Since then, I have been… floating. No, adrift.
Trapped in a storm of arousal, confusion, and something dangerously close to full blow surrender. Every class with him was unbearable. He acted normal-cold, professional, barely looking in my direction.
But I knew better now. I felt it. The way his eyes followed me when I shifted in my seat, when my fingers curled too tightly around my pen, when I crossed and uncrossed my legs just a little too slowly.
He was waiting. For me to decide. But how could I?
The idea of submission was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. To give someone control-not just of my body, but my thoughts, my breath, my boundaries. It sounded like freedom and death at the same fucking time.
And I didn’t know the difference anymore.
My past didn’t exactly encourage trust. Not in people. Not in power. Not in letting go. Because once, I did let go. Just once and I lost everything.
It was in middle school. After mom had left, my little sisters were too little and my dad was barely functional for far more than one year. And I got close to someone-my guidance counselor, of all people. I let him see the cracks, the ones I hid from everyone else.
He saw them. And he used them.
His concern turned possessive, compliments got dark and before I knew it, I was trapped under someone else’s idea of “care.” It wasn’t until he tried to kiss me in his office that I ran.
So, yeah. The idea of surrender? It still made me want to bolt.
But with Lewis, it felt different. Dangerous, yes. But also deliberate, like he wanted to break me… in a way that made me whole.
I was still spiraling when Cleo elbowed me hard. “Jesus, why is that woman staring at you like she wants to dissect your brain?”
“Huh?” I blinked. “What woman?”
Cleo nodded toward the far corner of the cafeteria. “Miss Vaughn. Or should I say Dr. Vaughn. Teaching literary feminism to seniors. But why is she in our cafeteria instead of the teacher lounge? She’s never here.”
I turned slowly. She was beautiful in that perfectly intimidating way.
Red hair twisted into a sleek bun with that pale glassy skin that looks like she lived under moonlight. Sharp black glasses perched on her nose, and a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks that screamed power and polish.
She looked like a Vogue article and a death sentence all at once.
“Maybe she just wants to eat with the students,” I said weakly, popping a fry in my mouth to hide the crack in my voice.
“Hardly believable.” Cleo narrowed her eyes. “She’s not looking at students. She’s looking at you.”
“No she’s not.” I scoffed. “There’s a giant banner behind us. Maybe she’s just… looking at that.”
“Really?” Cleo arched an eyebrow. “The banner that says ‘Don’t be silly, cover your willy?’ That one?”
I turned back and peeked again-just in time to catch Dr. Vaughn’s eyes shifting away like I’d caught her in the act.
“Mmh,” I muttered. “Maybe she’s beefing with other professors and doesn’t want to be in the lounge. Should I ask her?”
Cleo’s grin was wicked. “Oh, should I ask her?” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my lap and her eyes lit up like a raccoon spotting glitter. “It’s him, isn’t it, Mystery Daddy?”
I gave her a sheepish smile. “Stop calling him that.”
“Ohhh,” she sang. “Does he have a name now?”
‘Oh, he does,’ I thought. ‘Professor Lewis.’ But I didn’t say that. Some things were better left in the dark.
“No,” I lied.
“Then Mystery Daddy it is.”
I opened the message. His tone had changed since that day. No longer playful. No longer a stranger. Now, the messages were sharper. Structured. Every word is a command disguised as a suggestion.
He had begun giving me rules. Tasks. Thoughts to consider. What kind of touch made me feel safest. What kind of punishment I feared the most.
He asked about my boundaries. My other fantasies. My fears. He made me write them down. List them. Own them. There was no pressure, but there was always precision.
His newest message read:
Private Room Service: You have time until the end of the week to decide. If you want to be mine-mind and body-I expect a yes. Or nothing.
I stared at it. My fingers hovered over the screen. I thought about every moment I had felt most alive. And then I typed:
Me: Yes.
The response came instantly.
Private Room Service: Good girl. Now the real fun begins.
My hands shook. When I looked up, Dr. Vaughn was staring straight at me. Right into me.
And this time, she didn’t look away.
Everyone had filed out of the lecture hall, laughter and the scrape of chairs echoing off the walls as the door clicked shut behind the last student. Cleo had glanced at me on her way out, eyebrows raised, lips already curled into something teasing.
“I’ll wait for you outside?” she’d said, loud enough for Lewis to hear.
I just nodded, pretending not to feel the way his eyes tracked my every movement.
I couldn’t tell her the truth-that I was staying behind because I was a complete fucking mess who couldn’t handle the fact that my untouchable literature professor was apparently my anonymous club stalker.
“I just need to ask about the reading list,” I lied.
But I hadn’t brought my book. Or my pen. Or anything resembling actual academic interest. Because let’s be real-I knew why I was here. And so did he.
The silence inside the room shifted once we were alone. Not heavy. Not awkward. Dangerous.
Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and realizing you’re not entirely sure you don’t want to jump.
I stood near his desk, heart hammering, pretending to care about the notes scrawled across my folder. Lewis leaned against the edge of his desk with that same predatory casualness he’d had at the club-one hand flat on the surface, the other adjusting his perfectly rolled cuff.
“So,” I said, because apparently my mouth had decided to work independently of my brain. “Private Room Service, huh?”
His expression didn’t change. Didn’t even flicker. “You’re upset.”
“Upset?” I let out a laugh that sounded slightly unhinged. “I’m having a complete existential crisis. My professor-my literature professor-has been sexting me for weeks. How exactly should I feel?”
“You could feel flattered.”
“I could also feel manipulated. Lied to. Completely fucking played.”
“You weren’t played.” He straightened, and suddenly the room felt smaller. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you responded to those messages.”
“I didn’t know it was you.”
“Would it have mattered?”
The question hung between us like a loaded gun. Because here’s the thing that scared me most-I wasn’t entirely sure it would have.
“This is insane,” I whispered. “You’re my professor. I’m your student. There are actual laws about this shit.”
“Are you planning to report me?”
I stared at him. At those granite eyes that had dissected my essays and apparently memorized every detail about my personal life. At the man who’d somehow managed to occupy every corner of my thoughts without me even knowing his real name.
“I should.”
“But you won’t.”
It wasn’t a question. The arrogant certainty in his voice made me want to prove him wrong. Made me want to walk out, file a complaint, transfer sections, pretend this never happened.
