6

My life now exists in two distinct realities, both equally unhinged in their own psychological chaos.

In one, Professor Lane turns every lecture into a battlefield, his questions like sniper shots and his stares stripping me down until I’m not sure whether I’m being tested or undressed. Every time he calls on me, I feel both intellectually naked and… something worse. Or better. Depending on your brand of self-destruction.

In the other, an anonymous man I’ve never seen turns my phone into a secret diary—one I didn’t realize I needed. He’s the only person I’ve ever confessed to. And somehow, he always knows exactly what to ask.

It’s almost midnight. I’m curled up in bed, eyes glued to the glowing screen like it’s a lifeline.

Unknown: You’ve gone quiet.

Me: Recovering from being academically roasted. Again.

Unknown: Professor Lane?

Me: Who else? The man has made humiliating me a personal mission. It’s exhausting. And kind of hot. Which is worse.

Unknown: Is it the discipline that turns you on, or the defiance?

My stomach tightens. We’ve flirted with dangerous lines before, but something about tonight feels… riskier.

Me: Probably both. I spend every day managing my life, my goals, my future. Sometimes I want someone else to take over. Just once.

Unknown: What would that look like?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is fantasy territory. The kind I usually reserve for the kind of books I pretend I don’t read.

Me: I want someone who takes the decisions away. Who sees through my façade and tells me what to do… everything.

Unknown: Everything how?

Me: You want the uncensored version?

Unknown: Only version I want. Be honest, or we end this now.

That demand hits low in my stomach. It’s bold. Dangerous. Tempting.

Me: I want to obey. I want rules. I want to be stripped of choice in all the ways I pretend I don’t crave. I want to be owned.

Unknown: And who do you imagine taking that control?

A loaded question. Obvious answer? The man behind this thread. The one who made me tremble against a bathroom wall last month with nothing but a whispered command.

But I don’t like obvious.

Me: Honestly? My professor.

Let the games begin.

Me: I imagine him locking the door after everyone leaves. Telling me to stay behind. Correcting my essays with hands instead of red ink. Maybe even dragging me to my knees until I’ve learned to be good.

The typing bubble flickers. Stops. Flickers again.

Got him.

Unknown: You’ve got a vivid imagination.

Me: He’s easy to fantasize about. Older, sharp jaw, wears black like it’s a second skin. His arms look like they’ve broken men before.

Unknown: Sounds like you want to be punished.

Me: Maybe I do.

Unknown: Are you trying to make me jealous?

Me: Would it work?

Unknown: I don’t do jealousy. I do obedience.

That sentence. That tone. It’s him again—the man who doesn’t flirt, doesn’t tease. He commands.

Unknown: If you want to surrender, you’ll prove it.

Me: How?

Unknown: Tomorrow, you don’t wear panties. At all. Not to class. Not anywhere.

My heart slams.

Me: Are you serious?

Unknown: Completely. I want you bare beneath that skirt you always wear. A reminder all day that you’re mine.

Me: That’s insane.

Unknown: That’s control. You want to give it up? Then give it.

Me: And if someone notices?

Unknown: Why would they? Planning to shout it in the quad?

Me: No. But still…

Unknown: No buts. This is a test. Do it, or don’t. But if you don’t—this ends here.

My fingers tremble. I reread the message five times.

This is reckless. Forbidden. And all I can picture is the wind lifting my hem, the pulse between my legs, the feeling of belonging to someone else’s rules.

Me: Fine.

Unknown: That’s my girl.

⸻

Morning arrives with a weight I’ve never known. I dress like I’m preparing for a funeral—or a war I don’t expect to win.

Black skirt. Hits just above the knees. Safe enough for plausible deniability, short enough to remind me with every step that I’m exposed. A white blouse I’ve worn before, but today it feels filthier. Like I’ve defiled it just by existing inside it.

No underwear.

Every gust of air feels like a secret trying to escape. My thighs are taut. My pace is calculated. Every accidental brush of fabric makes me flinch.

When I walk into Professor Lane’s classroom, I sit like I’m balancing a weapon between my legs. The wooden seat is cold. The feeling is electric.

He enters with his usual presence—calm, commanding, lethal in the way only truly confident men can be.

And when his gaze flicks to me, something shifts. Just for a second.

“Today’s topic: Power and submission,” he says. “Let’s begin.”

He doesn’t even try to hide the timing.

“Miss Holloway,” he says, voice rich, measured. “You look… focused. Care to share your thoughts on how submission intersects with identity?”

I nearly choke.

“I—I think submission only matters when it’s chosen,” I say. “When it’s freely given, not taken.”

“And why would someone choose to give it?” His tone dips.

“Because sometimes, giving up control is the only way to feel safe. Seen.”

He leans back, satisfied.

“Well said.”

I barely remember the rest of the lecture. Every word he speaks feels targeted. Every shift in my seat a reminder that I’m playing a game with no rules except his.

When class ends, my phone buzzes.

Unknown: Did you obey?

Me: Yes.

Unknown: And how does it feel?

Me: Like I’m unraveling.

Unknown: Perfect. That means you’re finally telling the truth.

Me: What’s next?

Unknown: We’re just getting started.

Me: I’m ready.