Bound by Sir

I never thought I’d end up here, bent over Professor Kane’s antique oak desk in his private study, my wrists bound behind my back with his silk tie and my skirt hiked up around my waist. My name is Lila, and I’m a twenty-year-old English major who used to sit in the third row of his Victorian Literature seminar, taking notes like a good girl while secretly wondering what those strong, veined hands looked like wrapped around something other than a fountain pen.

It started innocently enough. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I’d stayed after class last week to ask about my midterm paper. His office smelled like old books, leather, and something darker—something that made my thighs press together under the desk. He listened to me ramble about Brontë with that quiet intensity of his, dark eyes never leaving my face. Then he closed the door, turned the lock, and said, “You’re trembling, Miss Harper. Do you want me to stop pretending I don’t notice?”

I should have left. Instead I whispered, “No.”

That was the night he showed me what he really was.

Professor Elias Kane—forty-two, tenured, respected, the man every female student whispered about in the library—was addicted to control. Not the polite, classroom kind. The kind that left bruises and soaked panties. He didn’t just like BDSM; he needed it like oxygen. He told me later, voice rough against my ear while his fingers were buried inside me, that the only time his mind stopped screaming was when a beautiful girl was on her knees for him, crying and begging and dripping.

Tonight he’d texted me a single command: My house. 9pm. Wear the black lace. Nothing else underneath. I obeyed. I always obeyed now.

The study is dim, lit only by a green banker’s lamp and the city lights filtering through half-drawn blinds. My cheek is pressed to the cool wood of the desk, and I can smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the leather blotter. My heart is hammering so hard I feel it in my clit.

“Count them out loud, Lila,” he says from behind me, voice low and calm like he’s discussing thesis deadlines. The riding crop whistles through the air before it lands on my bare ass with a sharp crack.

“One,” I gasp, the sting blooming hot and immediate.

He doesn’t give me time to breathe. Another strike, harder.

“Two—fuck—”

“Language,” he warns, but I hear the dark smile in it. His free hand strokes down my spine, possessive, soothing the fire he’s building. “You’re soaking my floor already. Such a needy little slut for your professor.”

I whimper. He’s right. I can feel my arousal sliding down the inside of my thigh, embarrassing and perfect. Three more cracks of the crop and I’m shaking, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, but my hips keep pushing back like they have a mind of their own.

He sets the crop down and steps close. I feel the heat of his body, the hard line of his cock pressing against his slacks. His fingers trace the welts he’s left, pressing into them until I moan.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “I sit in faculty meetings thinking about chaining you to my bed and fucking you until you forget your own name. I grade papers with one hand while the other’s wrapped around my cock remembering how you looked last week with my belt around your throat.”

He sinks two fingers into me without warning, curling them against that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I cry out, pushing back onto his hand like the desperate girl I’ve become.

“Please, Professor—”

“Sir,” he corrects, voice dropping into that dangerous register that turns my brain to liquid. “When my cock is going to be inside you, you call me Sir.”

He pulls his fingers free and I hear the sound of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zipper. Then the blunt, thick head of him is nudging at my entrance, slick with my own wetness.

“Beg,” he says simply.

I’m past shame. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me. I need it—I need you to use me. I’m yours. I’m your dirty little student whore—”

He drives into me in one brutal thrust, stretching me open so perfectly it hurts in the best way. A broken sob escapes my throat. He doesn’t give me time to adjust; he just starts fucking me like he’s been starving for it all day. Each snap of his hips sends the desk creaking, my bound wrists pulling uselessly against the silk tie.

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so he can see my face. “Take every inch like the good girl you are. God, you’re clenching around me so tight. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be my secret little addiction.”

I can’t answer. I can only moan and nod and try to breathe while he ruins me. The angle is devastating; every thrust grinds against my g-spot and my swollen clit at the same time. I’m right on the edge already, shamefully close after only a few minutes.

He feels it. Of course he does.

“Not yet,” he snarls, slowing just enough to torment me. “You come when I say. I want to feel you break first.”

He reaches around and finds my clit, rubbing tight, ruthless circles while he keeps fucking me deep and steady. The dual sensation is too much. My legs start to shake.

“Please—Sir, I can’t—please let me—”

“Come,” he commands, voice rough with his own need. “Come on my cock like the filthy little addict you are for me.”

The orgasm crashes through me so hard my vision whites out. I scream his name—Sir—clenching around him in pulsing waves while he keeps driving into me, chasing his own release. He doesn’t stop until I’m a trembling, sobbing mess, and only then does he bury himself to the hilt and come with a guttural groan, flooding me with hot, thick pulses.

For a long moment the only sound is our ragged breathing.

He pulls out slowly, almost tenderly, and I feel his cum trickle down my thighs. He unties my wrists, rubs the marks gently, then turns me around and lifts me onto the desk like I weigh nothing. His kiss is surprisingly soft after the violence of what we just did—deep and claiming, tasting like possession.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Lila,” he whispers against my lips. His thumb brushes a tear from my cheek. “I’ve tried to stop. I’ve tried to be normal. But the second you walked into my classroom I knew I was fucked. I need this. I need you on your knees. I need to own every single one of your pretty little holes until you can’t imagine being touched by anyone else.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, still trembling, and smile against his mouth.

“Then don’t stop, Sir,” I breathe. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses me again, harder this time, and I feel him already starting to harden against my thigh.

The night is far from over.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.