Subs and Doms

The next morning, Kyra dragged herself out of bed, every movement a symphony of agony. Her ribs screamed from her father's kicks, fresh bruises blooming purple and yellow across her pale skin. She winced as she pulled on a loose sweater, the fabric scraping against the raw spots on her arms. 

At 20, college should have been her sanctuary, but even here, she carried the weight of home like chains. Sleep had been fitful, haunted by dreams of shadows and intense stares—the man from the bar lingering in her subconscious like a ghost. She shoved the black card deeper into her drawer, determined to forget it. 

That world isn't for me, she thought, splashing cold water on her face to hide the puffiness from crying.

On campus, the autumn leaves crunched under her sneakers as she shuffled to her first lecture: Advanced Psychology. Mia was waiting outside the lecture hall, her usual bright smile faltering when she saw Kyra's hunched posture.

"Girl, you look like you got hit by a truck," Mia said, falling into step beside her. "Still sore from... you know?"

Kyra forced a weak smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah. Dad was in a mood. But I'm fine."

Mia eyed her skeptically, then grinned mischievously. "Fine enough to dish about that mysterious Master from last night? Come on, the Owner giving you his card? That's like winning the BDSM lottery. Are you gonna call him?"

Kyra's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and a flicker of fear. "No way. I'm never going back there, Mia. It was... too much. All those people staring, the sounds... I felt like I didn't belong."

"Aw, but you did! You looked so innocent—they eat that up. And him? He's a big deal. Quiet, powerful. Bet he'd take good care of you." Mia wiggled her eyebrows teasingly.

Kyra shook her head, her voice small and pitiful. "Stop. I'm not like that. I'm just... No one would want to 'take care' of me."

Mia pitied her. 

They slipped into the lecture hall, settling in the back row amid the chatter of students. Kyra pulled out her notebook, trying to steady her trembling hands. The room filled quickly, the air buzzing with pre-class energy. 

Then, the door swung open, and the professor strode in—tall, composed, in a crisp button-down shirt that accentuated his broad frame. 

Kyra's breath caught in her throat. It was him. 

The same unreadable eyes, the same quiet intimidation. The Head Master from the bar, now standing at the front of her class like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Her world tilted. No, it can't be. 

She froze in her seat, her pen slipping from her fingers and clattering to the floor. Panic surged through her—heart pounding so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it. Was this a hallucination? A cruel joke? 

Her mind raced, fragments of last night colliding with the present: the dim bar lights versus the fluorescent classroom glow; his sleek black card versus the syllabus he now held. How could a man who owned an underground BDSM haven be teaching psychology? Did he recognize her? 

Oh God, what if he did?

His gaze swept the room, landing on her. Their eyes met, and time stretched. Those intense, piercing eyes— the same ones that had made her heart pound in the bar—now held hers across the sea of desks. 

Kyra's stomach twisted with fear, a cold sweat breaking out on her forehead. She felt exposed, as if he could see every bruise, every scar, every dark thought swirling in her head. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her hands clenching the edge of her desk to keep from bolting. Please don't say anything. Please don't know her. 

He held her gaze for a few agonizing seconds, his expression unchanging—no flicker of recognition, no surprise. Then, he looked away, clearing his throat as he began the lecture. 

"Good morning, class. Today, we'll delve into the psychology of power dynamics and control. How trust and vulnerability interplay in human relationships."

Kyra couldn't focus. His voice, that low rumble, washed over her like it had in the bar, but now it dissected concepts that hit too close to home. Power dynamics? Control? It was as if he was speaking directly to her shattered life. 

She stared at her blank notebook. ,’How many lives does he live? Bar owner by night, professor by day, Master in secret? Is this fate, or am I cursed?’

Fear gnawed at her— what if he approached her here, in front of everyone? What if he saw through her facade, just like last night? Her leg bounced anxiously under the desk, her aches amplifying with every tense muscle. She felt pitiful, small, like a rabbit in a wolf's den.

The lecture dragged on eternally. He paced the front, gesturing with those strong hands, quoting studies on submission and dominance.

"True control," he said, his eyes briefly flicking back to her row, "isn't about force. It's about earning trust, providing safety in exchange for surrender." 

Kyra's cheeks burned; she ducked her head, pretending to take notes, but her page remained empty. Does he know? Is he taunting her? By the end, she was a mess of nerves, sweat dampening her collar.

The moment he dismissed the class, Kyra bolted, grabbing her bag and weaving through the crowd before he could even glance her way. But she felt his eyes on her back—silent, watching—as she fled.

In the hallway, she leaned against a wall, gasping for air. Mia caught up, wide-eyed. "Kyra? What the hell? You look like you're about to pass out."

"It's him," Kyra whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "The professor... it's the guy from the bar. The Owner."

Mia's jaw dropped. "What? No way. That's insane. Are you sure?"

"Positive. Those eyes... I can't forget them." Kyra hugged herself, wincing at the pressure on her bruises. "What do I do, Mia? This can't be a coincidence."

Before Mia could respond, a familiar voice called out. "Kyra! Wait up!"

Aaron, a lanky boy from her class with messy hair and persistent crushes, jogged over. He'd confessed to her three times already—awkward, pleading declarations she'd gently rebuffed. 

"Hey, I wanted to talk. About us."

Kyra's stomach sank. "Aaron, not now. Please."

But he grabbed her wrist, his grip firm—not painful, but insistent. "Just listen! I've liked you forever. Give me a chance. We could be great together."

Students nearby paused, whispering. "Look at that." 

"She's always so quiet." 

“She really thinks that she’s something.” 

Kyra's face flamed with humiliation, tears pricking her eyes. She tugged her arm, but he held on, pleading. 

"Come on, Kyra. Don't be like this."

Suddenly, a cold, commanding voice sliced through the murmurs. "Let her go now!” 

Kyra jumped at the voice behind her. She didn't dare look around. 

The professor or the Master stood there, his presence dominating the hallway. His eyes were steel, fixed on Aaron. The boy froze, releasing Kyra's wrist like it burned.

"I—I'm sorry, Professor Blackwood," Aaron stammered.

"Grabbing someone without consent is unacceptable," the professor said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. The crowd hushed, watching. "Apologize properly, and think twice next time. This isn't high school."

Aaron muttered apologies, red-faced, before slinking away. Kyra stood frozen, head bowed, her heart racing. Fear and gratitude warred inside her, he'd protected her, just like Mia had described Masters doing. 

But isn't it what he's supposed to do? He's the teacher after all. It's his job. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice softer now, directed at her.

She nodded mutely, unable to meet his eyes, then grabbed Mia's arm and fled.

At the canteen, over lukewarm coffee, Mia confirmed it all. "Holy shit, Kyra. I asked around in my group. His name's Silas Blackwood. Professor by day, owns the bar by night. Keeps it separate, but yeah, same guy. This is wild. Fate or what?"

Kyra stirred her drink absently, overwhelmed. "Fate? Or danger? Why me? Everywhere I turn, he's there. I feel like I'm being hunted." 

Confusion twisted her gut—his intervention had felt safe, protective, but the coincidences terrified her. Was it a sign, or a trap?

The day blurred by, but home loomed like a storm cloud. When she arrived, her father was rifling through her wallet on the kitchen table, pocketing her meager savings from her part-time job.

"Dad, that's mine!" Kyra protested, her voice cracking. "I need it for books."

He whirled, eyes glazed with alcohol. "Ungrateful little shit! After all I do for you?" His hand shot out, slapping her across the face. She stumbled, tasting blood.

"Please, stop—" 

But he advanced, fists raining down. "You think you're better than me? Hiding money like your bitch mother?"

Kyra curled on the floor, sobs wracking her as blows landed on her back, her arms. Pain exploded everywhere, mingling with the old aches. When he finally stormed out, slamming the door, she lay there, broken and despairing. Why fight? What's the point?

Eventually, she dragged herself to her room, collapsing on the bed. Her eyes fell on the drawer—the black card peeked out. This time, she didn't throw it away. 

Trembling, she pulled out her laptop and searched: "What do Masters do for subs in BDSM?"

Articles flooded in: Masters provided protection, safety, guidance, emotional care. In exchange for submission and trust, they offered structure, healing from trauma. "It's about rebuilding," one site said. "Turning pain into power." 

Kyra read hungrily, tears streaming. Could someone really protect me? Care for me?

Her phone buzzed—Mia: "Hey, come to the bar tonight? I heard he would be there. Let's stalk him a bit.” 

Kyra stared at the message but didn't reply. But something inside her wavered, a tiny spark of hope amid the fear. Maybe surrender could actually save her.