Bend me over, Professor のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

She was exactly where I wanted her—on the floor, trembling, marble biting into her knees like penance. But it wasn’t pain she flinched from—it was the moment itself. That flicker in her gaze when she realized she couldn’t talk her way out of this. Not this time. Her body was caught between instincts: protect or submit. Her arms were stiff at her sides, fingers curled into useless fists, like she didn’t know whether to fight or beg. That hesitation—that crack between resistance and surrender—that’s where truth hides. I stood over her, silent, still. Sometimes stillness is more violent than force. She looked up. Didn’t look away. That was new. That was rare. Sia never looked this long. None of them ever did. But Floris met my stare like she was daring me to flinch first. “Just because my brother has medical debt,” she rasped, her voice fracturing like glass under a boot, “and I’m stuck paying it off—doesn’t mean you get to pull this twisted power-trip bullshit with

I built my empire on one simple truth: everyone has a price. Some people want money, others want power, a few want revenge. But everyone—everyone—wants something badly enough to compromise their principles.Floris Middleton was supposed to be no different.Sia handed her the cocktail dress at exactly 3:47 PM. "Corporate networking event in Rotterdam," she explained clinically. "TimeCorp's quarterly launch party. Timothy Hartwell will be there."I watched through security feeds as Floris held up the navy silk dress—expensive enough to open doors, subtle enough not to scream corporate spy."This looks like it costs more than my rent," Floris said."Mr. Brighton's events require appropriate attire.""And my job is to…?""Network. Listen. Report back on TimeCorp's surveillance contracts with the European Union."Standard corporate intelligence. The kind of thing I'd orchestrated for years without a second thought.What I didn't expect was finding myse

I shouldn’t have left. I cannot get Floris damn Middleton out of my mind. I needed a distraction. The Red Velvet Room was already prepared when I walked in—lights low, jazz humming through the hidden speakers, restraints laid out like offerings on silk. I’d requested someone from the list. Yes, I have a list of disposable girls. The quick fuck type of girls. Someone eager. Someone forgettable.She arrived five minutes later, breathless and obedient, dressed exactly as instructed—nothing but a black satin robe, heels, and red lipstick trying too hard to look sinful.“On the bed,” I said, already unfastening the cuffs from the wall.She moved quickly. Good. Quick meant trained. Quick meant she’d practiced submission like a performance.But I wasn’t interested in performance.The robe slipped from her shoulders. She wasn’t nervous. Not really. She was too used to this. To being looked at like a fantasy instead of a tool. But I wasn’t fantasizing. I was hunting for silence—chasing distr

She came back wrecked.I knew before I saw her. The air in the surveillance suite shifted—like something sacred had been cracked. The live feed confirmed it. She stumbled into her penthouse like her legs had forgotten how to function. One heel missing. The other scuffed. That stubborn mouth slack with something dangerously close to surrender. Her fingers twitched like they weren’t sure what to hold anymore—rage, fear, or that flash drive she hadn’t thrown away. She looked bruised by the night, flushed in places she shouldn’t be, but still upright. Still wearing the dress I’d commissioned three weeks ago—tight black velvet, slit to the hip. She hadn’t even made it to the zipper. Just collapsed onto the bed like someone unspooled.She was still mine.Sia arrived precisely seven minutes later, knocking once before letting herself in like she always did—cold, clean, effective.“Get ready,” she said.“For what now? More torture? A company picnic in

The office always smelled like lemon and judgment. That same stale citrus in the air, like it was trying to disinfect more than the floors.I walked in without knocking. She never locked the door. Said it was a test of control—mine, not hers.“Eric,” she said, not surprised. “I was starting to think I’d been replaced by surveillance logs and whiskey.”“You’d like that.”“Not really. Surveillance doesn’t argue back. And whiskey doesn’t look this angry.”I sat without being asked. Didn’t take off my coat. Didn’t make eye contact. Her pen clicked once and went still.“Fourteen months since your last session.”“You keep count.”“You pay me to.” She leaned back. “So. Why now?”I said nothing. Let the silence stretch until it got awkward, until it snapped between us like a tension wire. Her gaze didn’t flinch. Just watched. Always watching.“Is it her?” she asked finally.My jaw clenched. I didn’t answer.“Let me rephrase. Is it about the gi