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PHOENIX
I stare at the white door, my vision going blank with a mix of thrill and terror.
What on earth am I doing?
I could have backed out a few minutes ago, when Professor Segul offered to give me the money to keep me in university but that hadn’t been enough. What I really wanted was him.
His company, his caresses, his comfort, his cock.
Everything.
But did I really need to humiliate myself and crawl? I suck in a long, shuddering breath. He isn’t looking for a sugar baby but a submissive. A submissive who crawls everywhere, apparently.
The pulse between my legs pounds hard enough that I feel it down my inner thighs. I squeeze them together, hoping the wetness of my pussy hasn’t shown through the fabric of my knickers.
Humiliation isn’t arousing. I’m just excited by his presence. That’s all. It has nothing to do with being made to crawl or being called a good girl. Nothing to do with having to strip in front of him and then getting chastised for walking around in my underwear.
Professor Segul opens the door to a well-lit staircase and gestures at me to descend.
I place a hand on the floor and try to stand, but his hand clamps down on the crown of my head.
“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is unexpectedly cold.
“I can’t crawl down the stairs.”
“You will unless you want punishment,” he says and gives me a gentle pat on the head. “Take your time.”
My insides shiver with a ripple of excitement that settles straight into my core. The muscles tighten, and I squirm on my ass, feeling my pussy get wetter. Disobeying him would be worthwhile if it means getting those hands on my ass.
I peer up at him and ask, “What kind of punishment?”
He doesn’t even smile when he replies, “The kind that will leave your pussy hot and throbbing and unable to climax.”
“Oh.”
His brows rise. “Not fun for you?”
Professor Segul doesn’t need to order me down the stairs twice. I crawl down, placing one palm on the lower stair before inching down with the other, being mindful not to overbalance and tumble.
He stands behind me, and at this angle, I’m sure my entire ass is on display. And if there wasn’t a patch of wetness in my knickers before, it has to have soaked through right now.
It takes an eternity for me to make it down the stairs, but the professor looms behind me, a beacon of patience. I want him to reach down, grab my ass, give it an encouraging slap—any kind of touch, but he keeps his distance.
The playroom is darker than the staircase, even though red spotlights shine down from the ceiling, and it’s at least twice the size of the living room.
I sweep my gaze across its brick walls, pausing at strategically placed mirrors framed in black leather, racks of black leather toys, an X-shaped cross, and a device that looks like a torture wheel.
He’s divided the playroom into two sections. On the left is the kind of dungeon I imagined from spicy books. I don’t even know the names of the things—I recognize a throne, a high stool you kneel over to expose your ass, and another that looks like a gynecologist’s chair, complete with stirrups.
Every piece of furniture is either made of black leather or a dark metal that appears almost black. On the far right of the room is a black four-poster bed concealed with red curtains, with huge paintings on the wall of bound hands and feet.
“Bloody hell,” I whisper under my breath.
This room is beyond anything I’ve read about in the books.
“Sit up for a moment,” Professor Segul says.
I obey, and he holds a delicate leather strap in front of my face.
