I built my empire on unyielding control.
A dean's voice that silences rooms.
A reputation forged in board meetings and late-night lectures, where no one dares question my grip.
But deep down, vulnerability gnaws like a secret shame.
I crave a surrender so total it fills that void, without cracking my armor.
Then he appeared.
My sharpest doctoral mind, all quiet fire and hidden hunger.
Brilliant enough to challenge me in seminars, yet the moment I snap my fingers, he drops.
Crawls across my leather-scented office floor, eyes locked on mine in perfect, panting obedience.
That polished collar clicks shut in the morning light, his bare knees scattering my research pages like fallen leaves.
His whispered pleas in the dim lounge-"Your rules are my freedom"-undo me.
I leash him tight, make him heel at my heels during stolen hours, his body mine to command, to pet, to break and rebuild.
Every stroke of my hand on his skin, every husky order pulling him closer, blurs the line I swore never to cross.
Mentor to master.
Equal to owned.
The rush tempts me to forget the risk, to let his devotion seep into my guarded heart.
One leaked whisper, one careless glance from a colleague, and my world shatters.
Career in ruins.
Authority stripped bare.
I thought I owned him completely.
But his yielding trust has collared my soul first, pulling me toward a fall I can't leash.
How long before his obedience demands I surrender too?
