Elena Voss didn’t expect the guilt to feel like this—heavy and strangely thrilling. She sat across from Professor Ashford, every heartbeat pounding louder than the quiet reprimands he spoke. His voice was low, deliberate, not angry—but disappointed. That was worse.

"You plagiarized," he said, folding her paper once, precisely. "And I believe you did it because you wanted someone to stop you."

She opened her mouth. I closed it. The silence thickened.

"I won’t fail you. Not yet. But you’ll work for every word of redemption, Miss Voss. And you’ll follow every rule I give you. No arguments. No shortcuts. Do you understand?"

She nodded slowly.

"Good. Come to my house Thursday evening. Eight sharp. Wear something simple. Nothing that makes you feel clever."

His house wasn’t what she expected. It smelled faintly of old books and cedarwood polish, the rooms lit in warm amber. He opened the door, already dressed in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms. He looked like a restraint incarnate.

“This way.”

The study was quiet, thick with the scent of ink and silence. No classroom here—just shadows, ropes coiled neatly on a table, a velvet-lined drawer slightly ajar.

“Tonight, you learn the cost of dishonesty,” he said. “And the grace of stillness.”

He instructed her to kneel on a cushion in front of the fire. Her skirt pooled around her thighs as she lowered herself, trembling from nerves more than shame. Her eyes lifted, but he shook his head.

“Down.”

She obeyed.

“You'll hold that position. No fidgeting. No talking. And if I touch you, you’ll not flinch.”

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time blurred. Her knees burned, but her breathing slowed, deepened. When she thought she couldn’t hold herself upright any longer, he stepped closer.

“Now we begin.”

The first time he blindfolded her, it wasn’t with anything harsh. Just a soft slip of silk. He tied it slowly, the cloth brushing her lashes as it covered her eyes.

“You’ll listen better without distraction.”

When he lifted her onto the Sex Swing Keelung, her breath caught. The ropes creaked slightly, swaying as he adjusted the leather straps beneath her thighs and over her shoulders. She hovered just above the floor, legs spread but supported, unable to touch the ground. Suspended.

“Breathe. Slowly now.”

His hands cupped her face, not with lust, but command. She tried to speak, but he hushed her with a single finger.

“You’re here to feel. Not to explain.”

The swing moved with a gentle rhythm, and she felt herself let go—of shame, of noise, of the need to always be right.

She didn’t expect the BDSM Muzzle. It came later, after weeks of earning his trust. A soft leather covering that muffled the world around her. It pressed close, warmed by her breath, leaving only her mouth and heartbeat unguarded. He whispered to her through the quiet.

“You’re safe. You’re mine right now.”

Her chest rose, fell, rose again. She found comfort in the Close Breathing Sex Position, how it made each inhalation a choice. It wasn’t about suffocation—it was about surrender. She trusted him. And that made it beautiful.

One night, she cried in his arms, not because she was broken, but because she wasn’t anymore.

“You never really wanted to hurt me,” she whispered.

He stroked her hair, soft fingers trailing down her spine.

“No,” he said. “I only ever wanted you to feel something real.”

And she did.

She felt it in every restrained breath, every quiet command, every night spent not begging for punishment—but for forgiveness.

She never said thank you. Not out loud. But she wrote it in every gesture, every kneel, every soft, gasped exhale.

Forgive me, Sir.

And he always did