7

“You’re smiling at your phone again,” Chantelle said, stabbing her fork through a pile of syrup-drenched waffles like it had personally betrayed her. “Let me guess. Mystery Daddy?”

I froze the mid-sip of my coffee.

“It is him.” She gasped. “The man who made you orgasm through a keyboard. Jesus Christ.”

I threw a piece of toast at her face. She caught it with her mouth like a gremlin.

“Don’t say it like that,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“Why not?” she grinned, chewing obnoxiously. “You look like you’re blushing from the inside. Is he texting you right now? Gonna tell you when to touch your nipples next?”

“Chantelle!”

“What?” She shrugged, all innocent eyes and red nail polish. “I’m just proud of you. My little academic virgin turned emotionally damaged erotica princess.”

“I’m not—” I paused. “Never mind.”

The truth was… she wasn’t totally wrong. Our texts had shifted. Grown deeper. More specific. More raw.

He still hadn’t told me his name. He never sent pictures. Never asked for any, either. But when he wrote, it felt like he was inside me. Mentally. Emotionally. And, well, sometimes very literally.

Later that night, curled up in my bed with a statistics textbook I wasn't actually reading, my phone buzzed.

Private Room Service: What do you crave tonight, princess?

My pulse kicked. The words rolled over my skin like silk threaded with heat. I stared at the screen, heart thudding.

Me: I don’t know. Anything?

A short pause from his side. Then—

Private Room Service: Be specific, princess. Do you want to be watched? Touched? Spread open and trembling for me?

The breath caught in my throat. My thighs pressed together reflexively when desire bloomed low and thick in my belly.

Me: All of it.

This time, the pause was longer. Longer still when my phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a message. It was a call.

‘No caller ID’ bloomed on my phone. My heart stuttered.

I hesitated just long enough to feel the tension bloom, then answered. Nothing but silence on the other end. Dead silence.

He turned off his mic, damn it.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could the next message came:

Private Room Service: Don’t talk. Just let me listen.

Private Room Service: Get in bed. Now.

The command sent a shiver straight down my spine. I was already kicking off the covers and slipping out of my panties before I finished reading the next line.

Private Room Service: No toys. No panties. One hand between your legs. The other one on the phone.

Private Room Service: Follow everything I say. I want to hear you obey, princess.

Private Room Service: Tell me when you’re ready.

I was already breathless, man.

Me: Ready.

The reply came fast. Precise.

Private Room Service: Slide your fingers down. Slowly. No rush. I want you aching before you even find it.

I obeyed. My fingers trailed over my thighs, grazing heat, hips twitching, anticipation crackling like static in my skin.

Private Room Service: Now stroke. Just barely. Count to ten. Then stop.

Private Room Service: Let me hear what I’m doing to you.

I closed my eyes, lips parting. “One... two... three...”

I moaned softly. My body buzzed and by the time I reached ‘seven’, I was already gasping. ‘Ten’ felt like torture. My hand froze. My body didn’t.

Private Room Service: You’re not allowed to come. Not until I say. Not until I own it.

His words soaked into me, slow and thick like honey melting on my tongue. My hips moved on their own, needy, desperate for more.

Private Room Service: Now two fingers. Slide in. Let me feel it through the way you moan.

I arched off the bed, head pressing into the pillow as I obeyed.

Private Room Service: Faster. Fuck yourself for me.

The sound I made wasn’t human. I bit my lip to keep from crying out too loud while I kept watching at my screen, waiting for a response.

Private Room Service: Do you wish I was there, pinning you down, whispering all the filthy things I’d do to you?

My fingers trembling uncontrollably as I quickly typed back answer without stopping fingering myself:

Me: Yes. Please.

Private Room Service: I’d hold your wrists above your head, make you beg for every inch. Bite your shoulder until you screamed.

My legs were shaking, thighs clenched, pleasure threatening to explode. A soft moans keeps coming out of my mouth uncontrollably.

Private Room Service: You’ve been such a good girl, princess.

Private Room Service: Now come. Let me hear it.

The orgasm hit me like a crashing tide. I twisted in the sheets, mouth open in a silent scream, clenching around my own fingers as waves of heat rolled through me. I was shaking. Shattered.

And I had never felt more… owned.

I lay limp and wrecked, my skin damp with sweat, my fingers still trembling between my thighs. The phone was quiet now, the call ended at some point—maybe when I came, maybe when he decided he'd heard enough.

I didn’t even remember dropping it.

My chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, every part of me humming with aftershocks. Sleep found me tangled in the sheets, sore, spent, and still aching with the echo of his voice in my mind.

The next morning, reality was a full-on punch to the face. Seminar.

Professor Martinez in his usual black, looking like sin and judgment all in one. I submitted my essay with the usual quiet confidence, slid it onto his desk, and returned to my seat.

Twenty minutes in, he pulled it out. Unfolded it. Didn’t even try to hide the disdain on his face.

“Miss Hale,” he said coolly. “Would you mind standing?”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

“You seem to be under the impression this is a diary circle and not an academic course. So I thought the class might enjoy your interpretation of Woolf and Emotional Identity.”

My stomach twisted. “I— What was wrong with my paper?”

“It’s lazy,” he said flatly. “And emotionally dishonest. You used metaphors without grounding. You quoted theory without context. It reads like the first draft of a sad blog post.”

A few gasps echoed.

“That’s not fair.” I sat straighter. “I spent hours on that paper.”

“Then perhaps next time you should spend days.”

My face flushed. “I can handle critique, Professor. But I won’t be humiliated just because your standards are unrealistic.”

His eyes locked on mine. Cold and sharp.

“Miss Hale,” he said slowly, “if your ego is too fragile for critical evaluation, I suggest you drop my course now.”

Silence. Every eye was on me, but all I could feel was heat. Not embarrassment—tension. White-hot, inexplicable tension.

I sat down hard, heart pounding. I hated him. And I hated that I wanted more.

Later that night, I texted my—how Chantelle is now calling him—‘Mystery Daddy’.

Me: Rough day. Got torn apart in seminar. My professor basically called me pathetic in front of everyone.

Private Room Service: He sounds like an idiot.

Me: He’s… something. Brutal. Cold. I don’t know why I let him get to me.

Private Room Service: Maybe you like being torn apart.

My breath hitched before I texted back with numb fingers.

Me: Maybe I do.

There was a long pause. I bit my lip. Typed again.

Me: Why won’t you tell me who you are?

No reply.

Me: Are you scared you couldn’t back it up in real life? That you’re all talk?

Still nothing.

Me: Or are you just hiding because you know once I see you… I’ll make you prove everything?

Sent. Read. No response.

Hours passed. Then the next day. Still nothing. I stared at my phone in bed, panic blooming like acid.

Had I ruined it? Had I scared him away?