The Line We Crossed

I didn’t go back to my dorm that night. I didn’t even remember how I got home. Wolfe carried me, I think. Wrapped me in one of his expensive trench coats, whispered something low against my hair, and slid me into the backseat of a car I didn’t remember calling.

I still needed more. More of his touch, more of his body, the way he was looking at me. I still needed it. This man knew how to torture a woman—like, seriously. The whole ride, I sat in silence with his jacket smelling like him—leather, spice, power. I held onto his jacket, dying in my fantasies for his touch. “Oh my god,” I moaned slowly, as I touched my p***y, playing around my c******s, my voice barely above a whisper. I couldn’t let the driver hear me. My thighs were still shaking from the force of what he’d done to me.

My voice long gone from how hard I’d screamed his name. But the thing that haunted me most wasn’t the orgasm. It was the way he’d looked at me afterward. Not like a Dean. Not like a Dom. Like a man. Like I belonged to him. And it turned me on every second, every minute. I needed to stop thinking about him, or else I didn’t what would happen. I was too young for all this, but how could I control myself?

— The next morning, Bellmere didn’t feel the same. Everything was still perfect on the outside—manicured lawns, early fall leaves, the faint scent of overpriced espresso from the campus café. But I felt like I was walking through it naked. Because I had no idea what we were anymore. That afternoon, I got a text from an unknown number. Rm 207. Now. Immediately, I knew it was from him, Wolfe. I was happy to see it, like I had been waiting for his message.

My p***y was tingling like a dog that saw its master. I didn’t hesitate. When I arrived, the door was ajar. Inside, he wasn’t waiting behind the desk. He was standing by the window, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened. He looked… tense. “Close the door,” he said without looking. I did. He turned slowly. And that’s when I saw it: the contract.

A full stack of printed paper. Neat. Formal. The title on top read: Behavioral Agreement for Student Compliance. “This is for me?” I asked. “No.” He stepped closer. “It’s for us.” I stared. “Safewords. Rules. Boundaries. But also privileges. Ownership.” My mouth went dry. “You want to formalize this?” He nodded. “If we’re going to keep going, we do it my way. No more games. No more gray lines.”