Rule Two: You Will Not Touch First
736 Words
The second rule came without ceremony.
No candlelit room. No folded card slipped into an essay. No locked door.
Just a note.
Plain white.
Taped to the inside of my locker.
The message was printed, not handwritten. Like he knew I’d recognize his voice even in silence.
Rule Two: You will not touch first.
Not my books. Not my sleeve. Not my voice. Not me. Ever.
I will give you what you want—but only when you ask without hands.
If you break this rule, I’ll decide how you’re punished.
If you keep it, I’ll teach you what restraint feels like from the inside out.
My heart dropped.
Not from fear.
From how badly I wanted to break it.
That same day, I was assigned to deliver a stack of essays to his office—alone.
It wasn’t unusual. I was still technically his teaching assistant. Still officially his student.
But now there were… layers.
I knocked. Once.
“Enter,” he said, without looking up.
I stepped inside.
He didn’t stand.
Just motioned to the desk.
I placed the essays down. Carefully.
And as I turned to leave—he said:
“Stay.”
I froze mid-step.
He rose slowly from his chair. Not with rush. Not with drama.
He circled behind me.
Close enough that I felt the heat of him along my spine.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t reach.
His breath touched my neck.
“You haven’t broken the rule yet,” he said.
His voice—low, rich, unhurried—curled into my skin like steam.
“But I can feel you wanting to.”
I nodded. Barely.
“Say it,” he whispered.
“I want to touch you.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere.”
“Not good enough.”
I swallowed hard.
“I want to touch your mouth,” I said. “Your wrist. Your collar. Your voice.”
He stilled.
Then stepped away.
Back behind his desk.
My body screamed.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then:
“You may go.”
The next test came in the library.
He arrived while I was reshelving texts in the restricted wing.
We didn’t speak.
But I felt him behind me—always behind me.
The silence was heavier than noise.
He brushed past, chest nearly grazing my back.
I didn’t reach.
He dropped a book beside mine on the cart.
Nothing written.
But on the inside jacket, a single underlined line:
“There is no need to touch what you already own.”
I nearly collapsed.
Days passed.
He walked close.
Sat beside me in class.
Took my assignments without comment.
He even stood behind me once during a faculty gathering, close enough to smell the bergamot in his cologne—but never close enough to cross the line.
Every second was a dare.
Every restraint a reward.
And I began to change.
I didn’t fidget.
I didn’t crave contact like before.
I craved his control.
I wanted to wait.
Because waiting was the new pleasure.
Because when I didn’t reach for him—I could feel him reaching for me in his own way.
One night, I was reading on the steps of the old lecture hall.
It was quiet. Late. Stars overhead. Warm wind.
He appeared beside me.
No announcement.
Just… presence.
He sat.
Not close.
But not far.
We watched the sky in silence for what felt like an hour.
Then he spoke:
“You’re different now.”
I turned my head, slowly.
“How?”
“You’re quieter. Not because you’re afraid. Because you’re listening to yourself.”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t want to ruin the moment with words.
He stood.
And before he walked away—he said:
“Soon, I’ll give you something back. But only if you keep waiting.”
I didn’t sleep that night.
Because I knew what he meant.
He wasn’t going to just touch me.
He was going to let me beg for it.
And I would.
I would beg beautifully.
Because submission had changed me.
It hadn’t made me smaller.
It had made me softer in the right places—and sharper in the ones that mattered.
I wasn’t like the others.
Because I didn’t want to break rules to be seen.
I wanted to follow every one so that when he finally touched me—
It would mean everything.
- Writer
