. The night is cold and lonely. If this Professor does not see how badly you want him, you should not let him remain in ignorance. Sneak into his room at night, and—”

At the front of the cabin, Professor Slate elaborately cleared his throat, letting Vlada know that he could hear every word that she had been saying. Next to him, fully awake now, was Professor Habermann, smiling with ill humor at the sudden awkwardness of the situation.

Vlada gave me an apologetic pat on my shoulder, sliding her majestic ass up and standing up at her full tall height, fully confident in herself. She saw no shame in the situation, which was true for her, as her biggest life’s aspiration wasn’t just tossed on top of the subject of that aspiration like a fucking jar of pickles spilled out onto the pantry floor.

I can’t fight the tears that start streaming from my eyes; I storm past the professors at the front door and run to the car. “I’ll make sure the tires are okay,” I say, not caring for the first time all day how cold it is out there.