He would run your bath, making sure the water was the perfect temperature. Then he’d undress you, careful to avoid any movement that might hurt.

Lifting you as if you were porcelain, he’d lower you gently into the water.

The way his hands moved across your skin brought tears to your eyes.

His touch was reverent, every stroke a vow of devotion. He washed you slowly, thoroughly, until you were ready to be wrapped up and tucked back in bed.

For months, his focus was only you. Never touching you sexually. Never asking for anything.

He cooked your meals. He fed you. He oiled your hair. He served you like a dutiful priest and you were his goddess.

But now, fully healed, you were still being treated like glass.

And it was beginning to frustrate you. Especially the part where he still refused to make love to you.

Being cared for like a doll was beautiful when you were weak. But now it made you feel trapped.

He was lying beside you, propped against the headboard with a book, when you turned wide, pleading eyes on him.

Your hand slid under the sheet to rest on his thigh. At first, your touch was slow, innocent. Then it crept higher, kneading, squeezing, until he finally turned glazed eyes on you.

The look in them made you clench so hard you gasped aloud.

He blinked rapidly, the raw lust in his eyes quickly replaced by concern.

He dropped his book. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head.

His brow furrowed as his gaze swept over your scantily clad body, his worry refusing to ease.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want you.” You meant for it to sound seductive, but it broke out in a sob.

His eyes softened, a small smile replacing his frown.

“I want you too, baby.” He leaned down, brushing your lips with a chaste kiss. When you tried to pull him deeper, he chuckled and pulled back. “But you’re not strong enough.”

You whined in frustration, crossing and uncrossing your thighs as the ache inside you grew.

Fisting his shirt, you tugged him down, crashing your mouth against his in a desperate attempt to show him your need.

For a moment, he kissed you back, a groan vibrating into your lips—before he tore himself away.

“Please,” you whispered, cradling his head between your hands. “It’s been too long.”

He cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek in soft, loving passes.

You turned into his palm and kissed it.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then slid his hand down to circle your throat… and squeezed lightly.

The animalistic groan that ripped from you had him chuckling against your ear.

That sound. That laugh. The one that promised, I’m going to take care of you.

His hand found your breasts, kneading one, then the other, rolling your nipples between his fingers before moving lower.

When his hand slipped into your pajama shorts, you leaned back and spread your legs, offering yourself to him like a love-worn guitar he knew by heart.

The first touch was slow, careful. He traced your folds as though relearning you. Five months apart had been an eternity.

When his finger brushed your nub, both of you groaned, eyes locked as he began to work his magic between your legs.

He pulled his hand away, and your eyes followed, glued to it as he slipped two fingers into his mouth and sucked.

His eyes fluttered shut, a low moan vibrating in his chest. More fluid leaked from you.

When his fingers returned, your folds yielded, parting for him as he slid inside.

Slow, torturous thrusts.

His lips found a nipple while his other hand roamed over your belly as it traveled down south.

You clenched around his pumping fingers in anticipation... then his thumb pressed against your aching clit.

The sounds lodged in your throat.

Your hips jerked, trying to ride his hand, desperate for more friction, for release.

He lifted his head, your nipple slipping from his mouth with a wet pop.

He shook his head slowly. “Uh-uh. Be a good girl and stay still.”

The hand working your clit shifted, pressing firmly against your lower belly, holding you down while his thick digits stretched you from inside.

He pumped slightly faster, watching the sex-crazed expressions on your face, moving his thumb back over your clit to drive you further into insanity.

Incoherent words babbled out of you, like a woman possessed.

Your head thrashed, your toes curled, your hands clutched at everything within reach.

Then he curled his fingers inside you and beckoned you to come...

And you did.

You came hard. Spraying all over his good shirt and landing a few drops on his lips for measure.

He licked it off.

Rising, he tugged his pajama bottoms down and moved to your side, stroking the thick length in his fist.

You parted your lips eagerly, and he chuckled — low, rumbling, ending in that hiss that always made you melt.

“What part of you’re not strong enough don’t you understand?” The words rolled out in a sinful timbre.

You pouted, tilting your puppy eyes up at him.

“Can I at least watch?”

His hand worked faster. “Why do you think I’m here? You’ve got front-row seats.” He tapped his cock lightly against your forehead, making you wrinkle your nose as you leaned forward to catch his scent.

He laughed under his breath. “My nasty girl.”

You reached up instinctively, but his voice cut sharp and commanding. “Put it down.”

You dropped your hand at once, a needy whimper spilling out.

“Good,” he murmured.

He dragged his length along your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes, the silken skin tracing your face like a brand. His pumping hand slowed until the head brushed your lips.

A bead of precum smeared against them. You licked it off immediately.

He groaned, his voice raw and strained, and did it again.

You swiped the milky fluid from your lips and stuck your tongue out at him.

He pressed the swollen head against it, smearing more across the pink.

You swallowed, stuck it out again, teasing.

He was gone.

When he set himself on your tongue once more, he gave a few shallow thrusts before pulling away.

Your hands found your breasts, squeezing and rolling them, putting on a show just for him.

“Fuck it,” he growled, biting the words out. He propped your head up and swung a leg over, straddling you.

Your mouth opened wide, ready, as he guided himself between your lips. One hand caressed your cheek, the other steadied his cock.

He eased forward, ginger at first, as if afraid you’d break.

But your arms snaked around him, palms gripping the hard curve of his ass, pulling him in. You moved your head, inhaling his length.

“God-- fuck,” he croaked, voice cracking as you worked him the way only you could.

His hand left your cheek and braced against the headboard, while the other held the back of your head steady as you milked him.

It didn’t take long. He jolted, tried to pull out, but you were done with his carefulness. You kept him buried, throat tightening, swallowing down every hot spill of him until your eyes watered.

When you finally pulled off, it was with a wet pop, leaving him dazed and boneless as he collapsed to the side.

After a long breath, he tapped your thigh.

You rolled to face him.

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The stack of papers sat between them like a quiet accusation. He had arranged them neatly, squared to the edge of the desk, a pen aligned with military precision beside them. Glasses low on his nose. Sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms — veins visible when his hand moved, deliberate, unhurried. She leaned against the doorframe, watching him work. “Do you ever get bored of this?” she asked lightly, nodding toward the mountain of assignments. “Or do you secretly enjoy being this… diligent?” His pen paused mid-sentence. He didn’t look up. “You’re distracting me,” he said flatly, as if stating a fact rather than a complaint. She smiled. “That’s not an answer.” A faint exhale left him — restrained, almost indulgent. He finally glanced at her over the rim of his glasses, expression unreadable. “These need marking,” he said. “They won’t do themselves.” “And you won’t even look at me while you say that?” she teased, stepping closer. “Harsh.” He returned to his work. That was when she knew he was doing it on purpose. The minutes stretched. The room filled with the soft sounds of paper turning, pen scratching, the quiet tick of the clock. She circled him slowly, perching on the edge of the desk, crossing and uncrossing her legs just enough to test him. Nothing. She sighed theatrically. “You know, most people would be flattered by the attention.” “I am,” he replied calmly. “I’m simply not rewarding it.” That earned a pause. She tilted her head. “Oh?” His pen clicked once, decisive. “Strip,” he said. The word landed heavy in the air — not raised, not rushed. A command, clean and final. She stilled. His eyes lifted fully this time, dark, focused, unblinking. “Sit,” he continued, nodding to the space directly in front of him. “Still. Silent.” Her breath caught — not from fear, but from the sudden understanding that this wasn’t flirtation anymore. It was structure. She obeyed. And as he returned his attention to the papers, pen moving once more, she realised with a shiver that this wasn’t about what he wanted from her. It was about what he was willing to deny.

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She moved, her body trembling with a mixture of anticipation and indignation. She lowered herself onto his lap, straddling his thighs, settling the slick heat of her core onto the solid, unyielding length of him. His trousers were a rough barrier against her skin, only his member granted access, a partial satiation designed to torment. Pleasure without purpose is punishment. She complied briefly, her mind racing with a hubris that was quickly fading. She was certain her presence, the heat, the friction, would be enough to break his resolve. He would forego his duties, toss the papers aside, and focus on the act. But he remained indifferent, unassuaged. His hand moved across the page, marking a student’s work with the same detached focus he had before. He wasn't even looking at her. She was the first to break. It started with a miniscule rock of her hips, almost imperceptible, a nervous twitch more than a deliberate movement. Terry knew her all too well. A slight lift, then a shortened breath earned her a scornful look, a slow, deliberate glance over the rim of his glasses that felt like a physical slap. “Still.” The single word was a lash. She defeatedly withdrew and ceased, freezing in place. The humiliation was exquisite. She was so still, she almost felt bored enough to start reading the papers with him, wanting to know which student’s work could possibly have him so captivated. Little did she know that he wasn't even concentrating; this was all an act, a game, and a lesson in one.

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Absentmindedly, the heat and the pressure becoming too much to bear, she recommenced her ministrations, a slow, grinding circle that was purely instinctual. She only realised what she’d done until a firm hand with a burning grip joined her waist, halting her movement instantly. He pushed her down, a grinding stop that forced the friction to an almost unbearable peak. It was the first true sensation she’d felt all night, and a desperate, ragged moan bubbled in her throat. Terry finally lowered his glasses, his dark eyes fixed on hers. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her core. “Silent.” The final command was a promise of pain. She swallowed the sound, but the whimper escaped anyway. “There’s nothing silent about whining. Do I have to remind you, what that means?” She almost jumped off him with excitement at the prospect of finally getting what she wanted, but Terry, ever the tease and control master, didn't even budge. He simply held her in that agonising, friction-filled position, his eyes demanding compliance. Her patience, already worn thin, snapped. She twisted her hips, a sharp, outward act of disobedience, trying to force a reaction, a movement, anything to break the stalemate. She wanted him to reprimand her, to punish her, to give her exactly the thing she had been wanting all along.

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As the last vestiges of control burned away, his eyes darkened — revealing the man beneath. He didn't move the papers, but with a powerful shift of his weight, he used his legs to push the armchair back several feet, creating a necessary, deliberate space. He was still seated, still the master of the scene, but now he was ready to work. His hand remained at her waist, but another met her throat. Not threatening, but a clear, possessive claim. “Four simple instructions,” he growled, his voice low and thick. He thrust upward, a sudden, deep stroke that stole the air from her lungs. Her back arched, a desperate gasp escaping her lips. “Were they too hard?” Thrust. The friction was immediate, the depth agonisingly perfect. She was fully impaled, stretched, and filled, yet she was the one on top, the one seemingly in control. It was a beautiful, terrible irony. “Answer me.” Thrust. He was doing all the work, his hips driving up with a rhythmic, punishing force that made her teeth clench. The rough material of his trousers rubbed against her inner thighs, a constant, abrasive reminder of his partial clothing and her complete bareness. “I asked you a question...” Thrust. Her vision swam, the pleasure too sharp, too sudden to form a coherent thought. She could only shake her head, the movement slight against the pressure of his hand. “No,” she managed to choke out, the words barely a whisper. “No, what?” Thrust. “No, Sir.” Perfectly shaped tears graced the corners of her eyes by now. “No, Sir, what?” Thrust. The question was punctuated by a stroke so deep it hit the back of her womb, sending a jolt of pure white heat through her core. She was a puppet on his strings, her body responding to his every command, his every movement. “No, Sir, I didn’t think you would notice,” she gasped, the confession ripped from her. He released her throat, only to grip her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he set a relentless, driving pace. The chair creaked under the strain, the sound a counterpoint to the sinful rhythm of their bodies. He was punishing her, yes, but the punishment was exactly the pleasure she craved. She came apart on him, a shattering, violent release that left her weak and trembling. Her head fell back, her body convulsing around him, pulling a low, guttural groan from his chest — the first sound of genuine loss of control he had made all night. When it was over, he didn't move. He simply held her, letting the aftershocks subside. He listened as her breathing settled and her body stilled and soothed. Then, with a quiet efficiency that was almost clinical, he adjusted his trousers, re-buckled his belt, and gently lifted her off his lap. She collapsed onto the couch beside the desk, sprawled and spent, her skin slick with sweat, her mind blissfully empty. Terry, however, returned to his chair. He picked up his pen, adjusted his glasses, and pulled the stack of papers back into alignment. The only evidence of the storm that had just passed was the slight tremor in his hand and her laying naked and broken beside him. He cleared his throat, the sound a quiet, final punctuation mark. “Now,” he murmured, his voice back to its familiar, professorial cadence. “Where were we?”

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