Lena
His Rules had stripped away my dignity, but the real change came when Prof decided our sessions wouldn’t be about errands again. They became “private tutorials.”
Since it’s a new week, I started punctual enough or as innocent as anything could be with him.
It’s a rainy Thursday evening, I arrived at his office wearing the required skirt, no panties on, my skin already prickling with anticipation I refused to name.
When I got in, he locked the door behind me and gestured to the chair opposite his desk.
“Tonight, we discuss The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter,” he said commanding. “You will defend your reading of the text. Every weak argument earns a punishment.”
This wasn’t just a literature class. It was foreplay wrapped in academia.
I spoke about power and submission in the
