I always thought my sharp tongue and stubborn curves made me bulletproof in these oak-paneled halls. Queen of the seminar, shredding rivals with sarcasm while chasing tenure like it was oxygen. No one touches this BBW academic. No one breaks me.

Then he started dismantling me. My icy rival across the podium by day, the professor whose barbed critiques leave me flushed and furious. One late-night clash in his office, thick with old books and fresh humiliation, and his voice drops low. Orders me to my knees. Makes me confess how wet his degradation makes me. I hate it. I need it.

Our fights explode into sweat-slicked surrender. Bodies heaving chest to chest after I mouth off one too many times. His hands gripping my hips, forcing filthy words from my lips as he claims every soft inch. Scattered clothes on the floor, stunned silence while I dress, his marks blooming on my skin like forbidden signatures. Lying there afterward, damp and spent, pride in shreds but bliss humming through my veins.

It's ecstasy wrapped in ruin. One leaked whisper of this, and my reputation shatters. Dreams of lectures and publications? Gone. Self-respect I've clawed for? Obliterated. Yet fighting him feels like starving myself. Denying the one man who sees my secret hunger and feeds it until I beg. How long can my defiance hold before his merciless ownership devours me whole?