Another text followed a beat later.
Private Room Service: Wanna see if this helps you feel yourself good too, princess?
I couldn’t resist. My body moved before my brain caught up.
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door behind me, barely able to breathe as I sank down onto the cool tile floor. My rose-shaped vibrator trembled in my hand, already buzzing to life as I restarted the video.
There I was again. Moaning. Falling apart. Coming undone on his fingers like I’d never known pleasure before.
I spread my legs, pressed the toy to my clit, and gasped.
The vibration was soft, almost teasing, but with the image on the screen, the sound of my own broken whimpers, the memory of his dominance, it was everything.
My hips bucked against the rhythm. I didn’t even try to be quiet. Let Cleo and Ayden remember that the walls were thin. Let them hear me fall apart again.
The toy circled slowly and tight, and I matched the movements on the video with my fingers brushing against my slick folds, mimicking what he’d done to me.
My thighs trembled, eyes burned. My breath caught in my throat as I watched myself lose it on camera again and again, the echo of his unheard growl in my mind-‘You’ve been such a good girl, princess’.
My orgasm crashed through me, violent and hot, my forehead hitting the bathroom counter as I shook all over, choking on a sob of pleasure. The rose slipped from my hand, still humming against the tile as I lay there-wrecked, used, aching.
And still wanting more.
His video still looped on the screen. And I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop watching.
***
The next day, reality crashed back into me like cold steel.
Seminar felt suffocating the moment I stepped in. I had worked on my paper all day, made the revisions Lewis had demanded, poured every ounce of myself into every paragraph.
I handed it in with a quiet kind of hope.
Lewis stood at the front in his usual all-black ensemble-dark slacks, pressed shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his muscled forearms. His expression was unreadable as he returned our drafts after the end of the seminar.
When he reached me, he didn’t say a word. Just handed my folder without a word, then straightens.
“Miss Hale,” he said as class ended, voice cool. “My office. Ten minutes.”
My stomach drops. Cleo shoots me a look that screams ‘what the fuck did you do?’ but I just gather my things and try not to look like I’m walking to my academic execution.
His office is exactly what you’d expect-dark wood, leather-bound books, the kind of intimidating setup designed to make students feel intellectually inadequate.
The door clicks shut behind me with an ominous finality.
When I entered, he didn’t ask me to sit. He doesn’t even look up from his desk, just continues writing something with a fountain pen that probably costs more than my textbooks.
“I gave you explicit guidelines last time,” he said, voice clipped. “So I expected improvement. What I received was emotional fluff disguised as insight. This-” he motioned to the folder in my hands, “-is beneath even you.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
“Your work,” he says without preamble, “is insufficient. Distracted. A waste of both our time.”
Each word lands like a physical blow. I’ve spent years perfecting my academic armor, but somehow he’s found every weak spot.
I stand there taking it, because what else can I do? This is Professor Adrian Lewis. You don’t argue, you don’t defend. You accept your intellectual annihilation and try to learn from it.
“Have you opened your returned folder yet?”
“No, sir,” I whispered, swallowing my shame down my throat hard. “Not yet.”
“Then do it now, I assume.”
Confused, I stepped forward and lifted the cover.
My hands shake slightly as I flip open the manila folder. The first page is covered in red ink-his precise handwriting dissecting every paragraph with surgical brutality. I flip to the second page, then the third, trying to process the extent of my academic failure.
Then I see them.
Folded neatly between pages four and five, like some kind of twisted bookmark, are my lace panties. The black ones with the little bow. The ones I lost at the club.
The ones that disappeared after that private VIP room.
The world tilts sideways. My vision blurs at the edges as every piece clicks into place with devastating clarity.
The voice in the dark. The commanding presence. The way he’d pressed me against that wall. The skilled fingers that had me coming apart. The man who’d sextexted me for weeks, who’d demanded honesty, who’d called me princess.
Private Room Service.
I looked up at him, stunned. “You,” I whispered. “It was you.”
Professor Lewis-my professor-stands slowly and walks to the door past me. I hear the lock click with mechanical precision.
His voice drops to that low whisper I now can recognize from the club, from every fevered memory I’ve been trying to forget.
“Surprise, princess.”
He moves behind me with that same predatory grace, and I feel the heat of him at my back.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you? Even in that dim light?” His breath touches my ear, sending electricity straight through my core. “I know exactly how you sound when you come. I know how you taste.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t process that my untouchable literature professor is the same man who had the video of him fingering wrecked and moaning me.
“You’ve been playing games, haven’t you? Texting me about fantasies. About me. About wanting to surrender.” His voice carries that same dangerous authority from the VIP room. “Well, here’s your chance.”
I’m trembling now, caught between terror and anticipation.
He leans closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. “On your knees, Cinderella.”
My brain short-circuits. Like, completely fucking flatlines.
Because here’s the thing about having your carefully compartmentalized life explode in your face: there’s this moment where you either run screaming or lean into the absolute insanity of it all.
I should leave. Walk out. Report him. Pretend this never happened and transfer to a different section. Instead, I’m calculating how long it’s been since someone cleaned this office carpet.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, but my knees are already starting to buckle.
“Probably.” His voice carries that same dark amusement from our texts. “But you’re still here.”
Fuck. He’s right.
“This is-” I start, then stop.
What is this? Inappropriate? Illegal? The hottest thing that’s ever happened to me?
All of the above?
“This is you getting exactly what you asked for,” he said, voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in silk.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair-not harsh, not forceful. Just firm. A silent promise that I can fight him if I want… but I won’t.
Because he’s right. Because I don’t want to.
“What you’ve been fantasizing about for weeks,” he added, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“I never fantasized about you,” I whisper, breath shaky. A pathetic attempt at control.
His eyes sharpen, lips curling with cruel amusement. “Liar.”
