Deviant Obsession

Chapter 6

Professor Shaw

Her teeth catch that full bottom lip again, worrying at it until the flesh turns white. My hand twitches almost imperceptibly as I watch her across my desk, fascinated by this nervous tic that betrays so much more than she realizes. The late afternoon sunlight is sinking to a deep gold, highlighting the smattering of freckles over her cheeks, catching the slight shake in her own hands as she clutches her notes.

"Your analysis of intergenerational religious trauma is quite..." I pause, choosing my words with deliberate care, "...intimate, Rhea. I hope I can help you navigate it in a way that helps you grow."

The blush that creeps up her neck is precisely what I anticipated. I've seen it three times in class already—that telltale sign of someone caught between yearning for praise and fearing exposure. She shifts in her chair, those wide, emerald eyes darting away from mine before forcing themselves back.

Such delicious conflict.

"Thank you, Professor," she mumbles with adorable coyness. "I've done extensive research on?—"

"Indeed, you have." I cut her off, leaning back in my chair to study her more openly. "Your citations are impeccable. But there's something more here, isn't there? Something that goes beyond academic interest. You’ll need to tap more into that before your work will become anything worth reading."

The sun catches a loose strand of her fiery hair as she tucks it behind her ear, and for a moment I'm distracted by the way it gleams. My mind flashes back to last Monday's lecture—her doe-eyed terror at being called on, that same tendril falling forward as she launched into a passionate explanation of my own research. Even then, I could see it. The way that personal experience colored every carefully chosen word.

"I..." she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. My eyes track the movement of her throat. "I never intended for it to be so obvious."

"As someone who's spent their career studying trauma patterns, I’m afraid I’m a difficult man to hide from." I settle my hands in my lap, partly to maintain an open posture, partly to hide how my fingers clench with the ache to touch her. "But your personal history is not a weakness, Rhea. Personal connection to our research can be invaluable when we learn to harness it properly."

She nods, relief visible in the slight relaxation of her shoulders. "That's actually why I chose this topic for my thesis. I believe understanding these patterns is crucial for breaking them."

"Breaking them," I echo, letting the words hang between us. "An interesting choice of phrase. Tell me, what exactly are you hoping to break free from?"

That tempting flush deepens, spreading high across her cheekbones now. Fascinating, how quickly she responds to the slightest hint of personal inquiry. I imagine that blush spreading lower, wonder how far down it goes...

Calm the fuck down, Lloyd.

"I grew up in a very strict household…obviously," she admits, fingers playing with the corner of her notebook. "My father was– is –a minister. Everything was about sin and salvation, rules and consequences."

"And now here you are, studying the very system that shaped you." I keep my tone neutral, professional, even as I catalogue every micro-expression that crosses her face. "Attempting to understand it through an academic lens. Tell me, has that made it easier to process? Or harder to escape?"

Her sharp intake of breath tells me I've hit a nerve.

Good .

"Both, maybe?" She meets my eyes again, and there's something raw there, something that yearns for understanding. "I know the theories, the psychological implications, but sometimes knowing why you're trapped doesn't make the cage any less solid."

"Ah." I allow myself a small smile, just the barest encouragement. "Now we're getting somewhere interesting. Your proposed essay outline explores the concept of inherited guilt quite thoroughly. Perhaps we should discuss how that manifests in your own academic approach?"

She tilts her head slightly, curiosity creating an adorable crease between her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I reach for her outline, making a show of consulting my notes, "your technical analysis is excellent. But there's a certain...restraint in your apparent conclusions. As if you're holding back from fully engaging with the more controversial aspects. Tell me, Rhea, what frightens you more—the possibility that you're right about these patterns, or the implications of breaking them?"

The question lands exactly as intended. I watch her pulse jump at the base of her throat and count the seconds it takes her to formulate a response. This is what I excel at. I find the precise pressure point that makes someone question everything they thought they knew about themselves.

"I want to help people," she says finally, her voice stronger now. "Future patients deserve a therapist who understands their struggles, who can guide them through breaking free from generational cycles. I just..." she pauses, that bottom lip catching between her teeth again. "I need to be certain I'm approaching it from the right perspective."

"The right perspective," I repeat, letting just a touch of challenge enter my tone. "Or the safe one?"

Her eyes widen slightly again, and I know I've struck gold. There's something intoxicating about watching her walls crack, one careful question at a time. The consummate good girl, the dedicated student, and the future therapist are all masks hiding something far more interesting beneath.

"I believe in maintaining professional boundaries for my own self-preservation," she starts, but I cut her off with a raised hand.

"Do you? Or have you simply never learned how to exist without them?"

Her stillness speaks volumes. I let the silence stretch, watching the internal war play out across her features. Years of experience have taught me when to push and when to wait, and this moment calls for patience.

"I left," she says finally, barely more than a timid whisper. "Isn't that enough?"

"Did you?" I rise slowly from my chair, moving to perch against the front of my desk. The new position puts me closer, lets me tower over her seated form. "Physically, yes, you did. But mentally?" I tap my temple. "That's where the real chains are, aren't they?"

She draws in a shaky breath, and I notice how her fingers have stopped fidgeting with the notebook. Instead, they're white-knuckled around its edges, as if she's trying to anchor herself to something solid.

"With respect, Professor Shaw, I'm not sure this is relevant to my paper."

"No?" I cross my arms, studying her. "Your entire thesis centers on breaking generational patterns of religious trauma. Yet here you sit, embodying the very phenomenon you're attempting to deconstruct. How can you hope to guide future patients through their liberation when you're still..."

"Still what?" There's a flash of hot defiance in her eyes now.

Interesting .

"Bound," I finish softly. "By rules you no longer believe in but can't quite bring yourself to break."

The word hangs between us like acrid smoke. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly now, like she’s trying not to suffocate in it, and I find myself tracking the movement, imagining how it would feel beneath my palm.

"I understand the theory," she insists, but there's a tremor in her voice that betrays her uncertainty. "The psychological mechanisms of?—"

"Theory isn't enough." I cut her off again before she has a chance to talk herself back into that cage. "You can't help others navigate waters you're afraid to swim in yourself."

She turns slightly in her chair to maintain eye contact, and I catch a whiff of her perfume. It’s something light, floral, and achingly innocent. "I'm not afraid."

"No?" I lean forward a little, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me. "Then why do you still dress sometimes like you're ready for Sunday service? Why do you sit in the middle row of my class, not too close to the front nor the back. It’s the perfect compromise between engagement and invisibility?"

A flush creeps up her neck again, but this time there's something different in her eyes. Something darker, more aware. "You've been watching me."

The words slip out before she can catch them, and her eyes flicker with distress at her own boldness. I allow myself a small smile, letting her see just a hint of the hunger I've been carefully concealing.

"I observe all my students, Rhea. It's part of my job to understand what drives them." I pause, deliberately brushing my fingertips across the arm of her chair. Not touching her, but close enough that she can feel the temptation. "But you... You're a particularly fascinating case study."

Her breath catches, and I watch in satisfaction as her pupils dilate slightly. "Because of my research topic?"

"Because of everything you represent." I move back to my desk chair, maintaining professional distance even as I push the conversation into dangerous territory. "The classic battle between desire and duty. Between what you want and what you've been taught to want."

"And what exactly do you think I want, Professor?" she almost squeaks.

The question comes out timidly, but it carries weight. I meet her gaze steadily, letting her see just enough of my own darkness to make her pulse jump.

"Freedom," I say simply. "Real freedom. Not just the appearance of it. The kind that starts with admitting what you really crave."

She swallows hard, and I track the movement of her throat. "I should probably go. It's getting late."

"Is it?" I glance at my watch with practiced casualness. "I suppose it is. But, Rhea?" I wait until she meets my eyes again. "Consider this—therapy isn't just about understanding trauma. It's about helping people rediscover their capacity for joy, for sensation, for..." I pause deliberately, "...relief."

The word lands exactly as intended. I watch her shiver and the slight parting of her lips. She's frozen in her chair, caught between fight and flight, and I can almost taste her indecision.

"Think about that while you're working on your first draft," I continue, my voice dropping lower. "Consider how much more effective you could be as a therapist if you weren't still at war with your own restraint."

The color blooming across her cheeks deepens to crimson as my words sink in. Her chest rises and falls more rapidly now, and I find myself mesmerized by the way she squirms ever so slightly in her chair. I imagine her squirming for an entirely different reason.

"I'm not..." she starts, then stops, chewing her lip. "That's not what I..."

"Not what you what, Rhea?" I try to sound merely inquisitive, unaffected, even as her stammering ignites a fire in the pit of my stomach that’s impossible to ignore. "Not what you came here to discuss? Not what you think about when you’re alone, when all those carefully constructed walls start to crumble?"

Her eyes dart to the door, then back to me. Like a cornered animal, but one that's more intrigued than frightened. "Professor Shaw, I?—"

"Tell me something," I interrupt again, delighting a little in her growing frustration, and leaning forward just enough to make her breath hitch. "When was the last time you did something purely because it felt good? Not because it was right, or proper, or expected, but simply because you craved it?" I’m careful to pose the question as vaguely as possible. Maintaining an air of professionalism. Plausible deniability.

The silence stretches between us, charged, electric. I can practically see the war raging behind those glistening, green eyes. She can’t decide desire versus propriety, liberation versus control. She shifts again in her chair, and this time I allow myself to imagine how that restless energy could be better channeled.

"I should go," she whispers, but she doesn't move. Her eyes are locked on mine, dark with something that looks remarkably like lust. She resumes wringing her fingers in her lap, another transparent tell.

For a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine grabbing those delicate wrists, pinning them above her head as I?—

The shrill ring of my office phone shatters the tension like fragile glass.

She jumps, the spell broken, and practically leaps from her chair. "I really need to...I have another class..."

"Of course." I lean back, watching as she gathers her things with as much clumsiness as she walked in with. "I can’t wait to read your essay.”

She pauses at the door, looking back over her shoulder. "Thank you for your...insights, Professor."

The door clicks shut behind her, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The phone continues to ring, but I ignore it, too consumed by the images flooding my mind now that I don't have to maintain control.

I imagine her bent over this very desk, those ill-fitting jeans rumpled around her ankles. Those perfect lips, the ones she keeps biting, wrapped around my cock as I teach her exactly what that clever tongue is good for. Her pale skin marked with my fingerprints, her throat hoarse from screaming my name.

"Fuck," I mutter, adjusting myself in my slacks. This is dangerous territory. She's my student, for Christ's sake. I’ve never gone there before. Honestly, I’ve never been tempted, but there's something about her, something that calls to the darkest parts of me. The parts that want to break her down and rebuild her in my image.

I gather my things, knowing I need to get off campus before I do something truly reckless. But as I slip on my jacket, I'm already planning our next encounter. Office hours are technically by appointment only, but I have a feeling she'll find her way back here soon enough.

She's too curious now, too aware of the current running between us. And I'm too intrigued by the challenge she presents. She’s the perfect combination of innocence and repressed desire, just waiting to be split open. Corrupted.

Let her stew on our conversation. Let those words sink in, take root in that brilliant mind of hers. Next time, I'll push a little harder, dig a little deeper. Find out exactly what makes her tick.

After all, isn't that what any good professor would do? Help their students reach their full potential? I smirk at the thought as I lock my office door.

Yes, I'll help Rhea Foster reach her potential…

In ways she never even dreamed possible.