6

My life has officially split into two parallel universes of psychological warfare.

Universe One: Professor Martinez turning every lecture into my personal academic Hunger Games, complete with intellectual bloodsport and the kind of eye contact that makes me question whether clothes are actually necessary.

Universe Two: Mystery Man turning my phone into a confession booth where I apparently spill every dark thought I’ve ever had about wanting someone to take control of my perpetually responsible existence.

Tonight, I’m sprawled on my bed at 11:47 PM, staring at my phone like it holds the secrets to my rapidly unraveling sanity.

Private Room Service: You’ve been quiet tonight.

Me: Recovering from another day of academic humiliation.

Private Room Service: Your professor again?

Me: Yeah, he has this way of making me feel simultaneously stupid and turned on. It’s psychologically disturbing.

Private Room Service: Is it the authority that appeals to you, or the challenge?

I stare at the question, my pulse quickening. We’ve been dancing around this topic for weeks now, but tonight feels different. More direct. More dangerous.

Me: Both, probably. I spend my entire life being the responsible one, making decisions, taking care of everyone else. Sometimes I want someone else to be in control for once.

Private Room Service: What kind of control?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is territory I’ve only explored in the dark romance novels I hide on my Kindle, in the late-night fantasies that leave me breathless and slightly ashamed.

Me: The kind where I don’t have to think. Where someone else makes the decisions and I just… submit.

Private Room Service: Submit how?

Me: God, you really want me to spell it out?

Private Room Service: I want you to be honest. Complete honesty, or we stop here.

The ultimatum sends heat straight through my core. But also? Perfect opening. Time to see if Mr. Mysterious actually gives a shit or if I'm just convenient entertainment.

Me: Sometimes I just want to be told what to do. How to move, what to wear, when to speak. I want someone to see through all my careful control and just… take it.

Private Room Service: Have someone in mind who could give you that?

Oh, subtle. He's practically gift-wrapping himself for me.

The obvious answer is sitting right there in my contacts under "Private Room Service", the man who had me coming apart against a club wall with nothing but his fingers and that commanding voice.

But where's the fun in the obvious?

Me: Actually, yeah. My literature professor.

Let's see what buttons I can push.

Me: Sometimes I imagine him after class. Keeping me after everyone else leaves. Making me stay bent over his desk while he corrects my "inadequate" analysis. Or on my knees…

The typing indicator appears and disappears. Appears again. Disappears.

Got him.

Private Room Service: Your professor, huh.

Me: Gorgeous looking man. Dark hair, ashy temples, eyes that could strip paint. The way his black shirts clung tightly to his muscled arms… yummy.

Private Room Service: Interesting choice.

That careful neutrality is trying way too hard. I can practically feel him gritting his teeth through the screen.

Me: Are you jealous, sweetheart?

Private Room Service: I don't do jealousy.

Liar. That response came lightning-fast.

Private Room Service: But I’m not interested in fantasy, princess. If you want to truly surrender, you’ll need to prove it.

The use of a pet name makes my skin prickle.

Me: Prove it how?

Private Room Service: Tomorrow morning, you’ll come to campus without panties.

I stare at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Me: Excuse me?

Private Room Service: You heard me. No underwear. All day. Every class, every interaction, every moment—you’ll remember that you’re bare under that pretty little skirt of yours.

Me: That’s insane.

Private Room Service: That’s surrender. The choice is yours.

Me: What if I get caught?

Private Room Service: By whom? Are you planning to advertise your compliance?

Me: No, but…

Private Room Service: But nothing. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a test. Pass or fail.

I set my phone down, hands shaking. This is totally crazy. This is the kind of thing that gets people arrested or expelled or worse. But God help me, I’m already imagining it.

The risk, the secret, the way I’ll feel every time the wind catches my skirt.

Me: And if I do this?

Private Room Service: Then we’ll see how serious you are about letting go of control.

Me: This is blackmail.

Private Room Service: This is a choice. Make it.

I stare at the phone for ten full minutes before typing:

Me: Fine.

Private Room Service: Good girl.

***

The next morning, I stand in front of my closet like I’m preparing for war.

Which, in a way, I am.

I settle on a black skirt that hits mid-thigh—not too short to be obvious, not too long to be safe—and a fitted white blouse that suddenly feels too revealing even though I’ve worn it a dozen times.

The absence of underwear is immediately, overwhelmingly apparent.

Every step across the quad feels like an announcement. The morning breeze catches my skirt, and I have to fight the urge to hold it down.

I’m hyperaware of everything—the way the fabric moves against my bare skin, the way I have to be careful sitting down, the way every male gaze feels like X-ray vision.

By the time I reach Professor Martinez’s lecture hall, I’m wound tighter than a spring.

I take my usual seat—third row, center—and immediately regret every life choice that led me here. The wooden chair is cold against my bare thighs, and I have to cross my legs carefully to maintain any semblance of modesty.

Professor Martinez enters like he owns the world, and today that ownership feels more personal than ever. His eyes sweep the room in their usual predatory survey, and when they land on me, something flickers across his face.

Recognition? Suspicion? Or am I just projecting my guilt onto his perfectly neutral expression?

“Today we’re discussing power dynamics in institutional settings,” he begins.

Of course we are.

“Miss Hale,” he says, and my entire body goes rigid. “Since you seem particularly… alert this morning, perhaps you’d like to start us off.”

“I— What’s the question?”

“The question is whether institutional power inherently corrupts, or whether it simply reveals existing character flaws.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “Your thoughts?”

I shift in my seat, acutely aware of the way the movement affects my bare skin against the chair.

“I think power dynamics are more complex than simple corruption,” I manage. “Sometimes people seek power because they crave control, and sometimes they have control thrust upon them.”

“Interesting distinction. And which do you think is more dangerous?”

The question feels loaded with meaning I can’t decode.

“The ones who crave it,” I say. “Because they’ll use any means necessary to get it.”

“Even submission?” The word hangs in the air between us like a challenge. My pulse races.

“Especially submission,” I reply, surprised by my own boldness. “Because submission given freely is the most powerful gift you can offer someone.”

The silence in the room is deafening. Professor Martinez’s expression is unreadable, but something in his eyes makes my breath catch.

“Very insightful, Miss Hale.” His voice is softer now, almost intimate despite the lecture hall full of students. “Power and surrender are indeed two sides of the same coin.”

I spend the rest of the lecture trying to focus on anything other than the way he looks at me, the way his words seem to carry double meanings, the way every shift in my seat reminds me of my complete exposure.

My phone buzzed as I walked out of class into the hallway.

Private Room Service: How does it feel?

My hands shake as I type back:

Me: Like I’m losing my mind.

Private Room Service: Good. That means you’re finally paying attention.

Me: To what?

Private Room Service: To what you really want.

I look up to find Chantelle waving at me at the end of the hallway, motioning that she is heading to see her fuck buddy. I gave her a thumbs up.

Private Room Service: This is just the beginning, princess. Are you ready for more?

Me: Yes.