The air in her upscale apartment crackled with a different kind of tension now. Dr. Aris Thorne—my brilliant, severe former thesis advisor—stood before me, her gaze stripping me faster than her words ever could. Years had passed since graduation, but the power dynamic was intact, supercharged by the hungry look in her eyes.

“You requested this,” she stated, her voice a low, commanding purr. “To be my good girl again. But this syllabus is mine to write.”

My breath hitched as she closed the distance. Her fingers, once only for pointing at data errors, traced my jaw. “You will call me Ma’am. You will not come unless I permit it. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I whispered, my cunt already throbbing.

She guided me to her plush leather chaise. “On your knees. Present yourself.” I obeyed, ass in the air, face pressed into the cool leather. I heard the slick sound of a lube bottle, then felt the cool drizzle between my ass cheeks. “Such a pretty, needy hole,” she mused, a single gloved finger circling my tight rosebud, making me gasp. “But not the main event. Not yet.”

Her other hand slid between my thighs, finding my soaked slit. “Dripping for me already. Pathetic.” Her thumb found my swollen clit, applying a firm, maddening pressure. “This little button is mine.” She began to rub slow, deliberate circles, the rough pad of her thumb sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. I whimpered, pushing back against her hand.

“Ah-ah,” she chided, removing her touch entirely. I groaned