Take his turn with professor White

Mr. Tatum said. "I was so happy that the dean offer the great hero the Valkyrie a job. I knew I could add a new high profile teacher to my list."

He moved with an unhurried, deliberate grace, a stark contrast to Tre's brutal efficiency. He didn't grab her or force her. He simply walked over to the bed and sat down beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight. He placed a hand on the small of her back, a cool, proprietary touch that made her flinch.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice quiet, but imbued with an unshakeable authority.

Slowly, humiliatingly, she pushed herself up, turning to face him. Her face was a mess of tears and sweat, her hair disheveled, her lips swollen. She saw not lust in his eyes, but a cold, clinical curiosity. He looked at her the way an artist might look at a block of marble, seeing not what it was, but what it could become.

"The Valkyrie," he murmured, the name a soft, almost reverent whisper. "Chooser of the slain. Decider of fates on the battlefield. A powerful, intimidating image. But you see it as a burden, don't you? A role you were forced into by your former teammates. A cage of expectation."

She stared at him, her mind struggling to process his words through the fog of the drug and the lingering shock of her violation. How could he know? How could he possibly understand the quiet resentment she felt for her own heroic persona, the pressure to always be the strong, inflexible warrior? Towards her former teammates who beg her to join their group and be this Valkyrie for them.

"It's alright," he said, his hand stroking her back in a soothing, rhythmic motion. "You don't have to be that person anymore. Not with me. Not with us." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear. "We don't want the Valkyrie. We want the woman underneath. The one who's tired of fighting. The one who wants, just for once, to be told what to do. To be taken care of. To be... used."

His words were a scalpel, expertly dissecting her psyche, laying bare the deepest, most hidden parts of her soul. He was reprogramming her mind, twisting her own insecurities into a weapon against her.

"Lie down," he commanded, his tone soft, but firm.

She obeyed, her body moving on its own, a mindless puppet to his will. She lay back on the bed, her legs slightly apart, her body a offering.

Tatum stood up, methodically undressing. His movements were precise, economical. He wasn't in a hurry. This wasn't about passion. This was about ownership. He folded his suit, placing it carefully on a chair, a stark contrast to the chaos of the room and the ruin of the woman on the bed.

He climbed onto the bed, not over her, but beside her. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her, his gaze a slow, deliberate perusal. He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, the line of her thigh. His touch was not demanding, but possessive. A cartographer mapping new territory.

"You have a good body," he stated, his tone a calm, analytical assessment. "Strong. Resilient. It's wasted in the front lines. A body like this is meant for more subtle work. For endurance."

He leaned down, capturing one of her nipples in his mouth. His tongue was a masterful, knowing thing, swirling and teasing, coaxing a response from her traitorous body. A soft gasp escaped her lips, a mix of pleasure and shame. He wasn't rough. He was... skilled. He knew exactly where to touch, exactly how much pressure to apply, to draw the reaction he wanted.

He moved over her, settling between her legs. He didn't enter her immediately. He simply rubbed the head of his cock against her slick, folds, teasing her, making her whimper with a frustrated, shameful need. He had broken her with brute force, and now he was going to break her with pleasure.

"Who are you?" he murmured, his lips brushing against hers.

"Ms. White," she whispered, the name a pathetic, last-ditch attempt at holding onto her identity.

"No," he said, a slow, patient smile on his lips. "Try again." He stare into Ms. White eyes.

He pushed into her, not with a brutal thrust, but with a slow, deliberate slide that filled her completely. He was just as large as Tre, but the way he used his body was completely different. He moved with a languid, sensual rhythm, a slow, torturous dance that was designed to unravel her, piece by piece.

"Who are you?" he asked again, his hips moving in a slow, grinding circle that made her see stars.

She fought it, her mind screaming against the pleasure that was threatening to overwhelm her. But her body was a traitor, arching up to meet him, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He continued his slow, methodical assault, his hands roaming her body, touching her, tasting her, learning her. He was reprogramming her, rewriting the code of her desire, replacing the Valkyrie's will with something new. Something that belonged to him.

"Who are you?" he asked a third time, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper.

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