Chapter 6
AZRAEL
Four days of no contact. Not uncommon. Not uncommon at all.
But no matter how hard I try to ignore her absence, my thoughts keep rolling back to my new stalker.
She was only allowed in my personal space because she intrigued me. She looked like someone who could potentially meet the standards and perform as I wanted her to.
This stupid behavior only makes her too ordinary for my taste.
For a moment—no, for several—I entertain the possibility that she is simply useless after all.
That the precision she was embodying is an accident.
Maybe she isn’t calculated or precise. Maybe she’s just chaotic like any other dopamine-chasing human.
Wouldn’t be the first time I’d overestimated a subject.
She didn’t look like she was faking it, but I only got the details through those fucked-up text messages. Why the fuck did she even bother to attend that stupid class on Thursdays if she had no intention of playing a real game? Fucking stalker.
What a waste of my fucking time.
I almost put her file under “False positives” between a schizophrenic math teacher and that finance major student who thought he was Satan reincarnated.
Almost.
But then Thursday comes. I’d grown used to the rhythm, my class, her presence. I walk into the lecture hall, fully expecting the pattern we agreed to, to be there, only to find it broken. She isn’t here.
The moment I notice, something in me recoils. A feeling between disappointment and rage. I didn’t allow her to interrupt the experiment so abruptly. Who does she think she is?
The sixth-row seat stares back at me, empty.
I start the lecture, but I’m not focused on the material.
The words leave my mouth on muscle memory alone, each syllable automatic.
Instead, I watch the stupid door like a lunatic.
Every time it opens, I pause briefly, pretending I need to adjust my tone or glance at my notes.
But I’m not adjusting shit. I’m just checking that fucking entrance again and again.
Not her.
Not her.
Still not her.
By the fourth interruption, I want blood. By the sixth, I want it to be hers.
My fingers itch to correct the situation and find out why that insignificant subject is missing. She is deviating in a way I did not anticipate, nor did I approve of.
Every student who walked in late became a problem. Each time, my eyes flicker back to the sixth row, mocking my experiment. I hate that seat. Hate how I am fixating on it, how much I expected to see her there.
My mind spirals while I try to keep my composure. It replays every interaction, every stare, every line of dialogue we shared, looking for signs I missed. Signals that she plotted this—this pathetic, silent retreat.
As I end the class, she is still not in the room, and I’m already planning the many ways she will suffer once she is back. Because she will be back. And when that happens, she will suffer all the complications she brought upon herself.
“Professor Lennox,” the horny student—Samantha?—purrs, so syrupy it almost makes me puke. “I’m a little lost in the material. Is there any way you can explain it to me, maybe in your office?”
Ever since she started attending my classes—which is too long ago for any normal student—she’s had the same eager look in her eyes.
She’s the kind of girl who reads American Psycho and thinks the violence is foreplay.
One of those pet-project masochists who thinks degradation is sexy but has never really tasted it.
She looks just as stupid as she is. The performance of staying in the first row every time is not because she’s a brilliant student or because she’s willing to learn everything.
The only reason she’s doing that is because she wants attention, my attention.
And I have a feeling she’s gonna get it tonight.
Stupid, but useful. Time to take my brain off that stupid brunette who is now occupying too much of my mental space.
Minutes later, we’re in my office. Let’s see how you like seeing someone else in my office.
I gesture to the student to sit in the chair closest to my desk. She perches there like a bird, unsure if it landed in a trap, her fingers fidgeting over her notebook.
Samantha looks uncomfortable, probably realizing what she pictured in her head might not turn out to be that vanilla after all.
I’m almost curious what she thought would happen.
That this will be the start of one of those stupid secret relationships Zachary, my brother, seems so determined to have?
If that’s the case, she is dumber than I thought.
This will be just an opportunity for me to release the brunette-induced tension in my body, and a chance for the student to learn that monsters are right in front of her.
After what feels like an eternity of wasted time, she finally speaks.
“I think I’ve been over-analyzing everything. The concepts are all blurring together.” And although she tries to sound professional, her eyeing my crotch the entire time doesn’t help with the whole demure persona she’s trying to achieve.
“Which part?” I’m making the words sound like I’m keen to play this stupid game.
It takes a second before the words come out of her mouth. “Dominance theory. The… practical implications.”
Practical. As if the things I spoke about during the lecture are recipes anyone can follow. Does she really believe that dominance practically can be reduced to “please tell me how”? You will fuck her because she has a pussy, not because she has a brain.
“You’re not confused,” I say. “You’re just curious how that really works. Should I show you?”
She hesitates, but that’s more for the sake of foreplay than her actually having any sort of second thoughts.
Stupid Samantha finally nods—to be honest, that was right on time because I was just about to kick her out—but now that she finally agreed, I can do what I came here for.
Her breath catches as I move my chair to the center of the room—so she can enjoy the show—and nod toward the door.
“Go to the door and lock it, then turn around and stop.”
My voice lost that mask of niceness I fake so hard every day. There is no reason I should pretend or moderate my tone. She’s a nothing, and the sooner she understands this, the better.
She blinks, uncertain, but obeys. Taking a few awkward steps backward, she locks the door and stops just short of the doorframe. Her entire posture gives in; she is scared, and, judging by the way her hands hover at her sides, she’s one move away from backing off. Well, we cannot let that happen.
“Now,” I say, “crawl.”
Shock, terror, almost mortification. You could read all these emotions at once on her face. And all that while she doesn’t move. Or, at least, not right away, as she should have.
Her resistance is already pissing me off. She needs to do it now, exactly how I want it, exactly when I want it. Thinking will not help her in this scenario.
“Or walk out,” I add, not even faking my indifference.
Another pause. Too long.
I take one step forward and watch her spine straighten, but it is enough to burst that bubble her brain was in. She drops, knees to the ground first, then the hands.
She crawls forward, inching her way across the floor as I take my seat.
Her moves are awkwardly uncoordinated while she’s trying to look at me as she’s moving.
Her crawl is too fast, too rushed—like she is trying to get this part over with before the shame can fully set in.
It is a race against her own cracking composure, and she’s losing. Humiliation looks good on her.
“Slower.”
The way Stupid Samantha crawls isn’t graceful, but it is honest.
When she reaches me, she looks up. Eyes wide, way too proud of herself for what is about to come.
“Please.”
“Please what?” I urge.
Her voice trembles. “I want to learn.”
“You’re too dumb for that.”
“Then teach me.”
The desperation in her voice is becoming increasingly evident. This is what domination is about, something she’ll never understand—making the other so desperate for your attention that even sacrificing their life for you is something they are willing to do.
“Not until you mean it.”
I can practically hear the gears grinding in that little head of hers. The concept alone short-circuits her brain. This bitch is so used to being tossed around that she forgot how to think. No idea how to earn anything—just waits to be used.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she whispers.
At last, that is something I can work with.
“Take off your blouse,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
Her fingers grope at the hem, pulling it up awkwardly. The fabric lifts, revealing her pale skin. Her moves, the way she undresses herself, are supposed to be seductive. Instead, she looks utterly clumsy, the pure image of a woman losing her grip.
I watch as she sacrifices the last drop of self-respect, and it’s far more fascinating than any polished performance.
“Now your bra,” I add, completely unimpressed by the show.
Her body doesn’t interest me, but there is a point to prove.
Her bra joins the shirt at her knees. Exposed, her breathing quickens, making her breasts bounce up and down frantically. This is her cue to look up, innocent, fully expecting me to stare at her body. Wrong person.
“If you’re waiting for me to tell you that you’re doing well…” I murmur, leaning in until my lips almost touch her ear. “I don’t give praise for following basic instructions.”
I stand and reach into my desk drawer, pulling out a soft black rope. The sight of it causes a shift in her posture, but she doesn’t move. She’s still trying to be brave, which only proves how far she is from grasping the true meaning of all this.
Kneeling behind her, I tie her ankles together first, tight enough to limit her movement. Then her wrists, roped and locked in at her back.
I go back in front of her, unbuckling my belt, watching her tremble.
“You think degradation is foreplay? That being used is just the beginning of something your pathetic brain pictured.”
I stroke my cock, fully aware she cannot get me hard. She has nothing that a man would desire, and the fact she thinks she does needs to be corrected. “You imagined this moment as something beautiful, didn’t you? But there’s nothing beautiful about a worthless bitch waiting to be used.”
I grab her by the hair, pulling it down so now her eyes stare straight into mine.
“This is the part where you panic,” I whisper. “Use your mouth.” I shove my cock in her face.
She tries to take my dick in her mouth, but the position of her head makes it hard to move past the tip. There is something so inelegant in the way she’s licking and trying to prove she knows what she is doing.
I watch her mouth working, tongue sloppy, trying to fake experience. Trying to be the good little teacher’s pet. But her rhythm is wrong. Her eyes are too eager. She has no idea what it means to serve.
This will take the entire night if I let her continue this way—time I don’t have. I need to use it to find a way to bring back that little fucking experiment. I bet her mouth would work better than…What the actual fuck, Azrael? Why the fuck would I even think of that? Fucking hell.
Even just thinking about that is blameworthy. I should be focused on making the creature in front of me worthy of my attention.
Running my fingers through Samantha’s hair, I take full control of her mouth’s movement, driving inside her throat.
I start pounding her mouth, probably more vigorously than I should, all the way back to her throat, hoping it will leave bruises.
She is a hole and nothing more; her only purpose is to be destroyed so my mind can be recalibrated.
Once her throat has unwillingly adjusted to my size, I push in my full length, and I hold her there, face buried in my cock, with her nose pressed against me.
She tries to breathe, a series of short, desperate gagging breaths against my skin, but the way her face is turning a beautiful shade of blue tells me nothing goes around my cock.
I can almost taste the desperation in the air, imagining the wet shame that drips between her legs.
“Breathe through your nose,” I mutter. “If you dare to puke, I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
That glint now visible in her eyes behind the tears is exactly what I wanted. Fear. I can’t help but smile. She finally understands she could die right here, and that would make this nothing more than another Thursday for me.
The slap of skin against skin continues to fill the room, while her eyes are silently pleading to stop this madness and fulfill the stupid fantasy she came here with.
When she gags, I don’t pull back.
When she hopelessly tries to breathe, I don’t move away.
The sound of desperation is the only pleasure she truly provides.
“You wanted to be used,” I growl.
She sobs around my dick, and that’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard today, making my cock twitch.
I fuck her until my balls tighten and my stomach clenches.
When I am about to finish, I pull out, releasing my cum all over her precious hair, face, and breasts.
I want to mark her, like livestock. She is used. Useless now.
Two seconds later, I’m dressed and untying her hands.
“You can untie your own feet,” I say, already halfway to the door. “There’s a mirror in the hallway. Use it to remember where you are.”
Once I get home, I let myself fall onto the couch, and I light my cigarette, the weight of the evening hitting me like a wave of ice-cold water.
Tonight revealed nothing new. It only confirmed what I’d always known: the control I hold over myself is paper thin, and that user26093003 has something to do with it now that it’s wearing thinner. I’m still deranged, and because of this little experiment, I could snap without warning.
The smoke curls lazily in the air, layering the room with a fog-like aura.
I’m not proud of what I did. I’m not ashamed either. It’s just the normal outcome of my true nature. A reminder that the lectures, the rules, the restraints—none of it matters when my demons take over.
There is a line I often try to reinforce. A boundary I should never cross unless I want everything to be destroyed around me.
Tonight, I didn’t just approach it. I didn’t just stumble near it.
I danced on it.
I welcomed it, and I couldn’t feel more pleased.
My phone buzzes on the desk, forcing me out of my thoughts. For a fraction of a second, I think—no, hope—it might be her.
But no, it’s just the used cow I just discarded.
Unknown number: Thank you, Professor.
Pathetic.