Graded in Sin

Front row

Emma slipped into the lecture hall ten minutes early, heart still racing from the office. She had cleaned up as best she could in Kane’s private bathroom, wiping away the evidence of what he’d done to her, straightening her blouse, smoothing her skirt. But nothing could erase the faint ache between her legs or the sticky warmth that still lingered.

She took the seat in the very front row, exactly as ordered. The choice felt like surrender.

Students trickled in around her, chatting about weekend plans and upcoming midterms. No one noticed anything different. To them, she was still Emma Sinclair; reliable, straight-A, quiet. The girl who never caused trouble.

But inside, she was unraveling.

Professor Kane entered exactly on time, commanding the room without effort. His suit was impeccable again, gray eyes cool and professional as he set his notes on the podium. He didn’t look at her right away. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence alone made her thighs press together under the desk.

The lecture began. Strategic frameworks. Competitive analysis. Words she should have been writing down. Instead, her pen hovered uselessly over the page while her mind replayed every second in his office—the way he’d bent her over, the way he’d made her come while someone stood right outside the door, the way he’d threatened to expose her if she fought him.

Halfway through, her phone vibrated silently in her bag.

She glanced down.

Unknown number.

But she knew exactly who it was.

Keep your legs slightly apart. Now.

Emma’s breath hitched. She looked up. Kane was still speaking, gesturing toward the projection screen, voice steady and authoritative. His eyes flicked to her for one brief, scorching second before returning to the class.

Her cheeks burned. Slowly, under the cover of the desk, she parted her knees a few inches.

Another text.

Wider.

She obeyed, heat flooding her face and pooling lower. The cool air of the lecture hall brushed against her bare skin, she hadn’t dared put her panties back on after the office, terrified they’d be damp and obvious.

Good girl. Now touch yourself. Lightly. Just your c**t. Don’t let anyone see.

Emma’s hand trembled as she slipped it beneath the desk, under her skirt. Her fingers found her swollen, sensitive c**t. She was already wet again…embarrassingly so. The lightest circle made her bite her lip to stifle a sound.

Kane continued the lecture without pause, but she could feel his attention on her like a physical touch. Every time he turned toward her side of the room, her fingers moved a little faster, pleasure building in dangerous waves.

She was right there…front row, surrounded by fifty other students, secretly touching herself for her professor.

The risk made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Her breathing grew shallow. She tried to keep her face neutral, eyes fixed on the screen, but her hips shifted involuntarily in the seat. Another text buzzed.

Stop.

Her fingers froze instantly.

You don’t come unless I allow it. Understand?

She didn’t dare reply. She simply nodded once, almost imperceptibly, while pretending to take notes.

The rest of the lecture was pure torture. Kane’s voice wrapped around her like silk and steel. Every example, every pause, every glance in her direction reminded her who was in control. By the time he dismissed the class, she was trembling with unmet need, thighs slick, n*****s tight against her bra.

Students packed up and left. Emma stayed seated, waiting for the room to empty, praying no one would notice how flushed she looked.

When the last person walked out, Kane finally approached her desk. He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes.

“Stand up,” he said quietly.

She rose on shaky legs.

He reached out, adjusting a stray lock of her hair with surprising gentleness. “You did well today. But next time, I expect you to be wetter. And quieter.”

Emma swallowed. “This… this is insane. People are going to notice something.”

“Let them notice.” His voice dropped lower. “As long as they don’t know the truth. You’re mine now, Emma. In this classroom. In my office. Wherever I decide to take what belongs to me.”

A fresh wave of heat and fear twisted in her belly. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to run.

But when he leaned in and brushed his lips against her temple—soft, almost tender—something inside her cracked.

“Tonight,” he murmured. “My apartment. Eight o’clock sharp. Wear something easy to remove.”

He stepped back, the professional mask sliding back into place as if nothing had happened. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Sinclair.”

Then he walked out, leaving her standing alone in the empty lecture hall, body aching, mind spinning, and her future dangling by the thinnest, most dangerous thread.

Emma pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to calm her racing pulse.

She was falling into something she didn’t understand.

And the worst part was…she wasn’t sure she wanted to stop falling.