The cabin smelled of coffee and pine sap and the sweat of the night before. I stood in the kitchen doorway, mug warm in my hands, and watched her sleep on the floor where I'd left her.

Elena lay curled on her side, wrists bound behind her back with the rope I'd tied before dawn. She'd stopped fighting around three in the morning—just lay there with her breath going shallow and her shoulders shaking, crying into the floorboards until she'd worn herself out. The dried tears left pale tracks down her cheeks, and the rope had rubbed her skin raw, red and angry against the pale of her wrists.

I took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Good.

She looked smaller like this. Softer. The brown eyes that had looked at me with such disgust in that lecture hall were closed, her mouth slightly open, her brown hair tangled across her face. She'd kicked off one of her shoes sometime in the night, and her bare foot stuck out from under the blanket I'd thrown over her—not out of kindness, but because I didn't want her getting sick. A sick captive was a boring captive.

The camera sat on the counter, red light blinking. Recording everything.

I set the mug down and walked over to her. She didn't stir. I crouched, watching the slow rise and fall of her back under the thin blanket, and I thought about all the nights I'd sat in her lecture hall, invisible, watching her get excited about equations while she never once looked at me. She'd been so easy to overlook back then. Now she was the only thing in this cabin worth looking at.

My hand came down flat on her ass. Hard enough to jolt the air out of her lungs.

She gasped, a sharp, strangled sound, and rolled over in one motion, her eyes flying open. They went wide when she saw me standing over her, and she scrambled backward, hitting the wall, the rope between her legs pulling taut and making her wince.

"Morning," I said.

She stared at me, her chest heaving. Her voice came out hoarse and cracked. "What—"

"Kitchen." I jerked my head toward the table. "Now."

She didn't move for a second. Just lay there, hair wild, eyes darting from me to the door to the camera. Looking for an exit that didn't exist. I'd made sure of that when I'd brought her here—this cabin had one door, and it locked from the outside. She'd learned that the hard way a few nights ago.

"I said now."

She got onto her hands and knees. The rope dragged between her legs, the one I'd tied around her thigh and through her cunt, a constant reminder of who she belonged to. It made her movement slow and awkward, and I watched her crawl across the floorboards, the rough wood scraping her knees, her bound wrists making her balance unsteady.

She'd been a professor. An adult. A woman who'd had power over me in a lecture hall, who'd humiliated me in front of a hundred students.

Now she crawled on her hands and knees because I told her to.

The kitchen was small, barely big enough for the table and the wood stove. She stopped at the spot I'd pointed to, kneeling, her head bowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The rope between her legs was wet—it had been wet since last night, from the way her body kept betraying her, and I could see the chafed marks on her thighs where it had rubbed her raw.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. The wood creaked under my weight.

She didn't look up. Just knelt there, trembling, her wrists still bound behind her back, the rope trailing across the floor like a leash.

"Look at me," I said.

She lifted her head. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy from crying, her glasses gone—I'd taken them on the first day, and without them she squinted like she was lost. Her hair had come loose from its messy bun, falling in tangled strands around her face.

She looked broken. She wasn't—not yet. I could see the anger still burning behind her eyes, the hate she was trying to hold onto. But she was hungry. I'd only fed her a sandwich and some bacon and eggs since I'd brought her here, and it had been almost two days since she ate. The hunger was doing its work, wearing down the edges of her defiance.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" I said, leaning back in the chair. "All night, lying in that room, listening to you breathe through the wall."

She didn't answer. Just watched me, her jaw tight.

"I've been thinking about how you're going to learn to be grateful," I said. "How you're going to understand that everything I give you is a gift. That you don't deserve any of it, but I'm going to give it to you anyway, because I'm generous."

Her lip curled. A flash of the old defiance. "You're insane."

I smiled. "Maybe. But I'm also the only one who's going to feed you."

I unbuckled my belt and pushed my pants down just enough. My cock was already half-hard, waking up at the sight of her on her knees, at the sound of her voice rough from crying. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking once, twice, watching her eyes track the movement.

"Here's how it's going to work from now on," I said. "No food. No water. Nothing goes into your mouth unless it comes from me. And I mean nothing."

Her face went pale. Then red. The disgust twisted her features, and she shook her head, a small, jerky motion. "No."

"No?"

"I won't." Her voice cracked. "I won't—that's—"

"That's what?" I leaned forward, my cock still in my hand, hard now. "That's degrading? That's disgusting? You think I care?"

She stared at me, her breath coming fast, her chest rising and falling under the thin shirt I'd left her in. I could see her nipples hard against the fabric—from the cold, or from something else, I didn't care which. Her body was betraying her, and she knew it.

"You're hungry," I said. "You've been hungry for two days. You think you can hold out? You think your pride is worth more than food?"

She didn't answer. Her hands clenched behind her back, and I saw the rope bite into her raw wrists. She didn't flinch.

"Fine," I said, and I started to stand. "Starve, then. See if I care."

I made it halfway out of the chair before her voice stopped me.

"Wait."

I looked down at her. She was trembling, her eyes wet, her face a mess of shame and hunger and desperation. She didn't want to say it. I could see her fighting herself, the war between her pride and her stomach, and I watched the pride lose.

"Please," she whispered, the word like broken glass in her mouth.

"Please what?"

She closed her eyes. A tear slid down her cheek. "Please, Sir. I'm hungry."

I sat back down. "Then come get it."

She crawled toward me, the rope dragging between her legs, her bound wrists making her movements clumsy. She stopped between my knees, looking up at me, and I saw the hatred there, burning bright even through the shame.

I reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair. She flinched, a small, reflexive jerk, and I pulled her forward, bringing her face close to my cock. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath hot against my skin.

"Open your mouth," I said.

She didn't. Her jaw stayed clamped shut, her whole body rigid with resistance.

I pulled her hair harder, tilting her head back. "I said open your mouth."

She opened her eyes. They were wet, full of tears and hate and something else—something I couldn't quite name. She looked at me for a long moment, and then she opened her mouth.

I guided my cock to her lips. She flinched again, but she didn't pull away. I pressed the head against her lower lip, feeling her breath shudder against it.

"You're going to learn to be grateful," I said. "You're going to learn that this is the only thing that's going to feed you. And you're going to thank me for it."

She made a sound, a small, broken noise that might have been a sob. Then she closed her eyes and took me into her mouth.

I felt her tongue, hesitant, dry, pressing against the underside of my cock. She didn't know what she was doing—she was a physics professor, not a whore—but she was trying. Hungry enough to try.

I tightened my grip on her hair, guiding her, showing her the rhythm. She gagged when I pushed deeper, her throat convulsing around me, and tears spilled down her cheeks. But she didn't pull away. She kept going, her mouth working, her tongue moving, clumsy but determined.

"That's it," I murmured, leaning back in the chair. "That's it, darling. You're learning."

She made a sound, a muffled protest at the name, but she didn't stop. Her mouth was wet now, slick with spit, and I could feel her starting to find a rhythm, her head bobbing in my grip.

I looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her face streaked with tears, her hair a mess in my fist. She looked ruined. She looked perfect.

Her tongue found the vein on the underside of my cock, tracing it like she was reading a diagram, like her mouth was trying to understand the mechanics of what I was forcing her to do. Physics professor to the last. I almost laughed, but the sound died in my throat when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked, hard, a clumsy but genuine attempt that sent a jolt up my spine.

I let her work for a minute. Let her find her own rhythm, her own pace, her own way of accommodating the thing I was pushing into her mouth. The rope between her legs scraped against the floorboards as she shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable, and I felt the vibration of a small, pained sound travel through her throat and into me.

"Slower," I said, loosening my grip on her hair just enough to let her breathe. "You're not being graded on speed. You're being graded on how well you take it."

She pulled back, just a fraction, her lips still wrapped around the head, and I watched her swallow, a convulsive movement that told me she was fighting the gag reflex. Her eyes were still wet, still full of hate, but there was something else there now, something I'd seen in her last night when she'd begged me to fuck her—a flicker of something that wasn't quite surrender but wasn't quite resistance either.

I ran my thumb along her jaw, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles clenched and unclenched as she fought herself. "You're doing so well, darling. You know that? You're learning exactly what I knew you'd learn."

She made a sound at that, a muffled, indignant noise, and I felt her teeth graze my skin—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind me she was still in there, still fighting. I tightened my grip on her hair, a warning, and she went still, her eyes flicking up to meet mine.

"Careful," I said softly. "You know what happens when you bite."

She held my gaze for a long moment, something unreadable passing through her red-rimmed eyes. Then she closed them and took me deeper, her throat opening, her mouth working with a desperation that was almost beautiful. The sound of her gagging filled the small kitchen, wet and raw, and I leaned back in the chair and let her.

The camera on the counter blinked its red eye at us, recording every second. I thought about the fourteen files in my bag, the secrets I held over her and her daughter and the director, and I thought about how far she'd come in just 6 days—from a professor who couldn't stand the sight of me to a woman on her knees, taking my cock in her mouth because she was too hungry to say no.

I could feel myself getting close, the pressure building low in my gut, and I tightened my grip on her hair, pulling her deeper. She gagged, a wet, strangled sound, but she didn't pull away. She kept going, her mouth working, her tongue moving, her tears dripping onto my thighs.

"That's it," I breathed. "Take it all. Swallow it."

She made a sound, a muffled protest, but she didn't stop. I held her there, my cock buried in her throat, feeling her convulse around me, and then I came, hot and thick, down her throat. She choked, tried to pull back, but I held her in place, forcing her to take every drop.

When I finally let her go, she fell back, coughing, gasping, her face a mess of spit and tears and cum. She looked up at me, her eyes burning with hate, and I saw her swallow, a convulsive movement, and I knew she'd taken it all.

"Good girl," I said, tucking myself back into my pants. "See? You're learning."

She stared at me, her chest heaving, her voice raw and broken. "I hate you."

I smiled. "I know. But you're still hungry, aren't you?"

I stood up and walked to the counter, picking up the plate of bacon and eggs I'd made earlier. I set it on the floor in front of her, just out of reach of her bound hands.

"Eat," I said. "You've earned it."

She looked at the plate, then at me, and I saw the war in her eyes—the pride and the hunger, the hate and the need. The hunger won. She leaned forward, lowering her face to the plate, eating like an animal, her bound hands useless at her sides.

I watched her for a long moment, then turned and walked to the door. I had a class to skip and a campus to wander, and I wanted to see if anyone had noticed the physics professor was missing yet.

Behind me, I heard her eating, and I smiled.

I let the kitchen door swing shut behind me, the creak of its hinges cutting through the sound of her eating. The plate scraped against the floorboards, a frantic, animal rhythm, and I stood there a moment longer, listening to it, letting the sound settle into my chest like a drink going down warm.

I checked my watch. Nine-forty. The morning lecture on macroeconomics started at ten, and Elisa Marchetti—Professor Marchetti, I reminded myself, though she looked young enough to be a senior—took attendance like it was a personal insult if someone skipped. I'd already missed two of her classes this week. A third absence would earn me a flagged name on her roster, and I didn't need another pair of eyes on me.

I walked back into the bedroom and pulled the cabin door open. Cold morning air hit my face, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth. The sun was already burning through the trees, thin and pale, and I squinted against it, the way I always did when I stepped out of that dark cabin and back into the world.

I could hear her moving inside, the scrape of the plate against the floor, the shuffle of her knees as she shifted position. The rope between her legs would be wet again by now, chafing her raw, and I thought about how she'd feel it with every movement for the rest of the day, a constant reminder that she belonged to me even when I wasn't there.

I turned and went back inside. She froze mid-bite, her mouth full of bacon, her eyes wide and guilty like a dog caught at the table. She'd managed to scoot the plate closer to herself, her bound hands useless at her sides, and she'd been eating with her face, her chin slick with grease.

"I forgot something," I said, walking toward her.

She tensed, her jaw working, swallowing the bacon in one convulsive gulp. "What?"

I crouched in front of her. She flinched back, her shoulders hitting the wall, her bound hands scrabbling uselessly behind her. The rope between her legs pulled taut, and she winced, a small, sharp sound escaping her throat.

"I'm going to be gone for a few hours," I said, reaching out and grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at me. "Classes. I need to keep up appearances. You understand that, right? A student who stops showing up gets noticed."

Her brown eyes burned with hate, but she didn't pull away. She'd learned that much, at least. "You're going to leave me here."

"That's right."

"Tied up."

"That's right."

She stared at me, her breath coming fast, her chest rising and falling under the thin shirt. "What if I need to—"

"You'll hold it." I said it flat, no room for argument. "You'll hold it until I get back, and then you'll ask me nicely, and maybe I'll let you use the bucket in the corner. Maybe I won't. Depends on how good you are."

Her jaw tightened. I could see her grinding her teeth, the muscles in her neck straining, and for a second I thought she was going to spit at me, or say something stupid, something that would earn her another punishment. But she just stared at me, her eyes wet, and swallowed whatever she'd been about to say.

"Good girl," I said, and I saw her flinch at the words, the way she always did. "See? You're learning."

I stood up, walked around behind her, and grabbed the rope that bound her wrists. She tensed, but she didn't resist as I pulled her arms up, re-tied them to a new anchor point on the wall, higher this time, so she'd have to stretch to reach the floor with her knees. It would make her more uncomfortable, force her to shift her weight constantly, and I wanted her to think about me every second I was gone.

She made a small sound as the rope bit into her raw wrists, but she didn't cry out. I finished the knot, gave it a tug to make sure it held, and stepped back to admire my work.

She looked good like this. Stretched out, her arms above her head, her body arched and vulnerable, her bound legs splayed awkwardly beneath her. The plate of half-eaten bacon sat on the floor beside her, and I could see the grease smeared on her chin, the tears drying on her cheeks. She looked ruined. She looked perfect.

"I'll be back before dark," I said. "Be good while I'm gone."

I turned and walked toward the door, and as I passed her, I brought my hand down flat on her ass. Hard. The sound cracked through the small room, and she gasped, a sharp, strangled sound, her body jerking against the ropes.

"That's for being a brat this morning," I said, without looking back. "Think about it while I'm gone."

I stepped out into the cold morning air and shut the door behind me, the lock clicking into place. I stood there a moment, listening to the silence, and then I walked to my car, got in, and drove toward campus.

The dorm room smelled like stale coffee and the faint, floral scent of Maya's shampoo. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed when I walked in, a mug in her hands, her laptop open on the blanket beside her. She looked up at me, her green eyes sharp and knowing, and I felt the familiar prickle of being seen too clearly.

"Well, well," she said, setting down her mug. "The ghost returns."

"I told you I'd be back."

"You told me a lot of things." She tilted her head, studying me. "You've been gone a lot, Justin. Like, a lot a lot. I've barely seen you sleep here in—what, a week? Two?"

I walked past her to my dresser, pulling out a clean shirt. "I've been busy."

"Busy." She said the word like she was tasting it, rolling it around in her mouth. "Busy doing what?"

"Classes. Study groups. You know."

"Uh-huh." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes boring into the back of my head. "Because you've never once mentioned a study group. And you hate group projects."

I pulled my shirt over my head, buying myself a second. "Things change."

"Things change," she repeated. "Right. And your eyes being all bloodshot and you looking like you haven't slept in days—that's just, what, a new aesthetic?"

I turned to face her. "I'm fine, Maya."

"You're not fine." Her voice was quiet, but there was a steel edge to it, the same edge she got when she was about to call me on my bullshit. "You're not fine, and you're lying to me, and I'm tired of pretending I don't notice."

I opened my mouth to say something—I don't know what, some deflection, some lie—but she cut me off.

"I'm serious, Justin. I'm not your enemy here. I'm your friend. Or at least I thought I was." She paused, and I saw something flicker in her eyes, something raw and unguarded. "I'm asking you, as my friend, to tell me the truth. What's going on with you?"

The words hung in the air between us, heavy and dangerous. I could feel them pulling at me, the weight of her sincerity, the way she looked at me like she actually gave a shit. And for a second—just a second—I wanted to tell her. I wanted to open my mouth and let it all spill out, the cabin, the files, the way Elena looked at me now, broken and hungry and mine.

But the second passed.

"I can't," I said, and my voice came out rougher than I meant it to. "Not yet. But I'm asking you to trust me, Maya. Please."

She stared at me for a long moment, her green eyes searching mine, looking for something I wasn't sure I had. Then she let out a slow breath, shaking her head.

"Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Another time, then."

"Another time," I agreed.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, and I didn't look back. I couldn't. If I'd looked back, I might have seen the hurt in her eyes, and I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to feel guilty about the one person in this world who actually gave a damn about me.

I had a class to get to.

The economics lecture hall was half full when I slipped in through the back door, the familiar smell of chalk dust and stale air washing over me. Elisa Marchetti was at the front, gesturing animatedly at a whiteboard covered in supply-and-demand curves, her oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, her cat-eye glasses perched on her nose. She looked up when I walked in, caught my eye, and gave me a small, knowing smile.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Hartley," she said, her voice light but pointed. "I was starting to think you'd dropped my class."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Professor."

She laughed, a warm, easy sound, and turned back to the whiteboard. I scanned the room, looking for my group, and spotted Priya in the third row, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her backpack strap fidgeting between her fingers as she listened. She caught my eye and gave me a small nod, and I made my way over to her.

"You're late," she said, as I slid into the seat beside her.

"I'm here."

"Barely." She glanced at me, her dark eyes sharp and assessing. "You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"I'm serious. You've been looking rough all week. Everything okay?"

I opened my mouth to give her the same deflection I'd given Maya, but something stopped me. Priya was different. She didn't push, didn't needle. She just asked, her voice quiet and direct, and waited. It was almost worse than Maya's prying.

"Just haven't been sleeping well," I said. "Lots of work."

She held my gaze for a moment, then nodded, letting it go. "Alright. Well, we've got a lot to go over for the project. Marcus sent me his part last night, and I've got notes on the data analysis. We should probably—"

She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes flicking past me, toward the other side of the room. I followed her gaze.

Kira.

She was sitting with her own team, three or four students clustered around her, talking in low voices. She looked different than she had in the sex store, harder, more polished, her platinum bob sharp and precise, her tailored blazer immaculate. She was the student council president, the queen of this campus, and she was holding court like she owned the place.

I watched her for a moment. Then I let my gaze settle on her, steady and unblinking, and I held it.

It took her a second to notice. She was mid-sentence, gesturing at something on her teammate's laptop, and then her eyes flicked up, found mine across the room, and stopped.

Her face went pale.

I didn't smile. I didn't nod. I just held her gaze, letting her see me, letting her remember exactly what I had on her, what I could do with it if she ever forgot who she belonged to now. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked away, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for her water bottle, and she didn't look back.

"Justin." Priya's voice cut through the moment. "You okay?"

I turned back to her, letting a small, easy smile cross my face. "Fine. Just spacing out. What were you saying?"

She looked at me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching, and I could see her turning something over in her mind. But she didn't push. She just nodded, pulling her notes closer.

"I was saying we need to finalize the methodology section by Friday. Marcus's data is solid, but the analysis needs work. I was thinking—"

She kept talking, her voice low and steady, and I let it wash over me, nodding at the right moments, making the right sounds. But my mind was elsewhere. It was back in the cabin, with Elena stretched out on the floor, her wrists bound, her body aching, waiting for me to come home.

I had two weeks left with her.

And I was going to make every second count.