Ivy

I failed. Not the kind where you “barely scrape by” or “missed the mark by a point or two.” I failed—bold red ink underlining the 72 circled at the top of my philosophy paper like flames licking at my confidence. It mocked me in my lap as I sat in the back of Professor Vale’s lecture hall, my heart pounding so loudly I could feel it hammer against my ribs, drowning out the click of pens and hushed whispers around me.

I’d been warned. Everyone said Vale’s class was academic boot camp—“a mind like a scalpel,” one friend had warned. “He’ll dissect your argument, gut your logic, and leave you bleeding after three pages of merciless critique.” I’d nodded, convinced I could survive. Now I wasn’t so sure.

He stood at the front, suit jacket draped neatly over his chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms and an unsettling stillness that felt—dangerous. He never raised his voice; he didn’t need to. When he looked at you, it was as if he peeled back your thoughts, exposing every weakness. And when he spoke, you listened—whether you wanted to or not.

“Clearly, many of you skimmed the assignment, if you bothered at all,” he said now, voice level but edged with ice. “I’m not here to hold your hand. If that’s what you want, consider transferring—elsewhere.”

My stomach twisted. I wasn’t one of the skimmers. I’d read that damn prompt twice, scribbled outlines, tried to wrestle sense from Kierkegaard’s paradox. But apparently, I’d wrestled the wrong ideas. I kept my gaze locked on my notebook, pretending the shame inked across that page wasn’t searing through me.

As classmates gathered their things and drifted out, I stayed frozen, watching him stack papers with the same deliberate precision he brought to every motion. I should have left. It was just one paper. I could improve. I had no right to be here, lingering like a wounded animal.

But then he looked up—straight at me. Our eyes clashed. My breath caught in my throat. In that silent beat, I felt every inch of my failure flash before me: the hours lost to work shifts, the late-night panic, the essays I thought were good enough. He tilted his head, as if he’d already read the turmoil printed across my face. Then, quietly, he said, “Miss Sinclair. A moment, please.”

My legs trembled as I stood, gripping the paper like a confession. He waited for the last student to disappear before turning to me, leaning back on his desk, arms folded.

“That was a poor showing,” he said, his tone frank but not cruel.

“I know,” I managed, voice barely more than a whisper. “I—tried.”

“I believe you’re not lazy,” he said, and for a second I wanted to take offense—why couldn’t he be angrier, at least? But then he added, “You’re unfocused.”

It stung. I’d convinced myself exhaustion and stress were reasonable excuses; now they sounded like admissions of defeat.

“I just…there’s so much going on,” I blurted, cheeks burning. “Work, other exams, life.”

He gave a small nod, as if he’d heard every excuse before. “There will always be ‘so much going on,’ Miss Sinclair. Your scattered mind is sabotaging you.”

I hated how right he was, hated the smothering knot of truth in his words.

“You want to pass my class?” he asked.

I nodded, though part of me wanted to turn and run.

“Good.” He stood and began to gather his materials. “Come to my office hours Thursday at three. We’ll discuss how to fix this.”

My pulse spiked. “Fix it?”

His gaze lingered on me, calm and unflinching. “That depends on how well you follow instructions.” He paused, the barest curve at one corner of his mouth. “Are you willing to try?”

A challenge—or something more—hung in the air. My breath caught, and I realized I wasn’t just terrified. I was…curious.

His office smelled like cedarwood and old paper. The lights were dim; slanted rays of sunlight struggled through tight blinds, carving dusty stripes across the floor. Books climbed every wall—tomes of literature and psychology so brittle they threatened to crumble at a touch. His desk stood at the far end—pristine, unyielding—just like him.

I froze in the doorway. The urge to flee clenched in my chest—an odd mix of dread and desire. My hands trembled as I crossed the threshold.

He looked up as I entered. “Miss Sinclair,” he said quietly, nodding toward the leather chair opposite him. “Close the door, please.”

I obeyed. The latch’s click sounded like a gunshot in my ears. I slid into the chair, legs folding, then shifting, then folding again—each movement betraying how unsteady I felt.

He didn’t speak. He just watched, calm and patient, as if waiting to see how I’d react to silence. My pulse hammered in my throat.

Finally, his voice, low and measured: “You’ve been slipping since the second week of term. Bright—but scattered. Not lazy, undisciplined.” He paused. “You’re trying.”

I bit my lip. “I am.”

“Trying and succeeding are not the same,” he said. He opened a drawer and placed a small, leather-bound notebook between us. My pulse spiked.

“I have a method,” he continued. “Unorthodox but effective. Participation isn’t mandatory. But if you want my help, this is how I offer it.”

My gaze locked on the notebook. My stomach churned. “What kind of help?”

His eyes darkened. “Structure. Guidance. Correction. I will give you rules. You will follow them. No lies. No defiance. Consequences—personal, not academic.”

My mouth went dry. “Is this even allowed?”

A faint smile. “We’re both adults. Nothing happens here without your consent. You can walk out that door and continue the course like any other student—no questions asked.”

I swallowed, heart pounding. “And if I don’t walk out?”

“Then you agree to obey me.” His tone was velvet-soft.

A single word—obey—sent heat skittering down my spine. I closed my eyes for a moment. Was this temptation or terror?

He leaned forward. “This isn’t about sex, Ivy.” He’d used my name. My pulse stuttered. “This is about focus. Control. Discipline. Follow my instructions, and your mind will settle. Your grades will rise. And… perhaps more.”

Shame and longing tangled inside me. He nudged the notebook closer. “Write your first entry tonight. Tell me why you’re here—and what you crave.”

He stood and moved to the door. Hand on the handle, he glanced back. “Decide by tomorrow.”

Sunlight slivered across the floor—an invitation and a warning. My insides roiled with doubt and desire. And, terrifyingly, I knew I’d already decided.

Assignment: Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you crave.

I’m here because I said yes before I understood what I was agreeing to.

Or maybe I did understand, in a way I didn’t want to admit out loud.

You saw through me. You saw the mess I’ve been hiding under tired smiles and half-effort assignments. You didn’t call me lazy. You didn’t shame me. But you knew I needed something more.

No one’s ever said that to me before.

Why am I here?
Because I want someone to take control when I can’t.
Because I want the noise to stop.
Because part of me wants to hand over the wheel and see what happens when I let go.

What do I crave?
…Structure.
…Attention.
…To be told what to do.

I crave your voice when you’re being sharp with me.
I crave the way you look at me when I hesitate.

I don’t want chaos anymore.

I want to be good for someone.

Yours,
Ivy

He didn’t speak immediately after devouring the journal’s contents. He sat behind his desk, each page turned with deliberate slowness, eyes scanning my handwriting with a focused intensity that made my skin crawl with a mix of dread and anticipation. When he finally closed it, the silence was taut, stretching across the room like a drawn bowstring. Then:

"You crave structure," he declared, his voice a quiet command. "So I’ll give it to you."

He reached into the drawer with measured precision and slid a second notebook across the desk—this one slimmer yet weightier, embossed with the word RULES in bold, gold lettering.

"There are only three to begin with," he stated.

I opened it, my fingers trembling slightly. Inside, his handwriting cut through the page, sharp and elegant like a blade.

Ivy’s Rules – Week One

1. You will address me as “Sir” when we are alone.

2. You will answer questions with absolute honesty. Lying will not be tolerated.

3. You will wear what I dictate on specified days. (You will not be exposed. You will not be unsafe. But you will be acutely aware.)

I absorbed the words twice. Then a third time, each reading etching them deeper into my mind.

When I looked up, his gaze was trained on me, a hunter watching its prey, waiting for the inevitable moment my pulse would quicken. It was a roaring drumbeat in my veins.

"I—what happens if I don’t follow these?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. Didn’t need to lean forward. But the molten intensity in his eyes was enough to set me ablaze.

"You’ll be punished."

My lips parted instinctively.

He stood, moving around the desk with a slow, deliberate grace, and perched on the edge, facing me. Not too close—but close enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze.

"Do you want to belong to someone, Ivy?" he asked, voice a hypnotic blend of silk and steel.

"I don’t know," I whispered, though the truth echoed in my gut.

"Yes, you do," he insisted, his words cutting through my defenses. "And I don’t share."

The room spun, my head light with the weight of his presence. I nodded, surrendering.

"Good girl," he murmured, and the words ignited something so deep within me, I hadn’t even realized it was there.

His finger gently lifted my chin, a touch both commanding and tender.

"You start Monday. Do not disappoint me."

Julian Vale

As the door clicked shut behind Ivy, I sank back into my leather office chair, a wave of potent satisfaction crashing over me. Come Monday, our dynamic would undergo a seismic shift. I would no longer be merely her professor; I would transform into her Master, leading her down a path of uncharted ecstasy and torment she had never dared to imagine.

A wicked smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as I recalled the blend of apprehension and barely contained desire flickering in her eyes. She was ripe for the taking, poised to surrender herself entirely to my will. And I would ensure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would never look back with regret.

My mind delved into the clandestine world that thrived beneath my esteemed academic exterior—a realm where I reigned with unchallenged authority. In those shadowy dungeons and exclusive clubs, I was revered as "Master Vale." My presence alone demanded respect, and my commands were executed without hesitation.

I thought of the way my submissives quivered at my touch, desperately seeking my approval. Of how I could decipher their bodies with precision, knowing precisely how to push them to their breaking point and beyond. Ivy would be no exception. I would sculpt her, mold her, until she mirrored my desires with flawless precision.

Rising from my chair with purpose, I strode to the window and gazed out over the campus below. From this vantage point, I could see the pieces aligning, the chessboard meticulously set for an intricate game of seduction and domination. And I, Julian Vale, was the unyielding master of this realm.

Turning back to my desk, I seized Ivy's journal once more, flipping through the pages with a predatory intensity in my eyes. Soon, those blank pages would be inscribed with narratives of her struggles and victories under my exacting guidance. And I would relish every intoxicating moment of it.