All Chapters of THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The alarm rips me out of sleep at 5:47 a.m., same as every weekday, but today my body feels like it’s been dragged behind a danfo through Third Mainland traffic. My phone is still face-down on the rug where I left it last night. I don’t touch it. Not yet.I shower in scalding water, trying to scrub away the phantom sensation of eyes on my skin. The photo,me, spread open, cock in hand, face twisted in desperation,keeps flashing behind my eyelids. Someone was here. In my apartment. Or at least close enough to capture that angle. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.By 7:15 I’m dressed: charcoal slim-fit trousers, pale blue shirt rolled to the elbows, navy tie knotted just tight enough to remind me I’m still pretending to be the competent junior analyst everyone thinks I am. I check the mirror. No visible bruises from kneeling too long. No telltale flush. Just Alex Thompson, twenty-eight, top-tier projections guy, the one who always has the slide deck ready five minutes early.I gra

The rest of Thursday drags like wet cement.I spend the morning pretending to refine the updated FX model Damian demanded, but every time I glance at the clock, my mind replays last night: his fingers brushing my tie, the way he said my name,Alex,like he was tasting it. The way he told me to wear something that makes me feel exposed next time.I didn’t wear anything under the suit today. I couldn’t. The thought alone had me half-hard during the commute, thighs clenched against the leather seat of the Uber. Now I’m paying for it. Every shift in my chair reminds me how empty I feel, how badly I want friction I’m not allowed to have.By 3 p.m. the office is buzzing with pre-weekend energy. Tunde’s already planning which bar in VI we’re hitting tomorrow. I nod along, smile when I’m supposed to, but my phone has been burning a hole in my pocket since I woke up.No new messages from ShadowMaster. Nothing from the unknown number either. The silence is louder than any command.At 4:45 I slip

The drive to Hotel Eko takes forever and no time at all.Lagos traffic is merciful tonight,unusually so,like the city itself is holding its breath. The plug shifts with every bump on the road, a dull, insistent pressure that keeps me on edge, keeps me leaking into the lace panties. The bralette rubs against my nipples with every breath; the stockings cling to my thighs like a second skin under the suit trousers. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other clenched on my lap to stop myself from palming my cock through the fabric. I can’t come. Not yet. Not without permission.I park in the underground garage at 8:52. Eight minutes early. My heart is trying to punch through my ribs.The lobby is all marble and gold trim, soft lighting, the murmur of expensive conversations. I feel obscene walking through it,lace and steel hidden under a charcoal suit that suddenly feels too thin. A bellhop nods politely. I nod back, throat tight.The lift ride to the 14th floor is silent except for the soft

The alarm screams at 5:45 a.m., same as always, but today it feels like a personal attack.I slap it silent and lie there in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets are still damp in places. My thighs ache. My hole is tender, swollen, every small shift reminding me of how thoroughly Damian claimed it last night. The black silk robe is tangled around my waist; the lingerie is gone,somewhere on the floor, probably kicked under the bed when he left.He left.After everything,after fucking me until I sobbed his name, after showing me the camera, after laying out the blackmail in calm, clinical detail,he simply dressed, kissed my forehead like I was something precious, and walked out.The door clicked shut at 1:17 a.m. I checked the clock. Then I checked it again every ten minutes until I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion.Now it’s morning.Saturday. No work. But he said 8 a.m. sharp. His office.I drag myself upright. Every muscle protests. My reflection in the bathroom m

Sunday passes in a fever dream of waiting.I don’t leave my apartment. Don’t answer texts from Tunde asking why I ghosted Friday drinks. Don’t open the work email that pings at 11:17 a.m. with the subject “Q3 Review – Urgent.” I just lie on the couch in boxers, plug still inside because taking it out feels like surrender, and stare at the ceiling while replaying every second of the weekend.Damian’s cock in my mouth. His hand around my throat. The USB drive is still in my coat pocket like a live grenade. Horizon’s woman,her sharp eyes, her calm threat. The way she said “you’re wearing his come like perfume.”I should have thrown the drive in the lagoon last night. Should have told Damian everything the second I knelt in his penthouse.Instead I let him fuck me until dawn.He took me on the bed first,face down, wrists cuffed to the headboard with silk ties he pulled from a drawer like they’d been waiting. Slow at first, almost tender, whispering “good boy” every time I arched into him.