Corrupt me Professor

Crawl

Chapter 3

The word crawl landed in my chest like a bullet.

He said it like it was a law. Like it was already done.

Professor Lorenzo D’Amato sat in his chair, legs spread, hands steepled under his chin. He watched me. He didn’t blink. The silver ring on my collar felt hot, like it knew what was coming.

“Crawl here,” he said again. Softer this time. Worse this time. “On your hands and knees. Like you mean it.”

My pride screamed. My body didn’t listen.

I dropped.

The floor was cold marble, and my knees hit it hard. The dress rode up to my waist. I was bare under it. He knew it. He had planned it.

I put my hands down. My hair fell forward, and I hated him for that, too. For making me hide. For making me want to hide.

“Eyes up,” he said. “I want to see your face when you choose this.”

I looked up.

His eyes were Just certain. Like he had already won, and he was waiting for me to realize it.

I crawled.

One hand, then a knee. Then the other. The marble burned my skin. The collar shifted with every move, and the silver ring tapped my throat. A reminder. His reminder.

It was three steps. It felt like three miles.

When I reached him, his shoes were polished, and they were inches from my hands. I stopped. I didn’t know what to do. My breath came fast. My thighs were shaking.

“Good,” he said.

That word again. Good. It went straight to the place between my legs, and I hated that most of all.

He leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees. Now his face was level with mine. I could see the stubble on his jaw. I could see the scar on his wrist. I could smell him. Wood, smoke, and power.

“Hands on my thighs,” he said.

I hesitated.

His eyebrow went up, just a little. It was a warning.

I put my hands on his thighs. The fabric of his suit was expensive. The muscle under it was harder, hot. He didn’t move. He let me feel him.

“You broke rule four already,” he said. His voice was quiet " professor ..." quiet. The kind he used when a student gave the wrong answer. “Do you know how?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t speak.

“You were going to release,” he said. “When I had my finger inside you. You would have release if I hadn’t stopped. That’s disobedience, Aria.”

He said my name like it was a verdict.

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” He grabbed my chin, He forced me to look at him. “Your body doesn’t lie to me. Your face doesn’t lie to me. You were going to without permission.”

His thumb brushed my bottom lip. The same lip I had used to suck his finger. The same lip I had bitten in his class.

“So now you get punished,” he said.

He stood. I stayed on my knees. I had to look up at him now. He was tall, and he was everywhere.

“Stand,” he said.

My legs didn’t want to work. I stood anyway. The dress fell back down, but it didn’t cover much. It wasn’t supposed to.

He walked to his desk. He opened the top drawer. He took something out.

A ruler.

Not a plastic one from a school store. This one was wood. Dark, polished, and heavy. The kind that hurt.

He turned it in his hands, once. He tested the weight.

“Bend over the desk,” he said. “Hands flat. Like before.”

My stomach dropped. “Lorenzo—”

“Professor,” he corrected. Cold. “You lost the right to my name when you crawled. Try again.”

I swallowed....Professor.”

“Better.” He nodded to the desk. “Now.”

I went to the desk. I put my hands flat. The wood was still cold. Still smelled like me. Like what he had done to me five minutes ago.

He came behind me. I heard the ruler tap his palm. Once. Twice.

“Rule two,” he said. “You don’t release unless I say so. You were going to break it. So I’m going to remind your body who it belongs to.”

He flipped my dress up. I was bare to him. Completely. The air hit my skin, and I shivered.

“Count,” he said.

The ruler came down.

It hit the meat of my ass, and the sound cracked through the room. The pain was sharp, hot, and it stole my breath.

“One,” I gasped.

“Again.”

The second one landed lower. It stung, and my hips jerked. I bit my lip to stop the sound.

“Two,” I said. My voice broke.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t go fast. He gave me time to feel each one. Time to think about it. Time to hate it.

“Three.”

“Four.”

By five, my eyes were wet. Not from sadness. From the fight. My body was fighting him, and it was fighting me. Because the pain was turning into something else. Something low and hot and wrong.

He stopped at six.

His hand replaced the ruler. His palm was warm on my skin, and it hurt, but it was also relief. He rubbed, slow circles, over the places he had marked.

“You’re wet,” he said. He didn’t sound surprised. He sounded satisfied. “You like being punished. You like when I tell you what you are.”

“No,” I said. It was a lie, and we both knew it.

He slid his hand between my legs. I was soaked. Humiliated. He found my c**t, and he circled it with his thumb. Once. Just once.

I jerked like he had shocked me. A sound came out of my mouth. A beg.

“Don’t,” he said. “You don’t get to release. That’s the punishment.”

He took his hand away.

I whimpered. I actually whimpered. I hated myself for it.

He leaned over me. His chest pressed my back. His mouth was at my ear.

“This is what happens when you disobey,” he whispered. “You get hurt, and you get empty. And you thank me for it.”

His teeth grazed my earlobe. Not a bite. A promise.

“Say thank you, Professor,” he said.

My pride was bleeding out on his desk. My body was on fire. My mind was gone.

“Thank you, Professor,” I whispered.

“Good girl.”

He stood up. He fixed my dress, and he pulled it down. He hid me again. Like I was his secret.

“Turn around,” he said.

I turned. My face was wet. My ass was on fire. My legs could barely hold me.

He looked at me. His face showed nothing. But his eyes were darker. His control was thinner. I had done that. Me. The girl on her knees.

“Sit,” he said. He nodded to the chair. “We’re not done with detention.”

I sat. The wood hurt. It was supposed to.

He went back to his chair. He sat, and he watched me. He picked up the ruler, and he set it on the desk between us. A warning. A promise.

“Now,” he said. “We’re going to talk about your midterm. The real one. The one where you argued that power is an illusion.”

He leaned forward.

“I’m going to prove you wrong, Aria. By the end of this semester, you’ll beg me to own you. You’ll beg me to come. And you’ll thank me when I say no.”

He smiled. It wasn’t kind. It was victory.

“And when I finally let you come,” he said, “you’ll scream my name. Not Professor. Lorenzo.”

He picked up a pen. The same kind he had used to grade me.

“Open your legs,” he said.

I didn’t move.

The ruler tapped the desk. Once.

I opened my legs.

He watched me. All of me. The collar, the dress, the marks he had left, and the wet that was still there. The wet that was for him.

“Class is still in session, Miss Voss,” he said. “And you’re failing.”