The room was still submerged in that gray penumbra that precedes dawn, but I already knew my sleep had come to an end. Even before opening my eyes, I felt a steady warmth and a comforting weight on my chest. When my vision finally focused, I saw Bianca. She was fast asleep, her arms wrapped around my torso, her calm breathing brushing against my neck. She clung to me with a disarming naturalness, as if that were the place she had belonged her entire life.
I carefully stretched one arm, trying not to disturb the delicate balance of that embrace, and felt around the nightstand until I found my phone. The screen’s light flared brightly, stinging my eyes for a second. It was almost six in the morning; I had beaten the alarm by a wide margin.
As I scrolled through my notifications, something made me stop. There was a message from Margaret, sent around two in the morning. I found it strange immediately. Margaret was the very definition of professionalism and composure; a message at that hour, completely outside any commercial or social norm, was a glaring red flag.
I opened the conversation. The message was short, almost hesitant, saying that she needed to talk to someone. At that moment, the image of the divorce papers I had seen on her desk flashed through my mind. I had offered to listen if she ever needed it, but I never imagined she would actually reach out to me—especially in the middle of the night. If she broke her silence like that, something serious must have happened.
“I’m sorry I didn’t reply earlier, Margaret. I was already asleep. Can we meet this afternoon at your office? I’ll stop by after college,” I typed and sent, feeling a genuine twinge of concern for the woman who had always seemed to have everything under control.
I felt a sudden movement beside me. Bianca reacted to the glow of the phone or perhaps to my shift in posture. For a moment, I thought she would wake up and start her usual morning interrogation, but instead she let out a soft murmur and tightened her embrace.
Her nails brushed lightly against my back as she buried her face into my shoulder, pinning me to the mattress with a possessive strength, as if she were fighting something in a dream and I were her only anchor. Seeing the aloof, arrogant model acting so vulnerable and dependent in her sleep was a reminder of how much our dynamic was changing. I had control—but the weight of that control meant dealing with her fragilities.
The sound of the alarm sliced through the silence of the room, vibrating insistently on the wooden nightstand. I had been absorbed in the notifications and the mystery of Margaret’s message, but the electronic tone pulled Bianca back to reality.
I felt her body shift against mine. Slowly, she loosened the possessive grip of her arms, and I could sense the exact moment her awareness returned. As soon as Bianca realized how entangled she was with me—almost like a child seeking protection—her face heated instantly. A deep blush spread across her cheeks, and she looked away, clearly unsure how to react to the spontaneous intimacy sleep had created.
“Good morning…” she murmured, her voice still rough with sleep as she moved back slightly to give me space.
“Good morning, Bianca,” I replied calmly, watching her.
For the first time in a long while, the air between us wasn’t charged with barbs or sarcasm. We got up and went down to the kitchen together. There was a strange but pleasant harmony in making breakfast. While I brewed the coffee and she set the table, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Bianca seemed to have left her armor of arrogance in the bedroom; she began asking questions she had never asked before—about my classes at college, how the course was going, and she even commented on my morning runs.
“I’ve seen you leaving really early sometimes…” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Sometimes I feel like I’m overdoing it with sweets. I’m afraid it might start affecting my body for photos.”
“Well, if you want to stay in shape and clear your head, you can come running with me next time,” I suggested, looking her in the eyes. “It’s good for both the body and your mood.”
I knew that doing ordinary things together—beyond sex and conditions—was essential for this change in her to be genuine. I wanted her to feel like part of my life, not just an arrogant guest or an object of pleasure. Bianca seemed to consider the idea with a shy smile, which reassured me that she was truly making an effort.
After breakfast, I went to the bedroom to get dressed and put my books in my backpack. When I came back downstairs, ready to leave, I noticed Bianca was still in her pajamas.
“Aren’t you going to the agency today?” I asked, checking the time.
“I’m off today,” she replied, standing up from the couch. She walked toward me, stopping at a short distance, her gaze fixed on the floor before lifting to meet mine with a flushed determination. “Luke… before you go… aren’t you going to put the ‘accessory’ in me?”
A satisfied smile spread across my lips. Seeing the initiative come from her was the definitive proof that Bianca’s defenses were crumbling under my control.
“Of course. Let’s take care of that.”
I had her lean lightly against the living room counter and, with calm, precise movements, inserted the small anal plug. I felt her muscles tense and relax under my touch, accepting the object as part of her new routine.
“Remember what I told you: use it at intervals. Don’t overdo it or you’ll hurt yourself,” I instructed, giving a light tap on the side of her hip.
“I’ll remember,” she whispered, adjusting her pajamas as she caught her breath.
“Good. Have a good day, Bianca.”
I gave her one last look—the most desired model in the city, now marked by my seal of possession inside our home—and left for college. My mind, however, was already drifting toward the afternoon. I needed to find out what had happened to Margaret.
The morning hours dragged on as if time itself had decided to punish my anxiety. Every minute in those theoretical classes felt like an eternity as my thoughts bounced between Bianca’s flushed face and Margaret’s enigmatic message.
Around noon, my phone vibrated. It was Olivia. The message was a sweet invitation to have lunch with her and Vanessa. I found myself wondering what the atmosphere would be like after the conversation I’d had with Vanessa yesterday. They both knew I had slept with each of them. A chill ran down my spine. Luckily, I already had a commitment—one that was both a pleasure and a safety measure.
Sofia had sent me the same suggestion earlier. I declined Olivia’s invitation with a polite excuse, saying I’d be having lunch elsewhere today. It wasn’t a lie. I was playing a dangerous game of chess, doing my best to postpone Sofia’s meeting with the others. I didn’t trust her self-control completely. Sofia was a ticking time bomb of possessiveness, and the idea of her sitting at a table with Olivia and Vanessa, picking up on the subtext of our coexistence, sent shivers down my spine.
I met Sofia at a restaurant a few blocks from campus, far from curious eyes. To my surprise—and relief—Ethan wasn’t around.
“Where’s your leech?” I asked, sitting across from her.
“I managed to get rid of him,” she said with a victorious smile, playing with her hair. “I used my new internship as an excuse. Told him I needed to take care of some paperwork on my own before starting.”
Lunch was surprisingly light. Sofia was radiant about the new opportunity. She explained that the internship at the nutrition clinic basically involved conducting real consultations, gaining hands-on experience under the supervision of a renowned professional.
“It’s great, Luke. I finally feel like I’m being treated as the professional I’m going to become,” she said, her eyes shining.
We talked about trivial things, laughed about childhood memories, and for a moment, the tension of the past few days seemed to evaporate. But as lunch came to an end, the “old” Sofia resurfaced.
“Will you sleep over at my place tonight?” she asked, holding my hand across the table, her eyes locked onto mine with that intensity that always bordered on extreme neediness.
“Not today, Sofia,” I replied, trying to keep my tone gentle. “I have a serious commitment this afternoon, and it’ll probably run long.”
She deflated instantly. Her smile vanished, and a shadow of sadness—or perhaps suspicion—crossed her face.
“A commitment? With whom?”
“Internship stuff, Sofia. Margaret will probably work me to death again,” I half-lied.
My intuition screamed that Margaret wouldn’t open up to me if we stayed on campus. The conversation she wanted to have was personal. Sofia accepted it, but the silence that followed until we parted ways was heavy with melancholy.
I left her at the corner and headed toward the department where Margaret’s office was located. It was time for my shift, but I knew that today, work would be the least important thing. I crossed the reception area, greeted the security guard, and took the elevator, my stomach knotting. I had no idea what awaited me.
I stopped in front of Margaret’s office door. In the faculty hallway, the silence was broken only by the distant sound of a few students and the echo of my own footsteps. The metal plaque with her name, “Prof. Dr. Margaret,” seemed to gleam under the cold ceiling light, but the atmosphere emanating from inside the room was somber.
I knocked on the door—three firm taps.
“Margaret? It’s me, Luke.”
There was a brief delay before her voice allowed me in.
“You can come in, Luke.”
When I opened the door, the image I had of Margaret—the unshakable professor, with upright posture and a sharp gaze that dominated any classroom—disintegrated. She was sitting behind her oak desk, surrounded by stacks of theses and books, wearing an elegant, dark women’s suit. But the outfit was the only thing that remained impeccable. Her face was marked by deep dark circles, an explicit exhaustion that seemed to have drained all her vitality.
“Are you okay?” I asked, closing the door and feeling the weight of the atmosphere.
“I am. Just a bad night’s sleep,” she replied, trying to force a professional tone, but her eyes couldn’t hold mine for long.
“Margaret, I got your message in the middle of the night,” I said, getting straight to the point. “I was worried. What happened?”
She let out a heavy sigh and massaged her temples.
“Forget about that, Luke. It was a mistake. A moment of emotional weakness—I shouldn’t have bothered you. Consider that message as if it never existed.”
“That’s not how things work,” I countered, taking a step forward. “I’m not just some intern or a random student. I saw those divorce papers on your desk. If you took the initiative to reach out to me, it’s because the weight is too heavy. You need at least enough awareness to admit you’re not okay—and I’m here to listen.”
There was a silent standoff. Margaret pressed her lips together, fighting against her own pride and the barrier separating the professor from the human being. I could see the conflict in her eyes: the desire to break down and the need to maintain the mask of authority.
“Luke…” she began, her voice faltering. “This isn’t the place.”
“I know it isn’t,” I replied softly.
“Alright,” she finally relented. “Finish organizing those papers. When we clock out, we’ll leave.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon in the office, buried in files and spreadsheets, but my attention was entirely on her silhouette across the desk. Around 6:30 p.m., the academic workday finally ended. Margaret organized her bag with mechanical gestures and stood up.
“Meet me at a bar called The Hideout,” she said quietly as we stepped into the now-empty hallway. “It’s far from here, on the other side of the city. I don’t want to be seen—especially not with a student—at a time like this.”
I nodded in silence. We went down to the university parking lot, each heading to our respective cars. I started the engine and followed the taillights of her car, leaving the campus behind and merging into the urban night. I knew the Margaret I would meet at that bar wouldn’t be the professor everyone knew—and I was ready to face whatever lay behind those tired, shadowed eyes.
