I’d known from the moment he told me to dress for him, he’d choose a skirt. It wasn’t scandalous on paper—just shorter than anything I’d ever contemplate wearing: high-waisted black pleats brushing my mid-thigh, paired with a crisp white blouse tucked neatly and low heels that clicked like a metronome. Almost preppy. Yet every step had me quivering with exposure, skin alight under each breeze.

Inside the notebook, a folded note was taped to the cover: “No tights. No bra. Panties optional.” — Sir. Optional. A lie, because in his game “optional” meant no escape. He’d know. He always knows.

My pulse had been a live wire since I left my apartment. I was acutely aware of the skirt’s hem riding higher every time I shifted in my seat. The whisper of fabric against bare skin reminded me I was obeying him—and that obedience felt deliciously electric.

Even hidden in lecture halls, I was his today.

By office hours, anticipation had frayed my nerves into raw strings. Not fear—something sharper: the craving for his gaze, the need for him to see I’d followed instructions, even the “optional.”

At exactly 3:00 I knocked. He opened the door, gaze lingering over me in a single, deliberate sweep. No smirk. No crude comment. Just a low murmur: “You followed instructions.”

I nodded, voice caught. “Yes, Sir.”

“Speak it,” he said.

“I followed instructions, Sir.”

A flicker of satisfaction passed over him. He stepped aside and closed the door with a soft click.

“Let me see.”

I froze. “See…?”

He closed the distance between us. “Did you wear panties?”

Heat burned my cheeks. “No, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

The praise struck me like a pulse, knees weak. He circled behind me. “Obedience isn’t about humiliation,” he murmured, brushing my hair off my neck. “It’s trust. Awareness. Being utterly seen.”

“I feel…exposed,” I admitted, voice trembling.

“That’s the point.” His hand rested lightly on the small of my back, skirt edge grazing higher. “Your mind sharpens when your body is under surveillance. You sit taller. Breathe deeper. Listen closer.”

He pulled back, eyes burning into mine. “I want your posture. Your attention. Not just your submission—I want your focus.”

I swallowed, need blazing in my chest. “Yes, Sir.”

He returned to his desk, voice measured. “You’ll journal tonight. Every heartbeat, every tremor of obedience.” He paused, then added: “Next week, we begin discipline.”

My breath caught. “But I was good today.”

His smile was slow, deliberate, and it unmade me. “You were. But discipline isn’t punishment. It’s ritual. Structure. You crave it.”

I sat there trembling, realizing he was right. Always right. And I didn’t want him to stop.

Ivy’s Journal Entry – After Obedience Day

Today, I didn’t wear panties.

I said that out loud. To my professor. And not only did he know I would obey—he trusted I would. And I did.

I felt exposed the entire day. Like my skin was thinner. My body sharper. Every time the fabric of my skirt shifted, I remembered who I belonged to. And somehow… it made me feel safe.

Not slutty. Not degraded. Just seen.

He didn’t leer. He didn’t touch me. He looked at me like I’d earned something. Like I’d pleased him. And when he said “good girl,” it hit somewhere deeper than I expected.

That phrase—

It’s not just praise. It’s permission.

Permission to stop holding everything up all the time. To give in. To stop pretending I’m not exhausted from pretending.

I don’t know where this ends. But I want to keep going.

I want more.

The room was stifling, an oppressive heat enveloping me as soon as I stepped inside. He insisted I strip my shoes at the entrance. The carpet felt like a plush trap beneath my feet. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Today wasn’t about mere obedience. It was about transformation. He had made that unambiguously clear.

"Get on your knees," he commanded with unnerving calm. "Not as submission. But to focus. Lower your mind. Humble it. Open it."

A flicker of hesitation flickered before I sank onto the small cushion he'd strategically placed by his desk. My skirt whispered against my thighs as I moved.

"Back straight. Hands flat on your thighs. Eyes down unless I speak your name."

I complied.

Silence closed in, suffocating. I could hear the scratch of his pen, the rustle of paper, each inhalation and exhalation.

Every instinct screamed for movement, for rebellion, but I remained frozen, a statue of obedience.

Minutes stretched into eternity before his voice shattered the quiet.

"You broke Rule Two this week."

I froze. "When?"

"In your journal," he said, voice slicing through the air. "You expressed a desire for more. But you withheld specifics. You gave me poetry when I demanded truth."

He rose and prowled toward me, each step deliberate and weighted.

"You are not here to be vague, Ivy. You are here to submit to clarity."

"I’m sorry, Sir," I murmured, my voice trembling.

"You will not apologize," he replied, not unkindly. "You will rectify it."

He placed a notepad and pen on the floor between us.

"Write: ‘I will speak my desires without shame.’ Fifty times."

I blinked, my mind reeling. "Here?"

"Yes. On your knees. That is your task."

I wavered. He waited, unyielding.

Then I bent forward, gripping the pen with determination, and began to write.

Each line carved through my hand like a chisel, each stroke intensified the burning in my thighs. But with every sentence, the shame ebbed away, replaced by something raw and powerful.

Pride. Liberation. Clarity.

By the thirtieth line, my breath steadied. By the fiftieth, I was consumed by an urge to continue.

I set the pen down gently. "Finished, Sir."

He knelt beside me, taking the page, his eyes scanning each line in silence.

Then, his fingers brushed my cheek, a tender touch that ignited a fire within.

"You did well."

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed.

And whispered, "Thank you, Daddy."

It slipped out, a spontaneous burst of truth.

When I opened my eyes, he was motionless.

Then—

A smile spread across his face.

"Now you’re learning."

Journal Entry

I didn’t plan to say it.

It just came out. Like my mouth moved before my brain could catch up. But the second I said it, I felt something shift.

Not in him—in me.

My fear melted. My shame dimmed. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was relieved.

Daddy.

I’ve never called anyone that before. Not in that way. Not with that weight. And when I looked up at him and saw his smile—not smug, not triumphant, but proud—I knew I’d given him something he’d been waiting for.

And it didn’t feel gross. It didn’t feel like giving something up.

It felt like finally breathing right.

I want to say it again.

I want to earn it.

The week dragged by, and with each passing day, my mind was a whirlwind of confusion. He didn’t summon me. No tasks were assigned. No rules to follow. No notes in the journal. Just an unsettling silence that left me adrift. At first, I thought he was giving me space, allowing the intensity of our last encounter to fade. But by Thursday, I was unraveling.

I struggled to concentrate in my other classes, my thoughts consumed by the memory of his fingers brushing my cheek and the word that had escaped my lips like a long-hidden secret: Daddy. I was torn between the desire to kneel again, to earn his praise, to be corrected—not because I had done something wrong, but because it meant he was paying attention. It meant he saw me. Yet, a part of me questioned this need, this craving for his structure and attention.

When I arrived for office hours, I was a storm of conflicting emotions. Should I wait for him to summon me, or take the initiative? I knocked, entered, and closed the door behind me.

He was at his desk, but there was no surprise in his eyes. “Miss Sinclair.”

I hesitated, battling the urge to kneel. But then, silently, willingly, I did.

He stood, moving around the desk, his expression unreadable. “You weren’t told to kneel.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Then why are you on the floor?”

“Because I needed to be.”

His head tilted slightly. “You needed to obey.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I missed you,” I admitted softly, conflicted. “Not just you. The structure. The attention. I feel lost when I’m not under your direction.”

Silence stretched between us, my heart pounding with uncertainty. Then he spoke.

“You’re not being punished today, Ivy. But you will still be corrected.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

His hand touched my hair—not to push, not to pull, just to rest.

“To crave discipline is not weakness,” he said. “It means you’ve finally stopped trying to survive on your own.”

I nodded, my lips trembling with the weight of my internal struggle.

“Today, we rewrite the rules,” he said. “Together.”

I didn’t expect such raw intimacy. I braced for cold, antiseptic directives—hems no higher, posture straighter. But these new rules weren’t about control. They were about care. They were about me. He set the leather-bound volume in my lap while I knelt, my fingertips grazing the gold-embossed title—Ivy’s Rules—as if touching something holy.

I devoured them one by one.

1. You will call me “Daddy” in private at all times.

My throat constricted. I’d slipped once—unconscious, unguarded—and his eyes had warmed into a smile. Now he seized it, made it his own word for me. No longer an accident. Something real and mine.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“Thank you… Daddy,” I breathed, voice trembling between silk and hunger.

He tipped his head, satisfied. “Good girl.” His words rolled over me, soft and incising like a blade.

2. You will text me each morning with a self-assessment: mood, sleep, intentions.

It sounded trivial. Innocent. But I knew it would be brutal. Laying my true state bare—letting someone see my darkest edges—felt harder than any flogging.

“A report?” I dared.

“An offering,” he said softly. “Your mind. Your truth. I want you exposed.”

I chewed my lip. “I hate burdening you.”

His gaze sharpened. “Rule Five will unlearn that thought,” he said. “Keep going.”

3. You will ask permission before touching yourself. Denial is discipline.

My pulse leaped. He hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t even asked if I was wet. Yet he knew—knew I lay in bed replaying his voice, hungry for more.

“You won’t always hear yes,” he warned. “But denial and reward both come from me. Your desire is never shameful.”

Each word pressed against my chest. I gasped, “Yes, Daddy.”

4. You will eat three meals and drink water. If you fail, you will be corrected.

I frowned—this was domestic, mundane.

“It’s obedience,” he said quietly. “Your body isn’t disposable. I want you alive, radiant, thriving.”

His care flushed warmth through me—owned and cherished.

“If I slip?” I whispered.

“You’ll tell me, and I will guide you back,” he promised. Beneath his authority lay a fire that melted every wall inside me.

5. You will never apologize for needing care. Good girls deserve attention.

Tears stung. No one had ever affirmed my need like that. I always equated need with weakness. Yet here he was, demanding I claim it.

“I’m not used to that,” I admitted.

“I know,” he replied, voice heavy with purpose. “That’s why it’s a rule. No cages, Ivy. We build foundations.”

My tears spilled free.

He slid the notebook closer. “Rule Six. Your voice. Your truth—no matter how messy.”

My hand shook as I wrote:

6. I will not hide what I want anymore. I will speak it. Even if I burn. Even if I fear I’m too much.

When I handed it back, he studied the words as though mapping my soul, then closed the book with reverence.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, “Not your body—yet—but your willingness.”

A shiver of triumph and surrender raced through me.

“I want to be yours, Daddy.”

His hand brushed my cheek—a promise more intoxicating than any command.

I didn't text him this morning. I knew I should have—Rule Two was crystal clear: mood, sleep, intentions. A daily ritual. A grounding act. But today, I just… froze.

I woke up late, heart racing, lungs constricted. My stomach churned. The thought of class, of my reflection in the mirror, of anything felt overwhelming. Too oppressive. Too much to bear.

So I stayed in bed. And said nothing.

By afternoon, I'd half-convinced myself it didn't matter. That maybe he hadn't noticed. That maybe I could pretend I forgot. But deep down, I knew the truth: I wanted him to notice I was gone. I wanted him to care. But I also dreaded his reaction. What if he was angry? Worse, what if he was indifferent?

When I knocked on his door, I braced myself for coldness. Silence. Disappointment. Maybe even rejection.

Instead, he opened the door without a word and simply said, "Inside."

I stepped in, my heart pounding in my chest. The door clicked shut behind me, sealing my fate.

"Ivy," he said, his voice a mix of softness and firmness that made my stomach flip. "Kneel."

I obeyed, sinking to my knees, eyes downcast. My mind was a whirlwind of fear, shame, and relief.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I met his gaze, tears already blurring my vision.

"You didn't check in."

"I know, Daddy," I whispered, shame coursing through me.

"Tell me why."

I hesitated, my throat tightening. "I just… couldn't."

"Explain," he pressed, not unkindly but unyielding.

My breath hitched. "I didn't want to move. I didn't want to eat or think or be. And I knew if I told you that, you'd see how messy I am. And I didn't want you to regret taking me on. But I also didn't want to burden you. I don't know what I want."

The tears spilled over. "I don't want to be your good girl if it means disappointing you."

Silence. A chasm of uncertainty opened up before me.

And then—

He crouched in front of me, hands on my knees. His gaze was intense, searching. "Listen to me," he said, his voice steady. "You don't have to earn my affection, Ivy. You don't have to be perfect for me to care. But you do have to trust me."

"But I broke a rule—"

"And now you're here," he said, his voice low and resonant. "That matters more than any rule. This is about trust, about communication. And you trusted me enough to come back. But you're still holding back."

My breath shuddered out. "I don't know how to need someone without feeling ashamed. Or how to trust without feeling scared."

"You'll learn," he promised. "Because I'll guide you. But you have to meet me halfway. That's what this is. That's what we are."

I reached for him, fingers trembling as they curled into his shirt. "You're not disappointed?" I asked, my voice small, still fearing his answer.

He cupped my face, thumbs wiping away tears. "No. I'm proud of you for being honest. For coming to me when it mattered most. But I need you to trust me completely."

"Say it," he murmured, his voice a gentle command.

"…I'm still your good girl," I whispered, but doubt lingered in my voice.

"Damn right you are," he breathed. "Mine. Now and always. But you have to believe it."

And when he pulled me into his arms, I wanted to sink into his strength, his dominance. But a part of me still held back, still questioned. His control was both my solace and my turmoil.

"I have you," he whispered against my hair. "I will always have you. But you need to trust in that."

I wanted to believe him. But the conflict within me raged on. And in that moment, it was both everything and not enough.

I typed the message, hands convulsing with a mix of dread and desire:

Daddy… may I please touch myself tonight?

Each word was a shard of my soul—jagged, bleeding, begging for his consent.

His response was immediate.

Yes. But only under my watchful eye.

My heart stuttered to a halt.

Then another message sliced through the air:

Present yourself to the office. Knock twice. Do not dare climax until I command.

I was already lurching forward, driven by the pulsating need between my legs.

The office door swung open as if he'd been lying in wait. He said nothing—just stepped aside, admitted me into his lair, and sealed the door behind us.

The room was drenched in a dim, flickering glow from a solitary desk lamp. Shadows writhed across the thick, opulent rug where he gestured for me to kneel.

I crumpled to my knees, breath ragged and desperate.

"You asked," he growled, his voice a thunderous rumble. "And I granted."

I nodded, voice strangled by the raw emotion lodged in my throat.

"But if you crave true submission, you will move only at my command. I will witness every part of you—your lust, your ecstasy, your pathetic need for control."

"Y-yes, Daddy," I choked out, voice a mere whisper.

"Strip for me."

I rose on quaking legs and slowly peeled off each layer of clothing, letting them drop like shed skin. As the last shred of fabric hit the floor, I looked to him, awaiting his decree.

His gaze was feral, black with a hunger that felt like a ravaging touch. "Lie back," he demanded, his tone a brutal caress. "Spread your legs. Show me your soaking wet cunt."

I complied, sprawling on the rug, thighs falling open to expose my most intimate flesh. The cool air licked at my feverish skin, making me quiver with anticipation.

"Start fucking yourself," he ordered, voice a low, harsh command. "One hand. Two fingers. I want to watch you unravel."

I brought my hand to my drenched folds, stroking roughly, urgently. Each breath was a desperate plea as I built speed, the tension within me coiling like a viper ready to strike.

"Faster," he barked. "Eyes on me."

I obeyed, my touches growing frantic, crazed. I was splayed open, vulnerable—and yet, never more naked, more understood.

"You've dreamt of this," he rasped. "Of me watching you come undone."

"Y-yes, Daddy," I gasped.

"Did you dream of being my good little girl... or my dirty little slut?"

I moaned, the question making me clamp down on my fingers. "Both," I confessed, breath hitching.

"Of course you did," he snarled. "My good girl is as filthy as she is obedient."

The words sent me spiraling, the praise catapulting me toward the edge.

"Don't stop," he growled. "Come for me. Now."

With a final, brutal touch, I detonated, my release obliterating me like a storm of fire and shame and liberation all at once. I convulsed around my fingers, body jerking through the brutal aftershocks.

When it was over, I lay eviscerated on the rug, eyes leaking, chest heaving.

He knelt beside me, brushing hair from my face with a gentleness that made my heart twist. "You obeyed flawlessly," he murmured.

"Thank you, Daddy," I breathed, still shuddering from the brutality of it all.

I felt flayed. I felt possessed. And I knew there was no turning back.

As he helped me dress, his touch seared my skin—promises and expectations that made me shiver with a craving for more. We were only just beginning.

The midterm exam is finally over. As I step out of the testing center, I find Emily leaning against the wall, arms folded, her gaze slicing straight through me. My stomach twists before she even speaks.

“Well, well,” she sneers. “Look who thinks she’s got it all figured out.”

My throat tightens. I try to slip past her, avoid the confrontation, but she reaches out and grabs my arm—her nails digging in just enough to make me wince. “Don’t ignore me, Ivy. I’m talking to you.”

My pulse hammers, but I force my jaw to unclench. “I’m not ignoring you, Emily. I— I have to meet Professor Vale. We’re going over my paper.”

A flicker of something—surprise?—crosses her face, quickly replaced by a jealous scowl. “You and Professor Vale? What’s that supposed to mean?”

I swallow. Part of me wants to shout that it means nothing, that it’s purely academic. Instead, I shrug, trying to sound casual. “He’s been helping me with the material.”

Emily’s grip tightens, pain flaring down my arm. “You think you’re so special, don’t you? Teacher’s pet.”

I wrench free, rubbing the sore spot as I back away. “I’m not trying to be anyone’s pet,” I say, voice brittle. “I just want to do well. Maybe you should try that sometime.”

Her face flushes crimson, but I can’t stay—I turn and walk off, heart pounding so loudly I’m afraid someone will hear it. Every step toward Professor Vale’s office feels conflicted: grateful for his help, ashamed of the rumors stirring behind me, terrified of Emily’s next move.

When I knock and push open the door, he looks up from his desk at once. His eyes catch on the journal in my trembling hands. My throat goes dry.

“Is that…?”

I nod, handing it over. “Yes, Daddy. It’s my journal. I wrote about everything. Like you asked.”

He takes it with such gentleness that it startles me—his fingers brushing mine, heartbeats echoing between us. “Thank you, Ivy. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Tears sting my eyes as he opens the cover. I watch his expression shift—curiosity giving way to concern, then anger that darkens his features.

“Your father…” he growls, voice low. “Your sister…” His fists clench. “I will make them pay for what they did to you.”

Panic and relief collide in my chest. I shake my head, fresh tears spilling over. “No, Daddy. Please, you can’t. I don’t want trouble.”

He looks at me, softening. He sets the journal aside and pulls me into his arms. For a moment, I’m suspended between wanting to melt into him and fearing the enormity of his promise.

“I won’t cause any trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my hair. “But I will make sure no one ever hurts you again.”

I lay my head on his shoulder, torn by gratitude and dread. “I trust you,” I whisper, but my voice wavers.

His hand soothes circles on my back. “You should,” he says softly.

And as I stand there, wrapped in his protective warmth, a new uncertainty takes root inside me. I’ve found strength in his promise—but I’m not sure I’m ready for what comes next. I only know that nothing will ever be the same.