DADDY'S CURVY OBSESSION

CHAPTER 5

Zara’s POV

The corridor was loud and bright and normal, but I walked through it feeling like every inch of my skin was humming. My heavy breasts bounced softly with each step, n*****s still tight and obvious against the white shirt. My thick thighs rubbed together, spreading the slick mess between them. By the time I stepped outside into the sharp January cold, my cheeks were burning and my p***y was so wet I could feel it with every movement.

I stopped on the steps, pressed cold fingers to my flushed face, and let myself feel it all.

He had looked at me. Not just at my face. At all of me—especially the full, heavy curve of my breasts—and he had said it out loud. You’ve grown. The words echoed in my head, low and deliberate, while my body remembered every second of his gaze. I understood perfectly what that look had meant. I also understood that he was my mother’s ex-husband, my professor, a man forty-four years old, and I would be sitting in his classroom three times a week for the rest of the semester.

And underneath all of it, quiet and inconvenient and refusing to be ignored, was the one thing I’d never admitted out loud: I had always thought he was sexy. Even back then. Even when he belonged to someone else. Especially then.

When he said my name like that—low, deliberate, certain—I wanted him to say it again.

My alarm went off at eight on Monday.

I woke up at eight thirty.

The numbers on my phone hit me like ice water. Dominic’s class started at nine. I was out of bed in a heartbeat, heart already hammering. No time to waste. I rushed straight into the shower, twisting the knob to hot and stepping under the spray before it even had time to warm up fully.

Water sluiced over my body in frantic rivulets. I lathered soap over my heavy breasts fast, feeling them bounce and sway under my palms, n*****s tightening instantly from the contrast of hot water and cool air. I didn’t linger. I couldn’t. I rinsed, twisted my long dark hair into a messy wet knot, and stepped out, dripping.

Thirty seconds to dry off, another thirty to throw on the first things my hands grabbed—a snug white fitted top that clung to every inch of my full, heavy t**s and a flattering plaid skirt that hugged my waist and fell to a modest mid-thigh length, the fabric smooth and professional but still showing off the soft, generous shape of my legs. I shoved my feet into white trainers, gave myself one frantic glance in the mirror—cheeks already flushed, n*****s faintly visible through the thin cotton, curves on full display—and decided it would have to do. I snatched my coat, shoved my notebook under my arm, grabbed my bag, and ran.

I sprinted across campus with my coat flapping half-on, the January wind whipping around my legs and slipping under the hem of the skirt.

I took the stairs two at a time and spilled out onto a completely empty third-floor corridor. Everyone was already inside.

I pushed the door open and stepped in.

Every single head in the room turned toward me at once.

Thirty students. And Dom at the front, marker still raised to the board, mid-sentence. The second the door clicked shut behind me his dark eyes locked on mine and he stopped talking completely. The room went dead silent.

“Miss Pierce.”

His voice came out low, even, and somehow filled every corner without raising a single decibel. Not angry. Just certain. Commanding in that quiet way that made my stomach tighten and heat bloom low in my belly.

“You are late.”

I stood there in the doorway, coat hanging off one shoulder, notebook clutched to my chest, the plaid skirt settling neatly around my mid-thighs. I could feel the warmth in my face from running turn into something hotter, deeper. My heavy breasts rose and fell fast under the thin white top, n*****s visibly stiff against the fabric from the cold and the sudden weight of his stare.

“I’m sorry,” I said, voice a little breathless. “It won’t happen again.”

His eyes moved over me. Slow. Deliberate. Starting at my face, sliding down my throat, lingering on the way the fitted top stretched tight across my full, heavy t**s, then lower—over the soft curve of my belly, the way the plaid skirt hugged my wide hips, all the way down my legs and back up again. The look lasted maybe ten seconds. It felt like forever. I felt it everywhere, like warm fingers tracing every curve.

“See that it doesn’t,” he said, still perfectly calm, but there was a new edge beneath the words that made my thighs press together instinctively.

Two students near the back snickered quietly.

“Yes, sir,” I answered before I could stop myself. The word just slipped out, low and automatic.

Something dark and sharp flashed across his face—there and gone in an instant. His jaw flexed once. He turned back to the board like nothing had happened.

“Sit down, Miss Pierce.”

I walked to the nearest empty seat in the second row, thighs rubbing together with every step, the plaid skirt shifting smoothly against my skin. I dropped into the chair and flipped my notebook open, trying to look normal while my pulse hammered between my legs.

And then I saw the board.

Written at the top in his neat, controlled handwriting:

Dominance and Submission — Power Exchange.

Of every possible topic. On the one morning I stumbled in late, already flushed and flustered. This was what he’d written.

I picked up my pen and told myself to focus.

The first part of the lecture I managed to follow. I’d been writing about power exchange for two years. I knew the theory. But when Dom started talking about submission, something in me started to unravel.

“The submissive individual makes a deliberate and conscious choice to give control to another person,” he said, voice low and steady, each word landing like a slow stroke. “They are not forced. Not manipulated. They choose it. But that choice requires a level of trust most people never experience in their lifetime.”

I wrote it down and raised my hand.

“What I don’t understand,” I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could think better of it, “is how that choice actually feels. How a capable, independent person gets from knowing it in their head to actually experiencing it in their body. What does that process look like?”

Several heads turned toward me. Dom’s eyes moved to mine and stayed there, dark and unreadable.

“That,” he said, voice dropping just a fraction, “is the right question.”

He walked to the center of the room and stopped, marker still in his hand, the whole class watching.

“The intellectual understanding and the lived experience are two completely separate things,” he continued, calm and measured. “You can research submission thoroughly and still have no real understanding of it. Because it does not live in the mind.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “It lives in the body. And it only becomes real under the right conditions.”

“What conditions?” I asked, voice quieter now.

“Trust,” he said simply. “Safety. And a dominant person who understands exactly what they are doing.” His gaze held mine for a long beat. “Let me demonstrate.”

The room went very quiet.

“Miss Pierce,” he said, voice low and direct, “come to the front please.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. I felt every student’s eyes on me as I stood up. I stopped a few feet in front of him and turned to face him, waiting.

He was close. Close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off his body. Close enough to see the exact dark brown of his eyes, almost black in the classroom light, and the fine lines at the corners that made something low in my belly tighten.

“Stand here,” he said quietly, voice lower now that we were this close, the words meant for me even though the whole class could hear. “Feet together. Hands at your sides.”

I obeyed instantly. Feet together. Hands dropping to my sides. My thick thighs pressed close, the plaid skirt settling smoothly over my curves.

“Good girl,” he murmured, so quietly only I could have caught the full weight of it.