I thought I'd get detention. Not obsession.

It started with a missed deadline. One paper. One stupid term paper I didn't turn in because I'd been drunk on heartbreak and hot tears after my ex posted a video of him screwing some sorority girl.

Now, I was sitting outside the Dean's office with a racing pulse, trembling hands, and wet panties.

Don't ask me why. I just knew something was wrong the moment his secretary closed the door behind me.

Dean Alaric Carr. Mid-forties. Steel-gray eyes. Always suited in black like he was mourning the innocence of every student who crossed his path.

He sat behind a heavy oak desk, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled beneath a jaw so sharp it could slice.

"I read your records," he said without looking up. "Bright. Consistent. Then this." He tapped the empty manila folder. "Why?"

I swallowed. "Personal issues."

"Personal issues don't interest me."

"Then maybe you should stop looking at me like you want to peel mine off."

The silence after that stretched long. Tense. Then he stood.

Walked around the desk.

Stood directly in front of me.

And reached for the door.

Click. Locked.

"Miss Vale," he said, his voice dropping. "Do you know what happens to students who waste my time?"

My breath hitched. "They get expelled?"

His smile was razor thin. "They get corrected."

His hand gripped my chin. Firm but not cruel.

"I want to see how much discipline you can take."

When I didn't back away, he tilted my chin higher.

"Knees. Now."

I dropped.

The marble floor was cold. The heat between us molten.

He unbuckled his belt slowly, deliberately. My heart beat in my throat. His pants slid down just enough to free him, thick and already hard.

"Open that pretty little mouth," he murmured.

I obeyed.

He pushed past my lips, filling me inch by inch until I choked on the stretch.

"Breathe through your nose," he guided, running a hand down the back of my head. "That's it. Take all of me."

My eyes watered. My throat ached. But the wetness between my thighs soaked through my panties. I moaned softly, sending vibrations up his shaft.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned. "That mouth

filthy little student."

His pace picked up. Not brutal, but commanding. He rolled his hips, controlling the depth, the rhythm. I became nothing but mouth and need. He held my head still as he used my throat like it belonged to him.

"Look at you," he growled. "So eager to please. Just a naughty little girl who wants to be ruined."

I whimpered in agreement, desperate for more.

He pulled out suddenly. A wet pop echoed in the air. He dragged me up by my hair, eyes dark with lust.

"You dripping already?"

I nodded, breathless.

He spun me around and bent me over the desk, yanking up my skirt. My soaked panties clung to my thighs as he ripped them down.

"Fuck. Look at this pussy," he growled, spreading me with two fingers. "Greedy. Starved."

Then he spanked me.

Once. Twice. Harder the third time.

"Count," he ordered.

"O-one"

Another slap.

"Two!"

His hand soothed the sting before spreading my lips again. He dipped his fingers inside, slow and deep.

"Soaked. My desk. My rules. My cunt."

I was shaking. Begging.

"Please, Dean"

"Say it right."

"Please, Sir."

He didn't wait another second. He sheathed himself inside me in one thick thrust that made me cry out.

"Shh," he hissed, hand over my mouth. "You don't want the whole office knowing how desperate you are, do you?"

But I didn't care. I wanted them to hear. I wanted everyone to know I was being fucked like I mattered.

Each thrust sent the desk creaking, the air thick with sex and authority. He used me like a lesson, marking my skin with every grip, every slap, every filthy whisper.

"Take it," he snarled. "You like being fucked by your Dean?"

"Y-yes, Sir!"

He grabbed my hair and pulled me upright, keeping himself deep inside as he bit down on my shoulder.

"Cum on my cock. Now."

My orgasm hit like a detonation. I screamed into his hand, body trembling as I gushed around him.

He followed with a deep groan, spilling inside me with punishing thrusts until I felt every drop.

He didn't pull out. Just held me there. Breathing hard.

"You'll rewrite that paper," he said against my ear. "But next time, you'll deliver it in person. On your knees."

He finally pulled out, the heat of him dripping down my thighs. He handed me a tissue, adjusted his tie, and unlocked the door like nothing happened.

"Close the door on your way out."

My legs wobbled as I walked, ruined, wrecked, and utterly satisfied.

And already wondering how long until I missed another assignment.

The incense in the chapel always made me dizzy.

Or maybe it was the guilt.

My heels clicked too loud on the marble floor as I crossed the nave. I wrapped my coat tighter even though I was burning from the inside.

Sunday Mass had ended. Everyone else had gone. The silence swallowed me whole as I made my way to the confessional booth, heart hammering like a drum in a hollow church.

I shouldn't have come back here.

But I couldn't stop dreaming of it this scent, this space. The wooden screen. The idea of being on my knees.

Of someone listening as I confessed the filthiest parts of me.

I knelt slowly. My bare thighs met the cushion, cold and worn from years of prayers.

The tiny screen between the booths lit softly from the other side.

A pause. Then, a voice, smooth as velvet but low and deep, settled like a storm behind the lattice.

"My child," he began, steady and commanding, "you've come to confess?"

That voice wasn't old. It wasn't weary or soft or gentle. No, this wasn't Father Reynolds or the others I remembered. This was dangerous.

My lips parted.

"Yes, Father."

"Tell me your sins."

My pulse thudded in my throat. My confession wasn't for God. It was for him. Whoever he was behind that screen.

"I've had impure thoughts."

A long pause.

"Continue."

"About submission. Hands pinning me down. Being taken without mercy."

Another silence.

Then, a shift. Wood creaked. My skin prickled.

"And do you seek forgiveness?"

"No."

Silence again.

"What do you seek then?"

"Punishment."

A breath on the other side. Thick. Slow. Measured.

"Leave the booth. Third door past the altar. Do not knock."

My breath caught.

"Now."

I obeyed before my body even realized it was moving. I crossed behind the altar like I was walking into Hell and Heaven at once.

Door three. A heavy oak. Already open, barely.

Inside: a simple room. Bookshelves. A desk. A single chair.

And him.

A tall, young priest with curling black hair, rolled up sleeves, and dark, thundercloud eyes that locked onto me the moment I entered.

"You knelt for God," he murmured. "Now kneel for me."

I sank to the floor.

"Open your coat."

I unbelted it with trembling hands.

Underneath, I had worn nothing but lace. Black. Transparent.

"Did you wear this for confession?"

"No," I whispered.

He tilted his head.

"Then God must have known you'd end up in my hands tonight."

He stepped forward and placed two fingers under my chin.

"Look at you. Sins leaking out of your skin."

His fingers found my mouth. I opened instinctively.

He slid them deep, coating them with my spit.

Then he brought them down between my thighs, pressing the soaked lace.

"Soaked already. So desperate to be used."

I gasped as he tore the panties clean off with one tug.

Then he lifted me by the throat effortlessly and bent me over the desk.

The Bible fell with a dull thud onto the stone floor.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

His palm cracked down on my ass, the sound echoing like a hymn warped in hell.

"One. For every thought you didn't confess."

Slap. "Two."

Slap. "Three."

By five, I was grinding against the desk.

By seven, I was begging.

"Please, Father."

He yanked my hips back, parting me open.

"You're dripping down your thighs," he murmured.

Then, I felt his breath hot and unholy between my legs.

And then his tongue. Long, slow, tormenting licks that lapped at my clit like it was communion.

He ate me like salvation, gripping my hips so tight I knew I'd feel him tomorrow.

"God won't hear you down here," he whispered before slamming two fingers inside me.

"I don't want God," I panted.

He stood and undid his belt with a quiet, brutal snap.

Then I saw it his cock.

Thick, flushed, heavy. Veins pulsing.

He aligned himself with my entrance.

"No protection," I breathed.

"No forgiveness either."

He slammed in.

I arched, gasping. He filled me completely in one savage thrust.

He didn't ease in. He didn't give me time.

He took.

Every inch felt like blasphemy. Every thrust was a prayer I couldn't say aloud.

"Say it," he growled.

"I want you to ruin me."

"Louder."

"I want you to fuck me where I should pray."

He drove deeper, harder. The desk creaked with every impact.

My climax came fast so intense I nearly blacked out.

He didn't stop. He fucked me through it, one hand wrapped around my throat.

I felt the moment he lost control his rhythm faltered, hips stuttering.

He slammed in deep and poured inside me with a long, low groan of relief and corruption.

We didn't speak.

Only our breathing filled the space.

Then he pulled out and whispered against my ear:

"Same time next Sunday, little sinner."

I was not supposed to be here.

My best friend, Harper, had gone to pick up pizza. I was left alone in the house I'd practically grown up in, and only now, everything felt different.

Or maybe i did.

Maybe it was the man who had just walked in from the back porch, a towel around his waist, hair still wet from a swim.

Mr. Reed.

Harper's dad.

He wasn't just hot for his age he was devastating. Forty-five, salt and pepper stubble, broad shoulders, thick forearms. There was gravity to him. A weight in the way he moved and looked at people that made my stomach tighten.

We had always been friendly. He'd call me "sweetheart" in that warm voice of his, and I used to giggle and blush when I was younger.

But now?

Now I watched him, stared, swallowed too hard when he reached for a drink or scratched the edge of his abs under his shirt.

And I was pretty sure he'd started watching back.

Like today, when he walked in and caught me sunbathing in the backyard with Harper, my bikini untied. I'd felt his eyes stick. Just for a second. just long enough.

And now?

Now we were alone. I was wearing a loose crop top and short cotton shorts that clung when I sat down.

And he was watching me again.

"You two girls drinking my beer again?" he asked with a smirk.

I smirked back, playful. "Maybe just one"

He walked closer, that towel dangerously low on his hips.

"You're not a little girl anymore," he said softly, stopping right in front of me.

Something electric passed between us.

"No," I said, eyes locking with his. "I'm not."

His gaze dipped. I watched his jaw clench. A muscle in his neck twitched.

"Your friend's gone for what, twenty minutes?"

I nodded, heartbeat racing.

His eyes darkened.

"I shouldn't," he muttered.

"You already are."

Then I reached for the towel.

And he didn't stop me.

It dropped to the floor.

He was hard already. Thick. Heavy. And fuck, big.

"Jesus," I whispered.

"Not here," he growled. "On your knees. Mouth open."

I dropped, adrenaline flooding my veins.

I gripped the backs of his thighs as he pressed the tip against my lips.

"Been dreaming of this," I said, voice shaking. "Since I was eighteen."

"You're twenty one now."

I smirked. "Old enough to know how to swallow."

He didn't ease in.

He fed me his cock like he was starving to feel my throat. My lips stretched, jaw wide, as he buried himself deep. I gagged tears pricking but I didn't stop. I loved the sound he made when I took him all the way.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Look at that mouth."

He fisted my hair, controlling the rhythm, using me.

He pulled out with a wet pop and yanked me to my feet.

"Bed. Now."

We didn't make it to the guest room. He bent me over the kitchen island and shoved my shorts down.

"Been wanting to taste this tight little cunt since the day you turned legal."

He spread me open. Groaned.

"You're soaked."

"Because I knew you were home."

He dropped to his knees behind me.

The first lick made me scream.

His tongue wasn't gentle. It was brutal. Messy. Worshipful.

He sucked and fucked me with his mouth like he was making up for lost time.

"You taste like sin."

"Then confess with your tongue," I moaned, grinding back.

He licked me through an orgasm so intense I saw stars.

Then he stood, grabbed my hips, and thrust in no condom. No hesitation.

"Fuck!"

His cock stretched me wide, filling every inch.

He held my wrists down, chest pressed to my back, voice in my ear.

"Tell me you've thought about this."

"Every night."

"Tell me you touched yourself to me."

"Every time I heard your voice downstairs."

He growled.

Then he slammed into me. Harder. Rougher. Like he wanted to brand me from the inside.

"You like being fucked like this, little slut?"

"Yes, Daddy."

His hips stuttered.

"You're gonna be the death of me."

"Then die in me."

He grabbed my throat, turned my head, and kissed me dirty, desperate.

When he came, it was with a shout into my neck and a full, hot flood that made me dizzy.

We stayed tangled, breathless.

Then we heard the front door open.

Harper's voice: "Got the pizza!"

I looked up at him, wide-eyed.

He smirked, still inside me.

"You're mine now," he whispered. "Better keep your mouth full so you don't moan next time."