DADDY'S CURVY OBSESSION

CHAPTER 6

Zara’s POV

Those two words in that low, certain voice did something devastating to my breathing.

He took one slow step to the side, circling just behind my shoulder, close enough that I could feel the heat of him at my back.

“What you are seeing,” he told the class, voice calm and instructional, “is the beginning of a voluntary submissive response when trust is present. Miss Pierce followed the instruction immediately. No hesitation. Feet together. Hands at her sides. She did not question it.”

He was right. I hadn’t questioned it. I had simply done it—because it was him asking. Because I wanted to.

“That compliance,” he said, his voice low and measured as he began walking slowly around to my other side, “is not weakness. It is a choice. A deliberate, conscious choice.”

I tracked the warmth of him moving behind me without turning my head, every nerve in my body hyper-aware of exactly where he was. The soft click of his dress shoes on the tile. The faint rustle of his shirt. The heat radiating from his body as he passed just behind my left shoulder.

“And in a person with a genuinely submissive orientation,” he continued, voice dropping even quieter, “the act of making that choice produces a specific and immediate physical response.”

He stopped directly behind me.

My breath caught. I could feel him there—close enough that the air between us felt charged, close enough that the warmth of his chest brushed the back of my hair, but still not touching. Not once.

“The heart rate shifts,” he said, so near my ear now that the low timbre of his voice vibrated against my skin. “The breathing changes. There is a loosening in the chest… a softening of the shoulders… and the body—”

He paused.

I felt him lean in just a fraction more. Not touching. Just present. So close I could smell the clean, masculine scent of him—warm skin and faint cologne—and the heat of his breath ghosted across the shell of my ear.

“The body,” he murmured, the words slow and deliberate, meant only for me even though the whole class was listening, “responds.”

And that was when it hit me.

A deep, heavy throb pulsed between my thighs—sudden, powerful, undeniable. My p***y clenched hard, a hot rush of slick wetness flooding my panties in an instant. My c**t swelled and throbbed in time with my racing heartbeat, the sensitive bundle of nerves aching so sharply I had to press my lips together to keep from making a sound.

My heavy breasts felt tighter, fuller, n*****s stiffening into painful little peaks that strained visibly against the thin white fabric of my top. Heat bloomed low in my belly and spread outward, making my thick thighs tremble slightly where they pressed together under the mid-thigh plaid skirt.

I kept my hands exactly at my sides. I kept my feet together. I kept my eyes forward.

But inside I was melting.

I had written this.

I had written this exact moment in chapter after chapter—Grey Writes had described the sudden, uncontrollable throb, the rush of slick heat, the way a woman’s body betrayed her before her mind could catch up. I’d typed scene after filthy scene about a submissive girl standing perfectly still while a dominant man circled her and spoke low in her ear, and my readers had left comments telling me it felt so real they were ruined for real life.

I had been writing from imagination.

Until right now.

Right now, in the middle of a crowded classroom, my professor—my mother’s ex-husband—was standing behind me, voice velvet-rough against my ear, and my body was doing everything I had only ever described in fiction. My p***y was soaked, the lace of my panties clinging wetly to my swollen folds. My c**t pulsed with every slow, measured word he spoke. My heavy t**s rose and fell faster, n*****s so hard they ached, and a fresh trickle of arousal slipped down between my thighs as I fought to stay perfectly still.

“You can return to your seat, Miss Pierce,” Dom said, stepping away at last and addressing the class in his normal, composed volume. The loss of his warmth behind me felt like being doused in cold air.

I walked back to my seat on shaky legs. I sat down carefully, thighs pressed tight together, notebook open in front of me like armor.

The pulse between my thighs didn’t stop. It had quieted, but it was still there—slow, insistent, demanding. I could feel how wet I was every time I shifted, the evidence of what had just happened soaking into the fabric and making my cheeks burn hotter.

I had been writing about submission for two years.

I had never felt it before. Not like this. Not in my body.

Until now.

And God help me, I craved more.

The second Dom dismissed the class I grabbed my bag and got out of that room as fast as I could without actually running. I kept my head down, notebook clutched tight to my chest like it could hide how hard my n*****s still were, how flushed my face was. I didn’t look back at the front of the room. I was terrified that if I did, he would look back at me and just know. One glance and he would see everything I was desperately trying to keep off my face—the way my body had betrayed me completely the moment he leaned in and said the body responds.

I pushed through the building doors and out into the sharp cold.

The wind hit my warm cheeks and my bare legs and helped a little, cooling the flush on my skin. But it did nothing to stop the slow, heavy throb still pulsing between my thighs.

It didn’t make sense.

I pressed my cold hand to my burning face as I walked.

Of all the men in the world whose voice could have done that to me… it had to be him. My mother’s ex-husband. My professor. A man who had been married to my mum for exactly one year when I was sixteen.

I groaned quietly under my breath.

I needed food. I needed a normal conversation with a normal person. I needed to sit somewhere warm and talk about something completely ordinary until my brain started working properly again.

Marcus.