“Trauma can be implicit. Even if you don’t have memories in words or pictures, your body remembers. It can be risky to push yourself so far out of your comfort zone. The fact that you were holding space for curiosity and caution is a good step toward healing. Having a safe word is important since itgives you control in a scenario where you’ve historically felt powerless. Did it help?”
“It got me out of my head. He knew how to build up my anticipation so all I could think about was when he would touch me and where he would touch me instead ofdanger, he’s touching me.”
“Well, in this scenario, you were choosing it. You sought him out. You set the scene. You shared your limits. And you dictated the rules. As long as you’re going into this fully consenting to it, I don’t see a problem.”
I hesitate briefly, not wanting to disappoint her with the next part. She seems so thrilled with my progress.
“Based on the look on your face, I’m guessing there’s more?”
Swallowing down my nerves, I blow out a breath. “After the scene was over, he cracked his neck like the man in my nightmares, and I panicked and used my safe word. It was really disappointing. I felt like I’d come so far just to ruin it with my stupid broken body.”
She sets her pen down and looks straight in the camera. “First of all, you’re not broken, you’re healing. And even if it didn’t end the way you’d hoped, I think there are a couple of important takeaways here. You let someone touch you. You explored it with consent. And when you felt triggered, you listened to your body, and you stopped it. Your nervous system was trying to protect you, and you honored that by using your safe word. That’s what it’s there for. You said stop, but you were still in control.”
“I was kinda hoping that one visit would be all it took. But I’ve seen him three times now and the nightmares are still happening.”
“Healing isn’t linear, Emma, and one experience with a masked man isn’t a magic fix.”
“There are no magic fixes,” we say in unison.
“That’s right. But you made some progress, and you should celebrate that.”
I end the call a few minutes later and blow out a deep breath. A sense of peace washes over me and I open a blank document, determined to write an essay that Professor A-hole won’t eviscerate.
CHAPTER 8
JOHN
The start of the semester—when beginnings are new, hopes are high, and possibilities are endless—is my favorite time of year. This year should be no different, but a pit of dread forms in my stomach at the thought of where this year could take me if I’m not careful.
A Christian college may seem like an odd choice for someone who also moonlights as a dom at a sex club, but my strict religious upbringing was a huge factor in my decision to work at Faith Union. It took a while to overcome the need to please my strict parents, but by then their chokehold on my life was too far-reaching. I’m fairly certain my need to top—to be in control of a sub—stems from me wanting to break free of the church’s control over me. My own secret act of rebellion.
Even the fact that I teach Shakespeare is due to my parents deeming it one of the few appropriate types of literature I could read aside from the Bible.
Students begin filing into the lecture hall, and I push everything down, determined not to give in to my desires. I have more discipline than that.
I will control myself.
We’re a month into the semester at this point, and most students have developed a routine, sitting in specific spots throughout the room every class without fail.
I feel her presence before I see her. My eyes flick up, and I watch her make her way down the steps and across the second row.
She’s so fucking beautiful, so perfect, drawing me in like a siren calling to a sailor. I’m enthralled by her beauty, enraptured by the sound of her voice. I find myself calling on her before anyone else, desperate for the sweet lilt of her voice. It’s probably shitty of me to tear apart her essays, but there’s a part of me that hopes it’ll be the reason she’ll come to my office and give me more of her attention.
A relationship between us is forbidden and wrong for more reasons than she’s aware. I am thirteen years her senior and her professor. There are rules that forbid me from acting on any of these impulses. And I can’t screw over Mary’s future, not when she’s depending on my help.
Pulling up my notes for class, I force down my desire, taking several deep breaths to even out my racing heart. This is the same thing I do at Pulse when I put my mask on.I am in control.
“Today we’re diving intoHenry V. Can anyone tell me what you think the main themes of the play are?”
A student in the back raises his hand. “What makes a good leader.” I nod my agreement when Emma’s hand shoots up. I fight my smile as I nod at her.
“It goes deeper than that, exploring the complexities of leadership. Henry’s public persona versus his private self.”
“Could you expand on that a little more, Miss Black?”
“I think we should question what makes a good leader. Does he need fear or respect to be deemed good? Does he need to be ruthless in achieving victory and maintaining order? And how is that compatible with goodness, morality, and compassion?It examines how someone appears versus their true nature. The qualities that make Henry a great king are not the same qualities that would define a good person.” There’s a hint of a smirk on her face like she knows her words hold a deeper meaning, and fuck if it doesn’t make me hard.
“It must be hard having all those responsibilities. Worrying about your country, its people, their well-being and safety in the threat of war, and then having to put aside your own desires, your own needs, for the good of your nation,” she continues.
