“Ahh fuck yeah…”The sound slips out before I can cage it back. A moan, soft and perfectly timed. Measured, rehearsed. Reflex, not real.Not because Evan is making me feel something. Not because pleasure is unfurling inside me. No, it’s because I’ve learned the script. Because that’s what girlfriends do.His weight smothers me, pinning me into the mattress. His chest damp and sticky against mine, his rhythm steady and predictable. Thrust, pull back. Thrust, pull back. A machine could do it better.Evan always starts slow, like he’s seen in some late-night movie where “romance” is supposed to simmer into passion. He thinks it’s foreplay. He thinks it builds suspense. It never does.The room is dark except for the glow of the alarm clock, but my eyes stay open, pinned on the ceiling fan. The old thing creaks with every slow spin, a hypnotic circle I count to distract myself.One. Two. Three.Anything to stop me from noticing the way my body is numb.I don’t think about Evan . I don’t

Last Updated : 2025-09-01

“He didn’t make you come again, did he?”Chantelle’s voice cracked through the apartment like a fire alarm — shrill, merciless, and impossible to ignore at 8:42 a.m. The kind of question that didn’t care if the neighbors were listening.I perched on the kitchen counter, oversized shirt hanging off my shoulder, legs swinging idly. Coffee mug clutched in both hands like it was the only stable relationship I had left.My silence was apparently answer enough.“I heard your stupid rose buzzing the whole night,” Chantelle added with a wicked grin, yanking oat milk from the fridge and shaking it like it had personally offended her.Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Can you not announce that to the entire building?”“Girl, please.” She flipped her curls over one bare shoulder, standing there in a sports bra and satin boxers like she owned the sun. “Half this building’s got a vibrator named after a flower or a fruit. Tulip, rose, mango, peach. If yours hums, welcome to the club.”I groaned, burying m

Last Updated : 2025-09-01

“Another shot.”The words come out louder than I intend, sharp as glass against the vanity. The empty tumbler clatters against the wood with a satisfying crack, like punctuation on my unraveling.Chantelle lifts her head from where she’s sprawled across my bed, already three shots in herself, eyeliner smudged to perfection. One brow arches in mock warning. “Babe, we haven’t even left yet. What are you trying to do, set a personal record?”“I’m pacing myself perfectly,” I lie, fingers already reaching for the vodka. My pulse thrums with every pour. “This is called pre-gaming with intention.”She snorts, rolling onto her stomach to watch me line my lips in the mirror. “Intention to what? Black out before eleven?”“Intention to forget the five years of my life I wasted on that asshole.” My mascara wand trembles in my grip, betraying more than I want her to see. I drag it upward anyway, blinking through the sting. “Is that too much to ask?”“Fair point.” Chantelle sits up, gaze sharpening

Last Updated : 2025-09-01

I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.Not just the way they moved—though God, they moved like they had a doctorate in unraveling nerve endings. No hesitation, no fumbling, no wasted motion. Just precision. Skill. Ownership.But more than technique, it was the intent. The way he touched me like my body wasn’t unfamiliar territory, but a map he’d memorized years ago. Like every curve, every tremor, every desperate gasp had been his from the beginning.Twenty-four hours later, phantom touches still haunted me. The imprint of his fingers wrapped around my throat. The relentless slide of them inside me. The raw, dizzying way he’d made me want to forget my name and beg for his instead.My vibrator had been working overtime since I got home, but it was useless. Frustrating. Like trying to scratch an itch with oven mitts. Wrong rhythm. Wrong depth. Wrong everything. Nothing could mimic him.“Earth to Space Cadet.”Chantelle’s voice snapped through my spiral, dragging me back to reality. I

Last Updated : 2025-09-01

The train back to campus always feels like surfacing from a three-day drowning.I'm sprawled on my bed, staring at my color-coded planner like it's going to spontaneously combust. My phone's been buzzing all weekend—two days of this dangerous texting game.Every message felt like he was still making me come apart with those ridiculously skilled fingers. Still no clue how he got my number or what his actual name is.I kept responding like some kind of addict. Yesterday I finally cracked and asked what I should save him as in my contacts.Me: How's your mysterious life of crime?Unknown: Thriving. Your parents lecture you about responsible choices?Me: Obviously. Speaking of which, what should I save you as in my phone? 'Random Hookup #3' feels a bit harsh.Three dots. Forever.Unknown: ‘Private Room Service’.I actually choked on my coffee. Arrogant bastard knew exactly what he was advertising—and exactly what he'd left unfinished.Me: You're unbelievable.Unknown: But accurate. Five-s

Last Updated : 2025-09-03

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 distu

Last Updated : 2025-09-04

“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

Last Updated : 2025-09-05

All Chapters of Bend me over, Professor : Chapter 1 - Chapter 7

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