Lily
I stood before the grand mirror, the same one that had haunted my dreams night after night. The room was unchanged, draped in shadows and luxury, a place I had come to recognize too well. Each dream had grown bolder, more daring, ever since the veil was lifted from the face of the man who lingered in them. And though I should have been afraid, I found myself anticipating his return with a hunger I didn't understand.
He was devastatingly handsome, impossibly so, and I couldn't deny the pull he had over me. For the past week, he had become the reason I rushed to bed earlier than ever, eager to surrender to sleep just to see him again. And every morning, he was the reason I woke trembling, aching, my body burning from a desire no reality could ever soothe.
Tonight, I found myself once again in that same room, standing before the same grand mirror. Unlike before, I was alone, completely, achingly alone, and dressed in far less than I ever imagined I could bear. A flush crept across my skin as my reflection revealed me in a maroon lingerie set that clung to me like a second skin.
The satin bra cupped my breasts, lifting them high, the lace trim whispering delicately against my curves. Matching panties, cut daringly low at the hips, left little to the imagination, while a sheer garter belt hugged my waist, delicate straps trailing down to cling to silk stockings. It was bold. Seductive. Nothing like the plain cotton comfort I wore in my real life.
And yet, here in this dream, I stood tall before the mirror, my bare skin glowing under the dim golden light, as if daring him to appear and see me like this. My wish came true when the familiar sound of footsteps echoed across the polished floor, slow and deliberate, each one sending shivers up my spine.
I tore my gaze from my reflection and looked toward him, and there he was. Dashing didn't even begin to cover it. He leaned in the doorway at first, all effortless power and simmering confidence, before striding into the room. He wore a black button-up shirt, most of the buttons left undone, the dark fabric teasing glimpses of his sculpted chest and the firm lines of his abdomen. The shirt clung to him in places, stretching faintly across his broad shoulders, while the loose collar framed the sharp column of his throat.
The matching black trousers hugged his lean hips and long legs, every step fluid, predatory, as if the room belonged to him alone. His hair, dark as ink, spilled loosely around his face, slightly tousled as though he had just risen from some decadent sin. His crimson eyes glimmered faintly in the golden light, sharp and knowing, glowing with hunger that made me weak inside.
And that smirk, slow, devilish, carved with sin itself, told me he had already seen me, already devoured me with his gaze, and he was savoring every second before he reached me.
My cheeks flushed hot under the weight of his gaze, my skin tingling everywhere his eyes lingered. He devoured me slowly, deliberately, as if stripping away more than the lace that barely covered me. My body stiffened, shame clawing at me the way it always did. I never thought I was beautiful. I never thought I was desirable. That was why I hid in loose clothes, why I never let anyone close enough to see me like this.
And yet, under his piercing stare, I felt utterly naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.
My hand twitched, instinctively trying to cover the soft curve of my stomach, to shield myself from his scrutiny. But before I could, his fingers were on me, long, cold, unyielding as they closed firmly around my wrist.
"Tsk." The sound was sharp, filled with disapproval, and my breath caught as he tugged my arm back down, forcing me to remain open to his gaze. His crimson eyes locked with mine, burning, commanding. "What are you doing?"
Heat crawled up my neck, shame and desire tangling inside me. "I… I don't know. It feels…" My words faltered, the rest trapped in my throat.
He tilted his head, watching me squirm beneath him, his grip tightening just enough to remind me I wasn't allowed to hide. "Feels like what?" His voice was deceptively soft, low, and deliberate, but laced with an authority that made my knees weak. It wasn't a question. It was an order.
I suddenly felt too hot, too nervous to breathe, let alone speak. His gaze pinned me in place, demanding, merciless, stripping me down until I felt small beneath him, submissive. The shame of admitting I liked it burned through me, but not enough to stop the way my body ached under his stare.
His hand slid to my shoulder, cold yet steady, and he guided me toward the grand mirror. My reflection loomed in front of me, a version of myself I barely recognized, nearly bare, trembling, needy. His voice curled around me like velvet, low and commanding.
"Do you not like what you see?"
My throat locked. I couldn't bring myself to look, not with him watching. My eyes dropped to the floor.
"Look up." His tone brooked no argument, firm, dominant. I obeyed before I even realized it, glancing at my own flushed reflection, only to have my gaze caught by his in the mirror. His hazel eyes locked on mine, sharp and consuming, flecked with gold that seemed to glimmer under the dim light. That gaze alone felt like it was devouring me, branding me, stripping me bare.
"I asked you something, didn't I?" he whispered in my ear, his breath warm, sinful. His hand traced from my shoulder down to my wrist, slow, deliberate, leaving sparks in its wake. "Don't you like what I see?"
I didn't answer. My lips parted, but only a trembling gasp escaped. His touch was answer enough.
Then, suddenly, he seized my wrist, dragging it behind my back. His grip was firm, binding, and before I could protest, both of my wrists were trapped in one of his hands.
A startled cry tore from me when his other hand pressed firmly between my shoulder blades, forcing me forward until I bent over before him. The pose was humiliating, vulnerable, yet something deep inside me throbbed with excitement. My breath came in shallow, desperate gasps as my body betrayed me, arching instinctively, my ass pushed out for him.
A sharp smack cracked across my cheek, the sting blooming into heat. I gasped, half in shock, half in pleasure, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
"If I ever see you doubting your beautiful body again," his voice was a low growl, dark and commanding, "I will make sure your ass glows red."
Before the words could settle, his palm landed on the other cheek, harder, the sound sharp, the sting delicious. I cried out, horrified at how wet I was, how much I wanted more. The shame was intoxicating.
And then, abruptly, the dream ripped away from me.
I jolted awake, sitting upright in my bed with a gasp. My heart thundered against my ribs, my throat dry, my body throbbing with lingering heat. My ass still ached faintly, as if the marks were real.
Wasn't it just a dream?
I went to university that morning with a foggy brain and an ass that still ached faintly from the dream I had woken up from. It was finally the day our Critical Reading and Writing class would begin, and we would meet the professor who had replaced Mrs. Gomez. I was on my second cup of coffee, clutching it like a lifeline, but even the bitter heat of it could not burn away the memory of last night.
That dream had been too real. I had felt every sound, every touch, every humiliating sting. I could still remember the weight of his hand striking me, and worse, the shameful thrill it had left behind. My cheeks puffed out as I exhaled, shaking my head. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe I needed to see a shrink. It was one thing to dream of a faceless stranger, but another to wake up aching as if it had truly happened. Things were spiraling, and I knew it.
I slid into my usual seat beside Peter. He raised an eyebrow at the oversized cup of coffee in my hand."You didn't sleep well, I presume?" he teased, his lips twitching with a boyish grin.
I gave a weak laugh, shrugging. "You could say that. Coffee and I are best friends right now."
He chuckled softly. "Careful, if you keep this up, you'll end up writing essays fueled by caffeine and regret."
His words made me smile despite my exhaustion. For a moment, his casual presence eased the weight pressing on me. But then the door at the front of the hall opened, and silence swept through the room like a tide pulling back before a storm.
Every head turned. My own followed, unwilling, and the moment my eyes landed on him, my heart stopped.
It was him.
The man from my dreams. The one who had touched me, commanded me, and punished me. The one whose voice haunted my nights.
He stood tall at the front of the lecture hall, carrying an aura of control so sharp it cut through the air. His dark hair was neatly styled, though a stubborn strand fell across his forehead. His jawline was sculpted, sharp enough to look carved from stone, and his hazel eyes swept across the class with the kind of piercing focus that made you feel stripped bare if they lingered too long. The black suit he wore was crisp, his tie knotted perfectly, every detail in place as if he were made for precision. There was beauty in his face, undeniable and arresting, but it was the cold sternness, the commanding presence, that made him impossible to ignore.
He placed his notes on the desk and spoke, his deep voice resonant and controlled, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Let's make one thing clear," he began, his hazel gaze locking onto us like a warning. "This class will demand your full attention. I am not here to entertain you. I am here to teach you, and if you cannot keep up, you will fall behind. My name is Professor Julian Ashford, and for the next sixteen weeks, I own your words."
The hall remained silent. No one even dared to shuffle in their seat.
I could not breathe. All I could hear was the echo of his voice in my dreams and the remembered sting of his hand on my body.
And now he was real.