Deviant Obsession

Chapter 22

Professor Shaw

I check my watch again, the steady tick of the second hand seeming to mock my impatience as I pace the length of my office. The beating sun slanting across the hardwood floor turns the smooth surface into stark contrasts. Much like the woman I'm waiting to see.

Her essay lies front and center on my desk, a sea of red annotations marring what should have been exemplary work. I've read it five times now, each pass revealing new disappointments, new evidence of her declining standards. The intuitive, analytical voice I've come to expect from her best writing is suffocated beneath scattered thoughts and rushed conclusions.

It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t know what she’s capable of. But, having caught my attention so instantly in that first lecture, her now glaring negligence has me itching to scold her. Punish her, even. Just for drawing me in and then fucking disappointing me.

My fingers drum against the back of my chair as I complete another circuit of the room. The memory of our last conversation plays on repeat in my mind—the way she'd practically vibrated with nervous energy, how she’d tripped over her words when I'd pushed for answers. As much as she wants to pretend everything is fine, the changes in her these past weeks have been unmistakable.

Something—or someone —has become more important to her than excelling in my class. Whatever it is, is ensuring the future she’s dreamed of for so long is getting destroyed.

Rather than resume my pacing, I pause for a moment, compulsively straightening the already pristine arrangement of papers and stationery on my desk. Just like the first time I waited for her to walk into my office, I need everything to be in line. Controlled. A not-so-subtle presentation of my nature for her to absorb, consciously or not.

I clench and unclench my jaw while I picture how she looked up at me from beneath those long lashes during that first meeting, hanging on my every word as if I held the keys to some greater truth. Perhaps I do.

My watch shows 2:58. Any moment now.

I adjust the angle of my chair, align my pen parallel to the edge of the desk. Everything in its proper place. Unlike the chaotic thoughts currently racing through my mind.

The shuffle of feet in the hallway has my head snapping up quicker than I can consciously think to keep my impulses in check. The cadence is unmistakable—quick but somehow hesitant at the same time, like she's always fighting the urge to run in the opposite direction.

Slowly lowering myself into my chair, I take a deep breath and let an air of professional calm settle over me. I can’t afford to betray just how tightly wound I get at the mere thought of Rhea Foster.

The footsteps pause outside my door. I can almost picture her pausing there, gathering her courage, perhaps tucking her hair behind her ear or adjusting her collar in that way that says she chases perfection. My breathing quickens despite my ironclad determination to appear unaffected.

One quiet knock, then another. All the tentative reluctance of a bunny before a fox’s den.

"Come in."

Rhea slips silently through the door and turns to close it behind her, not looking up at me until the last possible moment. The sunlight catches the golden highlights in her hair, creating a halo effect that almost taunts my every unholy thought. Even so obviously exhausted, she's breathtaking.

I force myself to remain seated, gesturing to the chair across from my desk with a nonchalant sweep of my hand. "Rhea, please sit."

Her fingers twist in the fabric of her skirt as she perches on the edge of the seat. The perfect picture of anxiety. I let the silence stretch for a minute or two, just reveling in the way she squirms. It’s as if her body already knows she’s in trouble.

What I wouldn’t do to teach that masterpiece of luscious curves a lesson.

Before my brain has a chance to shut down from all the blood suddenly rushing south, I lift her essay from my desk. The paper practically vibrates in my grip, though whether from her nervous energy or my own tightly-leashed control, I couldn't say. Without a word, I extend it across the desk.

She accepts it hesitantly, her eyes widening as she takes in the red marks bleeding through every page. The color drains from her face so rapidly I’m briefly concerned she might faint.

"A D ?" The question huffs past her rosy lips as if she hadn’t meant to let it slip, her emerald eyes lifting to mine filled with naked horror. "Professor Shaw, I can't...my scholarship..."

I cut her off before she can spiral further. "Explain to me what's going on with you lately."

The blush that floods her cheeks is fascinating—I’ve never seen someone transition from ghostly pale to crimson quite so quickly. Her gaze drops to her lap, where the fingers of her other hand start worrying at a loose thread on her hem.

"I don't..." She swallows hard, still refusing to meet my eyes. "Everything's fine."

"Miss Foster." I infuse the warning with just enough steel to make her shoulders tense. "I believe we've discussed the matter of lying to me before."

That gets her attention. Her head snaps up, lips parting slightly as if to protest, but no sound emerges. I watch her throat work as she struggles to form words, to construct some acceptable explanation for her academic decline.

The paper crinkles in her grip as she shifts in her chair, clearly searching for an escape route that doesn't exist. She's not leaving until I get my answers.

"I've been..." Another hard swallow. "I've just been a little distracted."

"A little?" I arch an eyebrow, gesturing to the massacre of red ink before us. "This isn't the work of someone dealing with minor distractions, Rhea. This is the work of someone whose mind is entirely elsewhere."

She flinches at my assessment, but I note with growing interest how her pupils dilate at my stern tone. Fascinating. There's something here, something beyond simple academic struggles. I just need to push the right buttons to make her confess.

I rise from my chair, circling the desk until I can perch on its edge directly in front of her. The movement forces her to lean back, to tilt her face up to maintain eye contact. The position of power isn't lost on either of us, I’m sure.

"Tell me the truth. What's been occupying that brilliant mind of yours?"

She shifts in her seat again, and I catch the slight press of her thighs together. "I've been, um...socializing more, I guess. Trying new things."

"New things?" I lean forward slightly, invading her space just enough to make those glistening eyes grow impossibly wide. "Would these new things have anything to do with my advice about breaking free from your constraints?"

The blush deepens across her cheeks, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath her collar. I find myself wondering just how far that flush extends.

"Yes," she whispers. "I've been... exploring ."

"And these explorations," I press, watching every micro-expression that crosses her face, "they're worth risking your academic future?"

Her teeth catch her bottom lip, and my fingers itch to reach out and free it. To replace her teeth with my own. "I didn't mean for it to affect my studies."

I notice how she unconsciously leans toward me as I speak, like a flower seeking sunlight. Her body betrays what her words won't say. She's desperate for guidance, for approval.

"Well, I’m afraid that’s the reality of it. Your place here at Milton Santee is on the line, just when you’re less than a year from graduating. Have these experiences been worth it?" I ask, though I already know the answer from the way her pupils have blown wide, almost consuming the vivid green of her irises.

She furrows her brows, that lip still caught between her teeth as if she’s chewing over her next words. "I wouldn’t trade them for perfect grades, Professor."

The formality in her tone, the slight emphasis on my title—it confirms every suspicion I've been harboring. She's discovered something about herself, something that speaks to the darkest parts of my nature. I don’t doubt she’s shed more than a few chains from her oppressive upbringing.

I straighten up to my full height, using every inch of my stature to loom over her. "And do you think I should forgive your failing grade because you've been following advice I gave you myself?"

"No, sir." The honorific seems to slip out unconsciously, and her lips press shut as she realizes what she's said.

It’s too late, though. My cock already heard it.

“I-I swear I will do better. Whatever I need to do to make up the credit.”

It’s only too easy to forget that we’re supposed to be discussing her terrible grade. All my head is filled with right now is fantasies of what she could have been up to on this journey of rebellion.

"I see.” I let a charged silence fall over us for a minute, my control hanging on by a thread. Hearing Rhea call me ‘sir’ has me ready to throw away my entire career just for the chance to make her say it again.

I’ve lost count now of the number of times she’s shifted awkwardly in her chair, visibly caught between fear and something far more intriguing. Something that makes her press her thighs together again, harder this time. I can’t help studying her body language with professional interest even as desire burns through my veins.

"Humor my curiosity for a moment, if you will. This new path you find yourself on, disruptive as it is… How does it make you feel?"

Her answer comes out breathy, almost reverent. "I feel...I feel alive."

The transformation is remarkable. Just discussing her experiences has changed her entire demeanor—spine straightening, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting slightly. Pride radiates from her, mingled with what I could only describe as catharsis.

"You've discovered something about yourself, haven't you?" I try to keep my tone gentle, encouraging, free of the ravenous hunger that’s pulsing in my veins. "Something that frightened you at first, but now..."

"Now I crave it," she finishes, then immediately looks mortified at her own candor.

I allow myself a small smile, letting her see just a hint of approval. "There's nothing wrong with craving release, Rhea. With wanting to let go, maybe let someone else to take control…. And trust them to keep you safe.”

Her sharp intake of breath tells me I’ve hit the mark. She stares up at me with those pretty lips gaping, like she can’t quite believe we’re having this conversation.

“How did you...?” she starts, then stops herself.

“Know?” I complete her question. “I’m a psychologist, Rhea. I study people for a living. You’re not the first young woman to seek acceptance, guidance even, having felt neglected in childhood. That blush of yours, forgive me for pointing it out, and the way you seem to squirm every few seconds as I question you… It tells me everything I need to know about how you’ve been embracing freedom.”

"I..." She licks her lips, and I track the movement with predatory focus. “I didn’t realize I was so transparent.” She huffs a quiet giggle, almost as if she’s relieved to have her secrets out in the open. It speaks to a level of trust that I don’t deserve. Not when I’m thinking up a thousand different ways to take advantage of it.

The only small justification I can afford myself is that she’s not a patient of mine. It’s frowned upon to fraternize with students, sure, but it’s not written in my contract. It’s not the law. And I know with absolute certainty that I need to possess her. I need to show her what real dominance feels like. I need to claim every inch of her submission for myself.

"Don’t be embarrassed. I have an uncanny knack for reading people.” I offer a wider smile this time, and she returns it gladly, no doubt yearning for someone to tell her that what she’s been up to isn’t wrong. I’d bet my entire year’s salary that she’s been drowning in guilt.

“If you’d like," I muse aloud, cocking my head while I consider whether I dare take this next step, "we could discuss an... alternative way for you to earn back the credit you need."

Our eyes lock, and the rest of the world falls away. There's only this —this moment, this tension, this inevitable surrender. I never imagined I would utter those words aloud to a student, but the way she’s looking at me is too tempting to resist. Her desire is written across her face, plain as day, and I’m not a strong enough man to pretend I don’t see it.

“I meant what I said, Professor. I’ll do whatever I need to do.”

"In that case… I’d like to see you on your knees."

Time suspends between one heartbeat and the next. For a fraction of a second, I wonder if I've miscalculated, pushed too far too fast. Then she moves.

The sight of Rhea Foster sliding out of her chair and sinking gracefully to her knees nearly brings me to my own. Her head bows automatically, hands folded in her lap, the picture of perfect submission. As if she was made for this moment.

Made for me.

My cock strains painfully against my zipper as I drink in the vision before me. All that fire, all that brilliance, willingly prostrating itself at my feet.

"Look at me," I breathe.

She raises those bewitching eyes to mine, and the naked need I see there threatens to shatter me completely. There's no hesitation in her gaze, no shame or regret—only pure, desperate hunger that matches my own.

This is what I've been waiting for since she first walked into my lecture hall. This is what I saw lurking beneath her careful exterior all along. A natural submissive just waiting for the right dominant to claim her.

My fingers itch to grip her hair, to guide her mouth where I need it most. To show her exactly what she's been missing all her life. But first, I need to hear her say it.

"Tell me what you’d do for me, Rhea."

Her response comes without hesitation, dripping with submission and desire…

"Whatever you want me to, Sir."