Chapter 5
five
. . .
Gordon
I need distance. Space to think clearly.
That's why I assigned Flower an extra reading list—obscure literary criticism that will keep her busy in the library rather than in my office where I can't trust myself around her.
It's been two weeks since that first time on my desk, and I've had her six more times since then.
Twice more on that same desk. Once against the wall of my office.
Once in my car, parked in the darkest corner of the faculty lot.
Once in an empty classroom after hours. And once in a bathroom stall during a department function, her small hand pressed over her mouth to muffle her cries as I fucked her from behind.
It's madness. It's addiction. It's going to destroy us both if I don't get control of myself.
I last exactly four hours before I find myself walking toward the library.
Just to check on her, I tell myself. Make sure she's making progress on the Baldwin critique I assigned. That's what responsible professors do. They follow up.
They don't stalk their students through the stacks, keeping just enough distance to remain unseen.
The main reading room is crowded with midterms approaching.
I scan the tables, searching for honey-blonde hair and a small frame bent over books.
I spot her in the far corner, surrounded by open texts and notebooks.
Her hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.
She's wearing another sundress—pale yellow this time—with a cardigan against the library's aggressive air conditioning.
She looks painfully young. Painfully innocent.
Except I know better. Know how she moans when I suck her nipples. Know how she begs for my cock. Know how she comes with my name—or "Daddy"—on her lips, shame and pleasure mingling in those wide green eyes.
I should leave. Now. Before she sees me.
But then he appears. Sean Morris. One of the department's teaching assistants—working on his PhD dissertation about gender and power dynamics in modernist fiction. Ironic, given his reputation with the female students.
He stops at Flower's table, leaning down to say something I can't hear. She smiles up at him—that genuine, guileless smile that first caught my attention. He pulls out the chair next to her and sits. Too close. Points to something in her book, his shoulder brushing hers.
My vision narrows to a pinpoint, blood rushing in my ears. This is why I needed distance—to prevent exactly this reaction. This possessive, primal rage that has no place in academia. No place in a man my age.
But I can't stop it. Can't control the way my body moves on autopilot, stalking toward them through the stacks.
I stop at a nearby bookshelf, pretending to browse while listening to their conversation.
"Baldwin's critique of the American dream is so ahead of its time," Morris is saying, his voice carrying that annoying inflection of the perpetual graduate student—always slightly condescending even when trying to be helpful.
"But you need to consider the historical context of racial dynamics in post-war America to fully appreciate the subversiveness. "
"That makes sense," Flower responds. "Professor Davis mentioned something similar in his notes, but I wasn't sure how to incorporate it."
"Davis is brilliant, but he can be…rigid in his interpretations." Morris leans closer. "I'd be happy to walk you through some alternative critical frameworks sometime. Maybe over coffee?"
My hand tightens on the book I'm holding until the spine creaks in protest. The fucker is asking her out. Using Baldwin as a pretense to get my girl alone.
Flower hesitates. "That's nice of you, but I don't think—"
"Just as colleagues," he assures her quickly. "I noticed your insights in class. You have a unique perspective that deserves development."
Liar. I know that look. Every male in academia has used it—the scholarly interest mask that barely conceals baser intentions. Hell, I've used it myself. But not with her. Never with her. With her, I made my intentions brutally clear from the start.
"I'm actually pretty busy with extra credit work," she says, nodding toward the pile of books.
"Davis is working you too hard," Morris says with a laugh that grates on my nerves. "All work and no play, you know? You deserve a break."
His hand moves to rest on her shoulder. Just briefly. Just a collegial touch. But it's enough.
I wait until Flower excuses herself to the restroom, then I make my move. Morris is still at the table, flipping through her notes—another violation of boundaries that feeds my rage.
"Morris." My voice is soft, deadly.
He startles, looking up. "Professor Davis. I was just helping one of your students with—"
"I know exactly what you were doing." I sit across from him, leaning forward. "And it stops now."
His expression shifts from surprise to wariness. "I'm not sure what you're implying, but—"
"Let me be perfectly clear." I keep my voice low, but there's no mistaking the threat underneath. "Miss Darling is off-limits to you. No coffee. No 'alternative frameworks.' No casual touches. Nothing."
"With all due respect, sir, I think that should be her decision." A hint of defiance creeps into his tone—the courage of the young and foolish.
I smile. It's not a pleasant expression; I can tell by the way he shrinks back slightly. "You're on track for a promising academic career, Morris. Would be a shame if your dissertation committee received concerns about your…ethical boundaries with undergraduates."
His face pales. "That's not—I wasn't—"
"Touch her again, and I ruin you." I stand, straightening my jacket. "We understand each other?"
He nods, swallowing hard.
"Good." I gesture to Flower's books. "I'll be taking over this tutorial session. You can go."
He retreats like a dog with its tail between its legs. I watch him leave, satisfaction mingling with disgust—at him, but mostly at myself. I've become something I never intended to be: a jealous, possessive monster abusing my power to keep a girl barely half my age.
And I don't give a fuck.
I leave before Flower returns. I have preparations to make.
An hour later, she knocks on my office door.
"Come in," I call, not looking up from the papers I'm pretending to grade.
She enters hesitantly. "Professor Davis? You asked to see me?"
Now I look up, taking in her concerned expression. "Close the door, Miss Darling. Lock it."
She obeys, then stands awkwardly by the entrance. "Did I do something wrong? I was working on that Baldwin critique when your message came..."
"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from my desk.
She perches on the edge, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl sent to the principal's office. Which, in a way, she is.
"I saw you in the library today," I say, watching her carefully. "With Morris."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Oh. He was just helping me understand a passage..."
"He was flirting with you." My voice hardens. "And you let him."
"I didn't—" She stops, frowns. "Wait, were you spying on me?"
"Protecting you.” I stand, circling the desk. "He touched you."
A flush spreads across her cheeks. "It was just my shoulder. It didn't mean anything."
"It meant something to him." I tower over her, hands braced on the arms of her chair. "And it means something to me."
Her breathing quickens, pupils dilating with a mixture of fear and arousal. "Gordon..."
"Bad girls who tempt their professor get spanked, princess." The words come out low, rough. "Is that what you want? To be punished?"
She should be outraged. Should tell me I'm being irrational, controlling. Instead, her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "I didn't mean to tempt anyone but you."
"Stand up." When she does, I take her place in the chair. "Over my knee."
There's a heartbeat of hesitation—a moment where she could walk away, end this insanity—then she drapes herself across my lap, her small body trusting and yielding.
Her sundress rides up, exposing pale yellow panties that match the dress.
I smooth my hand over the curve of her ass, feeling her tremble.
"Tell me if it's too much," I say, giving her an out. "Say 'stop' and I will. Immediately."
She nods, face turned away from me, pressed against my thigh.
The first spank is light—more sound than pain. She jumps anyway, a small gasp escaping her. I stroke the spot, soothing it before landing another. Five in total, none hard enough to truly hurt, just enough to warm her skin pink through her underwear and remind her who she belongs to.
After the last one, I gather her in my arms, lifting her to straddle my lap. Her face is flushed, eyes bright with unshed tears and arousal. I kiss her gently, tasting salt.
"Did I hurt you, little girl?"
She shakes her head. "No. It was…I liked it. Is that wrong?"
"Nothing between us is wrong," I lie, kissing her again. "Not when it feels this right."
I carry her to the small area rug in the corner of my office—the only space not visible from the door should someone unlock it.
Lay her down gently, as if she's made of glass, and cover her body with mine.
This isn't like our frantic couplings before.
This is slower, more reverent—worship rather than possession.
I undress her with careful hands, kissing each inch of exposed skin. When she's naked beneath me, all pale perfection against the dark rug, I strip quickly and join her, my body caging hers protectively.
"So beautiful," I murmur, trailing kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, to the small, perfect breasts that fit exactly in my palms. "So perfect for me."
She arches into my touch, small sounds of pleasure escaping her as I worship her with my mouth and hands. When I finally enter her, it's with agonizing slowness, watching her face as she takes me inch by inch.
"That's it," I praise, voice rough with emotion. "Taking me so well. Such a brave girl for Daddy."
She moans at the word, inner walls clenching around me. "Please…don't stop."
I establish a gentle rhythm, deeper than before but without the frantic edge of our earlier encounters. Each thrust deliberate, angled to hit the spot that makes her gasp and tremble.
"You're so perfect for Daddy," I tell her, the words pouring out unbidden. "So filthy and sweet. Made just for me."
"Yes," she agrees breathlessly. "Only for you. Only ever you."
My control slips, pace increasing as familiar heat builds at the base of my spine. "Going to keep you filled with my cum," I growl against her ear. "Keep you pregnant so no one else ever dares approach what's mine."
Her eyes fly open at that, pupils blown wide with arousal. "Promise?" she whispers, and it nearly undoes me—this beautiful, innocent girl begging me to breed her, to ruin her life with my selfish needs.
"I promise, princess." I reach between us to circle her clit with my thumb. "Now come for me. Let me feel that sweet little cunt squeeze my cock."
She shatters beautifully, back arching off the rug, inner walls pulsing around me as she cries out my name. I follow her over the edge, burying myself deep and flooding her with my release, marking her as mine for what feels like the hundredth time but will never be enough.
After, I hold her close, her head tucked under my chin, my hand stroking her hair. This tenderness is new, dangerous in a different way than the fucking. This feels like more than possession. More than obsession.
“You scared Morris away, didn't I?" she asks quietly against my chest.
I tense slightly. "You noticed."
"He practically ran when he saw me coming back from the bathroom." She props herself up on one elbow to look at me. "What did you say to him?"
"That you were off-limits."
"And if I wanted his help?"
I cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek. "Did you?"
She shakes her head. "No. But that's not the point."
"The point is I'm a jealous, controlling bastard who can't bear the thought of another man touching you.” I say it plainly, giving her the truth she deserves. "I'll ruin anyone who tries to take you from me, princess. That's who I am."
Instead of pulling away in disgust, she leans down and kisses me softly. "Good," she whispers against my lips. "Because I'm yours. Only yours."
And God help me, but those words are sweeter than any academic achievement, any professional recognition I've ever received.
I've spent my life in pursuit of intellectual perfection, rigid control.
Now I'm throwing it all away for a girl with innocent eyes and a filthy mouth who calls me "Daddy" when she comes.
And I've never been happier.