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October 15, 2018 | by  | in Features |
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Ravished by the Living Embodiment of All Our University Woes

Winner of the Sex in the Hub Erotica Competition

It is hard living in these times. From infrastructure to scheduling to dropping lecturers like stones, it is a time of change in the world of Victoria, and I’m not so sure if I like it.
I might just be the soul living in the depths of Hunter, but I feel the years rush past me like water over stones, watch students grow wan, get old and die, and I wonder — what am I aside from a remnant of a colonial past? Am I too long-established for an uncertain future?
“Vic,” They call me. “Victoria.” Sometimes even “#VicUniWgtn,” but I am less sure about what that one means.
There is a disturbance these days. A rumbling. An anger.
From within my walls — which have seen so much debate, and salacity, and inebriation — I sense a change coming. Someone familiar. Not new, exactly, but different.
He visits me one day, dressed in the trappings of the overworld — from the beard, to the glasses, to the strawberry milkshake-flavoured cloud of smoke around him — but he has the eyes of an elder, and the ideals of one too.
“You should change your name.” He says, dark gaze locked on mine. “You have no idea how often I try to think of you and get confused by all the other Vics I’ve had.”
“How… romantic.” I reply. “But I think that’s a you problem.”
He growls, deep in his throat, and as much as I try to resist, I’m reminded of that one night, sat in that tree at the top of the Cable Car many years ago, where he’d brushed a thumb along my cheek and said, “God, I can’t wait until I get rid of your Gender Studies degrees.”
Though it hadn’t made much sense at the time, the thought is sobering, yet somehow arousing. That night had been electric, despite the slight asbestosy feeling clogging my pores ever since.
“Oh fuck,” I cry, “Strip away my low-cost lunch options!”
And he lays me out bare in front of him. I’m drawn in by his eyebrows and his laxidasical acquiring and spending of wealth. I’d call him a sugar daddy, but he really doesn’t give me that much in return.

“You know how much I love spending money on you.”

He purrs, and it’s a powerful aphrodisiac, going straight to my core (located in an abandoned copy of Salient somewhere in the Hub).
I tremble under the heat of his gaze, my soul undulating around me — though that might just be an earthquake, I can never really tell. “Mmm, take me. Make me yours!”
“Oh, Victoria —” He says, sliding home, “You want me to raise uni fees, don’t you?”
It’s painful and pleasurable, like it always is. Maybe I’m a masochist, but I can never stop myself asking for more. “Yes! Raise them! The boost to our local economy — that’s so fucking hot!”
“Don’t you want wait times at Mauri Ora to be longer? And appointments to be harder to get?”
I do. Really and truly. “Harder! Yes, so much harder. Oh fuck, get inside me. Change vital parts of my infrastructure. Make me feel so good.”
I’m a creature possessed, I’m agreeing to things I don’t even really believe in. Maybe it’s the look in his deep, dark British Racing Green eyes. Or maybe it’s the promise of changes to come. I need this. I always need this. He promises so much — one day it’ll all surely come.
But then he stiffens, grunts, and leaves me covered, like the Tim Beaglehole Courtyard after the pigeons have had at it.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not even sure if that was spiritually fulfilling. Talk about being fucked over.
“Fantastic.” He says, and stands up. “Same time next week?”
“What about all of your promises? There’s people in need, right now. Don’t you care about them?”
“Ha.” He laughs. “Should have gotten them in writing.”
He leaves, presumably to terrorise the tuataras, and I’m left wanting. As usual.
But I don’t think I can stop. He’s a poison in my veins, my corridors, my heart, but I keep coming back. Promises are better than nothing at all.

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