STORY 2: LESSON IN SUBMISSION

Content Warning: Blackmail and coercion, non-consensual surveillance, voyeurism, public humiliation, exhibitionism, CNC elements, infidelity.

Trope: Forbidden (Teacher x Student) / Blackmail / Voyeurism / Age Gap / CNC / Neighbors

BLURB

Jenna Jones was drowning in a cold, sexless relationship with a man who treats her like furniture. When she catches herself watching her star student, Matthew, during a soccer match, she thinks it’s just a momentary lapse in judgment. She doesn't know that Matthew has been watching her too, and not just in the hallways but also through a lens in her bedroom.

Now, he’s ready to turn her secret shame into a public reality, and Jenna is horrified to realize that deep down, she’s been waiting for someone to take control.

CHAPTER 1: CRACK IN THE FOUNDATION

My vibrator had more personality than my boyfriend.

I stared at David’s contact photo for a full ten seconds before I pressed call. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him. It was that I already knew exactly how the conversation would go, and I was tired before it even started.

He picked up on the fourth ring. “Hey.” He greeted, his voice flat. 

"Hey," I replied, tucking my legs under me on the couch. “I miss you.”

“Yeah. How’s work?”

That was it. No, I miss you too. No, god, it feels like forever since I’ve seen you. Just how’s work? Like, I was a colleague he ran into in a hallway.

“It’s good,” I said. “I was thinking you could come down this weekend. I could cook, we could—”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got a job Saturday, and the guys have the game Sunday.”

I closed my eyes. “Next weekend?”

“Maybe. I’ll see.”

I sat with that for a moment. Maybe. I’ll see. I had been his girlfriend for three years, and I got maybe I'll see.

“David.”

“What?”

I opened my mouth and closed it again. What was I going to say? That I lay in this bed every night with my hand between my legs thinking about nothing because there was nothing to think about? That the loneliness had started to feel physical, like something pressing on my chest when I woke up in the mornings?

“Nothing,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright. Have a nice day.”

Then he hung up first.

I sat in the silence of my new tiny office, the walls still smelling of fresh paint and the hollow ache of unmet expectations. 

I looked down at my clothes. I had unconsciously taken to wearing baggy, oversized clothes nowadays. 

 

"Miss Jones!” A colleague suddenly stuck her head in my office, making me jump. “You coming to watch the senior match?" 

I forced a polite, practiced smile. "Of course. I’m on sideline duty for the second half."

I made my way toward the main pitch, my clipboard held against my chest like a shield, then took my position near the corner flag, trying to focus on my notes, but the heat of the afternoon was starting to make the polo shirt feel like it was made of lead.

I was thinking about the stack of papers on my desk when something shifted in my peripheral vision, and I looked up.

He was running parallel to the far sideline, fast, skilled, and controlled in a way that was different from the boys around him. 

It was Matthew, the top athlete and student in the school, and also my next neighbor. Though I’d never actually had any direct interactions with him. 

He was a quiet student with intense eyes who always sat in the back of my Wednesday IT class.

His academic year had been delayed because he’d stayed back a year to care for his sick mother. And at just nineteen, he already possessed a rugged maturity that made the 18- and 17-year-olds on the field look like children. 

He was broad-shouldered with lean muscles, his movement possessing a brutal, effortless authority. As I’ve heard his fan base in school call him, he was so ‘Alpha.’

His jersey was already soaked through with sweat, the damp fabric clinging to every corded muscle of his chest and the hard, sculpted lines of his back. 

As he sprinted down the sideline, I watched the way his thick and powerful thighs with muscles defined like a topographical map strained against the hem of his shorts with every stride.

My breath caught in my throat as a sudden, heavy throb deep in my pelvis that made my knees feel like they were made of water. 

I crossed my legs tightly, pressing my thighs together as if I could squeeze out the sensation, but the friction of my trousers against my aching heat only made my head swim.

He’s a fucking student, Jenna," I muttered to myself, forcing my eyes to focus on the scoreboard. “Stop looking.”

I adjusted my glasses, counting the seconds, and shuffled the papers on my clipboard until the edges were frayed. But still, against every shred of my professional dignity, my gaze drifted back.

Matthew was about to take a corner kick, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. 

He looked up at the sun, his head thrown back, exposing the strong line of his throat. 

The girls to my left made a collective dreamy sigh when he grabbed the hem of his jersey and used it to wipe the sweat from his eyes, covering the moan I had let out myself.

The movement exposed well-sculpted abs and a sliver of dark hair that disappeared into the waistband of his shorts.

I felt my nipples peak as heat flared through me in a visceral hunger that made my skin feel feverish. 

I was mortified. 

I was a teacher, a fiancée, a type of woman who had never even had a one-night stand… and I was standing on a public sideline, essentially undressing a student with my eyes while my body wept for a touch David hadn't offered in months.

The shame was a cold weight in my stomach, but the hunger was louder as I watched his legs launch a long ball down the field. The intensity in his eyes showed that he wasn't just playing a game; he was dominating it.

I nearly dropped my clipboard when his dark eyes suddenly locked onto mine across the short distance. My heart hammered against my ribs as he looked at me with eyes so intense and predatory that it felt like he was reaching through the crowd and physically touching me.

I turned my head in the opposite direction, my breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. I felt exposed, as if the baggy clothes I wore were actually transparent, revealing every shameful thought and the dampness between my thighs.

Every time he collided with another player, the sound of skin hitting skin made a strange, hot throb echo in my lower belly.

“You’re just pent-up, that’s all.” I hissed at myself, my face burning. ‘Get a grip.”

But my body didn't care about the faculty handbook. The months of neglect and the raw, masculine heat radiating off Matthew combined into a cocktail that made my head spin.

By the time the final whistle blew, I felt like I was losing my mind. 

I stood there, rooted to the spot, my pulse hammering in my ears, waiting till the players filtered off to the locker rooms before I hightailed out of there. I was so sensitive that the mere friction of my trousers as I moved was enough to make me gasp.

I needed to get away. I needed a cold shower or a dark room… anything to relieve the terrible ache in my groin that was consuming me.

I took the long route that housed the elective classrooms back to the main building in order to avoid the bustling crowds. Because I knew during free days like this, this wing was a ghost town.

I couldn’t walk through the halls of my workplace with a pulse that was screaming for release.

I was passing the old media lab when a sound stopped me in my tracks.

It was a low, guttural groan, like someone in pain. 

I slowed my pace, my heart hammering against my ribs, and approached the door, about to push it open and offer help. 

And every coherent thought I had ever possessed left my body at once when my eyes caught the interior of the room through the slightly ajar door.

Matthew was leaning against the back wall, head tipped back, jaw tight, his eyes locked on something on his phone screen.

His hand was wrapped around himself through his shorts, moving in a slow, deliberate stroke that made my mouth go completely dry.

My thighs clenched. My clipboard pressed into my chest so hard I felt the metal edge through my shirt.

Leave, I told myself. Right now. Turn around and leave.

I stayed.