All Chapters of MY PROFESSOR'S FILTHY GIRL : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Sadie woke alone. The bed was cold on Dominic’s side. Sunlight poured through the open curtains, too bright, too ordinary for what her body felt like. Every muscle ached. Her ass throbbed with a deep, persistent burn that made even the softest shift of the sheets feel like a reminder. Between her legs she was sticky—his cum from the night before had dried in places and still leaked in others. She could feel it when she tried to close her thighs. She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way he had stretched her open, the way he had held her afterward like the ownership was already complete. Her throat felt tight. Somewhere under the soreness and the shame, a low, traitorous pulse had started between her legs again. The door opened without a knock. Dominic walked in carrying a glass of water and a small tube of ointment. He was already dressed for the day—dark trousers, white shirt open at the collar, watch gleaming. He looked rested. Controlled. Like he

The phone sat on the nightstand like a loaded gun. Sadie had not touched it since Dominic placed it in her hand the day before. She had carried it upstairs, set it down, and stared at it until the light outside faded. Calling her mother should have been the easiest thing in the world. Instead it felt like stepping onto thin ice. She waited until late morning, when the house was quiet and Dominic had left her alone after breakfast with only one instruction: “When you decide to use it, you use it in the study. On speaker. With me present.” At eleven-forty she walked downstairs with the phone in her hand. Dominic was already behind the desk, reviewing something on a tablet. He looked up when she entered, took in the phone, and simply pointed to the chair across from him. Sadie sat. Her pulse was loud in her ears. “One call,” he said. “Weekly. You will not tell her where you are. You will not ask for help. You will not cry. If your voice breaks, the call ends and the privilege is go

The book was waiting on the library desk exactly as he had said. It was old, the leather cover worn soft at the edges, the pages thin and slightly yellowed. A single black ribbon marked a section near the middle. Sadie sat in the leather armchair by the window, the same chair she had used in the early days when she still believed she could keep some part of herself separate, and opened it to the marked place. The text was dense. Philosophical. It spoke of ownership not as theft, but as a form of responsibility—of the way a thing fully claimed begins to reshape itself around the hand that holds it. There were passages about the difference between possession and belonging, about the quiet violence of being seen so completely that resistance becomes a kind of performance. Sadie read slowly. Certain lines caught and held. *The collected object does not remain unchanged by the act of collection. It begins to reflect the desire of the one who keeps it.* *What is taken by force may sti

The black town car rolled to a stop beneath the glowing portico of the Voss estate just after nine. Music spilled out through the open French doors—low, expensive, the kind of carefully curated playlist that said *we have money and taste*. Champagne glasses glittered under string lights. Laughter floated across the manicured lawn. Elara Voss stepped out of the car in a dress that was deliberately too much for a family birthday party. Black. Silk. Cut low between her breasts and high on one thigh. The kind of dress that made people look twice and then pretend they hadn’t. She had chosen it for one reason only. Damien Cross would be here. She hadn’t seen him in eleven months. Not since last summer, when she’d still been pretending the way her pulse kicked every time he walked into a room was just leftover teenage idolization. That lie had died the night of her twentieth birthday, when he’d hugged her goodbye and she’d felt the hard line of his body against hers for half a seco

Damien didn’t sleep. He stood under the scalding spray of his penthouse shower until the water ran cold, cock still half-hard and aching, the taste of Elara’s cunt lingering on his tongue no matter how many times he brushed his teeth. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her: head thrown back against the stone wall, thighs trembling around his wrist, those wide green eyes locked on his while she came apart on his fingers with his hand clamped over her mouth. *Victor’s daughter.* The thought should have killed the want. Instead it made it filthier. By six a.m. he was in his home office, already dressed in a black shirt and trousers, staring at the city skyline without seeing it. He had three missed calls from Victor and a text that simply read: *Breakfast tomorrow? Need to run numbers on the Singapore deal.* Damien’s reply was curt. *Can’t. Tied up all day.* A lie. He was free. He just couldn’t sit across a table from the man whose daughter he’d finger-fucked against