Obey Me, Professor

Tessa’s POV

They say curiosity killed the cat. But what they don’t tell you is how sweet the fall feels when you’re tumbling headfirst into danger.

I should’ve ignored the rumors.

Whispers that Professor Ashford was more than just brilliant. More than just ruthless. That beneath his perfectly pressed suits and unreadable gaze, there was something… darker.

Something forbidden.

But I’ve always had a weakness for things that can ruin me.

And Professor Ashford? He didn’t just have the power to destroy my GPA—he could break me in ways I didn’t even know I could be broken.

“Miss Marlowe.” His voice cut through the silence like a blade as I slipped into the lecture hall. “Late again.”

“I wasn’t—” I stopped. There was no point arguing with Professor James Ashford. His word was law, and in his class, there were only two kinds of students: the terrified and the obsessed.

Unfortunately for me, I was both.

I slipped into my seat, cheeks burning as the door clicked shut behind me. His eyes didn’t leave mine. Not for a second. Not until I looked away first, like I always did.

Submission came too easily.

He lectured on moral relativism, something about Kant and consequences, but all I could focus on was the cut of his jaw and the way he curled his fingers around the edge of the lectern. Controlled. Measured. Like, even his hands followed orders.

God, what would it feel like to be held by those hands?

What would it cost?

When class ended, I lingered. I wasn’t the only one. Half the girls in the room had perfected the art of dropping pens and fluttering lashes. But Ashford didn’t look at them. Not really.

And I told myself he didn’t look at me either.

Until I gathered my books and found him standing right in front of me.

“I assume you’re enjoying the course?” he asked, voice cool and clipped, like we were discussing weather patterns instead of the way my heart was racing.

“I am,” I managed, even though it was a lie.

I wasn’t enjoying it. I was obsessed. With him. With the strange way he seemed to see right through me. As if he knew things I hadn’t said aloud.

“As it happens,” he continued, “I’m reviewing graduate research submissions. There’s a mentorship slot open.” His gaze flicked down my body—barely perceptible, but enough to light every nerve in me on fire. “I believe you expressed interest in independent study.”

I had.

In a drunken, desperate moment of wanting to impress him, I’d written a pitch on the philosophy of obedience. The irony was painful now.

“I did. Yes.” My voice cracked like a teenager’s. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Think you were qualified?” he cut in. “You aren’t. But you’re curious. That’s more dangerous.”

And then he handed me a slip of paper. No smile. Just a date. A time. A room number I didn’t recognize.

“Don’t be late again,” he said. “And wear black.”

My fingers curled around the note like it was a secret meant to be burned.

I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

The building he sent me to wasn’t even part of the main campus. It was tucked away behind the faculty offices, old brick wrapped in ivy and silence. The kind of place no one would go without a reason.

I had a reason.

Room B-13. A basement level.

The stairwell was dim, the air cooler than it should’ve been, and each step I took sounded louder than the last. With every descending breath, I felt something slither down my spine—not fear, exactly.

Anticipation.

When I reached the door, my fingers trembled. Just slightly. Just enough.

I knocked.

Nothing.

My heart stuttered. Was this a test? Some sick joke? Maybe he was watching me right now, waiting to see if I’d chicken out and run.

Then the door opened.

And I forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t a classroom. It wasn’t even an office. It was… a space built for something else entirely.

Dark walls. No windows. A single chair beneath a pendant light in the center of the room. Shelves lined with leather restraints, polished metal hooks, and instruments I didn’t dare name out loud. My gaze caught on a heavy wooden structure bolted to the far wall.

A St. Andrew’s Cross.

I’d Googled it once. Late at night, curiosity gnawed at my innocence.

Professor Ashford stepped aside and gestured for me to enter. His expression unreadable. Clinical. Like I was just another theory to dissect.

“You’re late,” he said again.

“I—”

“Strip.”

The word hit like a slap.

“I—I’m sorry?”

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. His presence filled the room like a storm front.

“You’re here for a lesson, Miss Marlowe. And the first lesson is this: Obedience is not earned. It is expected.”

I should’ve left.

But something inside me—the part that ached to be unmade—whispered, Stay.

I set my bag down. Reached for the hem of my sweater.

He watched. Not like a man undressing a woman. Like a professor watching a student attempt something far beyond her skill level.

As each layer came off, his silence wrapped tighter around me than any rope could. When I was down to just my black lace bra and panties—the only thing remotely sexy I owned—he circled me.

“A bit theatrical,” he murmured, fingers trailing just shy of my shoulder. “But I suppose you were trying.”

Heat pooled low in my stomach. I hated that his voice alone could undo me like this.

“Now kneel.”

I dropped.

The floor was cold, unforgiving against my skin, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was the look on his face—the approval that flickered behind his eyes.

He walked behind me, and I felt, more than heard, the click of leather.

A collar.

When it wrapped around my throat, I shivered. It wasn’t tight. Just snug enough to remind me of what I was becoming.

What I already was.

“Good girl,” he whispered.

I almost moaned.

The words “good girl” slid down my spine like honey laced with venom. Warm, slow, and deadly addictive.

I wanted to hear them again.

Needed to.

Professor Ashford stepped in front of me, his tailored slacks inches from my face. I could see the shift in the fabric as he adjusted himself, his arousal obvious and deliberate.

“Tell me why you’re here,” he said softly.

My voice caught in my throat. “To… study?”

The sharp tilt of his brow sent a pulse straight between my thighs.

“Wrong answer,” he said. “Try again. Use that mouth for something useful.”

Humiliation burned through me, but it licked at something deeper—something already soaked and aching.

“I’m here to obey,” I whispered.

He smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was wicked. Knowing. Like he’d just found the crack in my armor and planned to pry it open, inch by trembling inch.

“Yes,” he murmured, reaching down. Two fingers lifted my chin, tilting my face until our eyes met. “And what is the first rule of obedience, Miss Marlowe?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, voice like silk dragged over a blade.

“The first rule… is that your body is no longer yours. It’s mine.”

A gasp slipped out before I could stop it.

“You gave me your consent the moment you stepped into this room. That collar around your neck? That’s your agreement. Your submission. And I will take full advantage of it.”

He took a step back, just enough to make me feel the absence of his heat.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed instantly, heart pounding, and heard the rustle of something behind me. Leather again. When he returned, I felt his hands on my wrists, wrapping the cuffs snug, buckling them with clinical precision.

“Spread your knees.”

I moved to obey, but the tug of restraint at my wrists reminded me—I wasn’t in control.

Not anymore.

He knelt in front of me, one hand ghosting over my bare thigh.

“Lesson one,” he said, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of my panties. “Obedience is about anticipation. Your mind should already be asking, What does he want next? And your body—your filthy, aching, needy body—should already be preparing to give it.”

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

All I could do was nod.

Then he slipped his fingers inside me, and I nearly screamed.

“Soaked,” he murmured, dragging the word out as if it tasted delicious on his tongue. “You’re a very quick learner, Miss Marlowe. But I don’t give out A’s for enthusiasm.”

His fingers withdrew.

I whimpered.

He stood and walked away.

Panic fluttered in my chest. Was that it?

He returned a second later with something long, slim, and gleaming.

A crop.

My mouth went dry.

“Lesson two,” he said, circling me. “Obedience doesn’t mean silence. You will moan. You will beg. You will scream for me.”

The first strike landed across my ass before I could process the words.

I did scream—more from shock than pain—but it was the kind of scream that made me wet all over again.

He chuckled low. “Good girl.”

Another strike. Then another.

I lost count after five.

But I never once asked him to stop.

Because I didn’t want him to.

By the time the last strike landed, my thighs were trembling, my breath shallow, and my thoughts scattered like ash in the wind.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just let the silence stretch, thick and charged.

Then, gently, almost reverently, he dropped to his knees in front of me again.

“Color?” he asked.

My brain stuttered, trying to remember the term from the BDSM safety guides I’d read at 2 a.m. when I thought no one would know.

Green. Yellow. Red.

Green meant go.

“Green,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but honest.

The slow curve of his mouth told me I’d passed another test.

“Good girl.”

He unbuckled the cuffs at my wrists, but before I could even lower my hands, he seized them and guided them to his belt.

“Show me how grateful you are.”

My fingers fumbled at first—nerves and heat making me clumsy—but he didn’t rush me. Just watched with cold fire in his eyes as I undid the buckle, then the button, then the zipper.

When I pulled him free, I gasped.

He was hard. Thick. Perfect. And heavy in my hand.

The professor. My professor.

And I was on my knees, naked except for a collar, ready to take him in my mouth.

“I want to hear it,” he said. “Beg for it, Tessa.”

God. My name in that voice. It was a threat wrapped in silk.

“Please,” I breathed. “Please let me suck your cock, Professor.”

He groaned, low and rough. “That mouth of yours… I’m going to ruin it.”

Then he pushed past my lips, and I opened for him like I was starved.

The first slide made my eyes water, but I took more, let my throat adjust, let my tongue learn every inch of him. His hand tangled in my hair, not forcing, just holding—as if he was grounding himself.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You look better than I imagined.”

I moaned around him, the sound vibrating up his length.

He fucked my mouth slowly, steadily, like it was another form of education—like every thrust was a lesson and every gag a test I was meant to fail beautifully.

When he pulled out, I whimpered, my lips swollen, my chin wet.

“Up,” he commanded.

I stood on shaky legs, but before I could speak, he grabbed me by the hips, turned me around, and bent me over the padded table behind me.

“Lesson three,” he growled against my ear, dragging my panties down to my knees. “Submission earns rewards. Disobedience earns punishment. But this? What you’ve given me tonight… deserves a mark.”

Then I felt him. Thick. Hot. Sliding through my soaked folds until he was not just at my entrance, but buried to the hilt.

I cried out.

Not in pain.

In bliss.

Because in that moment, with my body trembling, his cock deep inside me, and his hand gripping my throat—there was no classroom, no syllabus, no right or wrong.

There was only him.

Only this.

Only the beginning.