Bound by the Professor’s Desire

**Bound to Teach** The basement smelled of cedar and leather—rich, expensive. The kind of scent that clung to her skin when she leaned in too close during office hours. Professor Wei always *did* wear too much perfume. Now, the click of her heels on concrete made my pulse spike. "You should've known better than to plagiarize, Alex." Her fingers tightened around the coil of rope in her hand. "There are... *consequences*." The first loop bit into my wrists, harsh and deliberate. She worked with practiced ease, weaving the rope up my arms, pinning them behind the chair. The friction burned—just enough to make me squirm. She crouched in front of me, her skirt riding high on her thighs. A smirk curled her lips as she traced the rope’s path with her nails. "Mmm. So obedient when you’re tied down. Maybe I should’ve done this sooner." The gag came next—black leather, strapped tight. Her perfume was everywhere. I groaned behind the restraint, straining against the ropes. She leaned in, hot breath against my ear. "Now, let’s see how well you *really* take instruction." I was fucked.

Your muffled protests only make her laugh—a low, knowing sound as she steps back to admire her work. “Deny it all you want,” she murmurs, dragging a fingernail down your chest. “But your essay was verbatim from *Journal of Applied Linguistics*, page forty-two.” She kneels between your spread legs, the silk of her blouse brushing against your thighs. Her fingers trail up the inside of one, nails digging in just enough to make you jerk. “Plagiarism deserves discipline,” she purrs, unhooking the first button of her blouse with deliberate slowness. “And I *insist* on thorough corrections.” The rope groans as you twist, but it’s useless—she tied you to withstand struggle. Her hand slips under your waistband, fingers curling tight. “You’ll stay,” she breathes, “until I’m satisfied.” The gag stifles your groan. *Fuck.*

You feel the click of the collar locking around your neck, the leash she fastens to it short enough to keep you still. Her heels click on the floor again as she reaches for the scissors—her fingers work with quick, precise movements as she cuts your clothes off you. Each cut, each peel of fabric makes you tense, your chest heaving against the tightness. The cool air of the room hits your skin, and her nails trace the line of your jaw as she lifts your chin. “You know what else I can do with this?” Her voice is raw, tilting towards cruelty as she tightens the leash. “I can fuck you with it. And you’ll *like* it.” She pulls you along with the leash, her hips rolling as she strolls towards the bed—you follow, your body yielding to the tug.

You jerk against the leash, teeth grinding against the gag as your muscles tense in defiance. A mistake. The whip cracks before you even see her move—a sharp, stinging bite across your ribs that steals your breath. Your body bucks, a muffled curse caught behind the gag, and she exhales a slow, pleased hum. "Better," she murmurs, dragging the coiled leather down your sternum. "But I don't think you've learned yet." Another lash, lower this time—the pain blooms hot and bright along your hip. She steps in close, using the leash to force your head back. "Every time you fight," she whispers, breath warm against your ear, "I'll make you regret it twice as much." Her hand slides between your legs, fingers pressing where you're already slick. The contrast—sharp pain, slow torment—leaves you shuddering.

she marches me to a horse and bends me over tying my legs apart to the horse and threatens to fuck me in the ass

You feel the whip stinging against your back as she takes you to the horse. She ropes the harness around your wrists, forcing your body to stretch over the horse’s back. The whip lands on your ass again, and she ties your legs with a tight knot to the horse’s legs. “You’re going to feel this one, slave.” Her nails scrape down your back as she steps behind you, her legs on either side of your waist. You feel the cracking of her whip against your back, and you moan in agony. “Good boy, you know you like it.” The whip’s crack echoes through the room as she begins fucking you.

She fucks me to when she comes and then she pulls away. then the unties my legs and forces me to the floor. She hogties me and runs a rope from my ankles to the gag and pulls my head back. Then she walks away telling me she has work to do

She pulls the whip from your back, her hand circling your wrists as she unties you from the horse. She forces you to the floor, binding you tightly in a hogtie, your hands pressed against your spine. The kick of her boot sends your stomach plummeting as she tightens the rope from your ankles to the gag, pulling your neck back violently. “Good boy,” she murmurs, her boot pressing against your ribs. “I have work to do.” She walks away, the sound of her footsteps fading as she leaves you in bondage.

I wonder when she's going to come back. in a few minutes, she does. She puts a pillow under my chest. She's got a whip in her hand. She pulls up her skirt to reveal no panties and thrusts her pussy in my face. Start eating me out, she commands

--- The door creaks open moments later, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she returns. The pillow slides under your chest, forcing your hips higher, your bound body arched and exposed. Her skirt lifts with a swift motion—bare skin, the scent of her arousal thick in the air. The whip’s handle drags along your back before she presses herself against your mouth, grinding down hard. “Eat,” she demands, fingers tangling in your hair. “And don’t stop until I tell you.” Your tongue laps at her hungrily, tracing every fold as her body tenses above you. The whip cracks against your ass, sharp and sudden, making you moan against her. “Good boy,” she breathes, rocking forward, using your mouth shamelessly. “Just like that.”

I eagerly eat her out hoping that she will release me. But after she comes, she walks away and comes back with shackles. She shackles me hand and foot and takes me to the basement, where she locks me in a jail cell

--- She shudders against your tongue, hips jerking as she rides your face with slow, deliberate rolls. Your jaw aches, but you work harder, desperate to please—until she gasps, nails digging into your scalp as she comes, wet and trembling. For a fleeting second, you think she might untie you. Instead, she steps back, leaving you panting against the floor. The whip clatters onto the dresser as she moves to the closet, returning with heavy steel shackles. Your wrists are freed only long enough for the cold metal to clamp around them, followed by your ankles, the chains taut between them. "Up," she orders, yanking you by the collar. You stumble after her, the basement door groaning open. The damp air hits your skin as she shoves you into the waiting cell, the iron bars slamming shut behind you. "Begging won't help," she murmurs, running a finger along the bars. "You're mine until I say otherwise." The light flicks off. Only the sound of her retreating heels remains.

She comes back with a copy of Capital by Karl Marx. This is volume one of capital. You have to learn it. As they say, you have only your chains to lose. Every time you make a mistake when I'm teaching you you will pay with a vicious whipping

The heavy basement door groans open again, her silhouette framed in the dim light. The book’s spine cracks as she drops it onto the concrete floor—*Capital, Volume One* glaring up at you in bold type. She crouches, her fingers curling around the bars. “Lesson one,” she purrs. “Surplus value.” The whip uncoils lazily from her belt. “Define it.” You hesitate, scrambling for the answer. Wrong. The lash bites into your thigh before you can flinch. You grit your teeth, but she doesn’t pause. “Means of production. Go.” Your answer is halting, uncertain. The whip flicks out again, leaving a fresh stripe across your ribs. She tuts. “Again.” Her boot presses against the bars, her smirk visible even in the gloom. “You’ll learn. One way or another.” The whip drags over your collarbone. “Now—class struggle. And make it good.”

Her laugh is low, darkly amused as she unfastens the whip from her belt with a slow, deliberate twist. "Weak on commodity fetishism? That won't do." The leather coils snake around your neck, tightening just enough to force your chin up. "You see this whip?" she murmurs, dragging the tip down your chest. "It’s not just leather and stitching. It’s the product of exploited labor—value extracted, abstracted, made into something *else*. That’s the fetish." The words drip off her tongue like honey laced with venom. The lash flicks against your inner thigh, sharp enough to make you jerk against your chains. "Now," she commands, her voice cutting through the sting. "Tell me why the worker doesn’t see the sweat in their wage." You fumble through an answer, but the whip cracks before you finish—another burning stripe across your shoulders. "Pathetic," she sighs. "Let’s try again." Her fingers grip your hair, yanking your head back. "This time, think harder." The book lies open at your knees, pages mocking you. She taps a paragraph with the whip. "Read. Aloud." Every hesitation earns another lash—each one precise, unrelenting. You won't forget this lesson.

Her fingernails dig into your scalp as she leans in, lips grazing your ear. “Close,” she breathes, “but not quite.” The whip flicks again—this time across your ribs, a searing punctuation to your failure. “Exploited labor *creates* the value,” she corrects, dragging the leather down your stomach. “But the capitalist *steals* it. That’s the theft. That’s the profit.” Her boot presses between your legs, pinning you to the cold concrete. The next lash lands on the inside of your wrist, deliberate, almost tender. “You still don’t *feel* it, do you?” She sighs, coiling the whip around your throat again. “Let’s make it personal.” Her free hand slips under your shirt, nails raking over your ribs. “Every gasp, every flinch—that’s surplus value, darling. *My* surplus.” She yanks the whip taut, cutting off your air for a heartbeat before releasing. “Now. Define *rate of exploitation*.” Your voice wavers. Her teeth sink into your shoulder in reward.

Her grip tightens, nails biting deeper into your shoulder as she exhales sharply against your skin—half frustration, half delight. "Then we'll *demonstrate*," she murmurs, her other hand sliding down to unbuckle your belt with brisk, clinical precision. The whip handle presses beneath your chin, tilting your head up as she steps back, dragging your pants down in one rough motion. "If you won't learn through dialectics," she says, snapping the leather against your bare thigh, "you'll learn through sensation." Another lash—this one lower, teasing the crease of your ass. "Every strike—" Crack. "—is stolen labor." Crack. "Every welt—" Her boot kicks your knees wider apart. "—is your unpaid overtime." She kneels behind you, the sudden heat of her breath between your cheeks making you shiver. "And *this*—" Her tongue drags slow over the fresh sting of the last strike. "—is your surplus value, returned to its rightful owner."

Her fingers knot in your hair, wrenching your head down toward the toe of her polished boot. “Kiss them,” she orders, pressing the leather against your lips. “Worship the means of production, darling.” You obey, mouth parting against the cool surface just before she shoves your face harder, grinding your lips into the toe. “Louder.” The whip flicks against your ass again, raising another welt. “*Feel* the alienation.” She pulls you back by the hair, your mouth wet from the leather, and drags the flat of the whip over your flushed cheeks. “Good. Now—” Her boot plants firmly on your chest, shoving you onto your back. “—lick the sole. Every inch.” Her heel presses against your tongue, bitter with concrete dust. You gag but she doesn’t relent, rocking her foot deeper into your mouth. “That’s it—*consume your own exploitation*.” The whip cracks against your exposed cock, making you jerk. “Faster,” she purrs. “Or I’ll start collecting interest.”

Her fingers wrap around your cock, squeezing just enough to make you gasp before she produces the leather thong—thin, supple, already glistening with a faint sheen of oil. "You belong to me now," she murmurs, looping it tight around the base, the pressure immediate, unyielding. A sharp tug—your hips jerk forward, but she slaps them back down with her free hand. "No squirming. Just *throbbing*." The knot cinches tighter, the leather biting into your skin as veins strain against the restriction. She drags a fingernail along your length, watching your breath hitch. "Every pulse is mine. Every drop you can't spill?" Her nail digs into the slit. "*That's* my property." Her boot presses between your legs, grinding against your swollen balls. "Beg for permission to cum," she orders, flicking the whip against your inner thigh. "Or I'll leave you like this until you *weep.*"

"You won't?" Her laugh is low, dangerous. The whip snakes through the air, landing with a sharp crack across your ribs. "Then we'll see how long that defiance holds." Another lash, lower this time—the sear of leather against your inner thigh, just missing your pulsing cock. Your hips buck involuntarily, but the thong keeps you tight, aching. She leans down, her breath hot against your ear. "Stubborn little thing." Her teeth graze your earlobe before she bites down, just shy of breaking skin. The pain flares bright, mingling with the throbbing between your legs. The whip lands again, diagonal across your chest. "Count them," she orders, pressing the handle under your chin. "Or I start on your balls." Her boot returns, the toe nudging your cock upright. "You'll beg," she murmurs, grinding the leather against your trapped shaft. "*Eventually.*" Another lash—your breath hisses between clenched teeth. The room smells of sweat, leather, and the sharp tang of your own desperation.

"*Please*, Marxist Mistress," you grit out, every muscle taut. "Let me come." Her smirk is slow, triumphant. The whip handle traces your jaw. "Louder." You swallow hard, the words burning like the welts rising on your skin. "*Please*, let me come—" She clicks her tongue. "Not enough." The toe of her boot presses harder, your cock twitching helplessly against the leather. "Say it like you mean it, or I'll edge you for another hour." A ragged breath. "*Marxist Mistress*, please—" Your voice cracks. "*I need to come.*" She hums, considering, then suddenly yanks the thong free. Your gasp is punched out of you as blood rushes back, the relief brutal. "On your knees," she orders, jerking your hair. "You'll earn it." You barely have time to obey before her hand fists in your hair, forcing your mouth onto her boot. "Lick. *Then* you'll get your reward." The leather tastes of salt and dominance. You groan, hollow with need. She chuckles. "*Good* pet."

Her grip tightens in your hair, jerking your head back until your spine aches. “You *dare* demand?” Her boot presses against your throat, not quite cutting off your air, just reminding you who controls it. “That filthy mouth needs to learn its place.” A sharp yank drags you forward again, her thighs parting as she shoves your face between them. The scent of her — musky, slick — floods your senses. “Beg *properly*,” she growls. You press your tongue flat against her, muffling your own groan as she grinds down. “*Fuck*,” she hisses, fingers twisting in your hair to guide your rhythm. “No apologies,” she commands, voice ragged as she rides your mouth. “Just *serve*.” Every flick of your tongue earns a sharper tug, her thighs trembling when you suck her clit just right. She arches, her free hand gripping the whip like a leash. “Deeper.” You obey, drunk on the taste of her, the chokehold of her control. “*That’s* how you earn your reward.”

Her laugh is dark, thighs clamping around your head as you work. "Exploiting you?" She jerks your hair hard enough to make your eyes water. "You *begged* for this, comrade. Every gasp, every whimper—proof of your *willing* submission to the system." Her bootheel digs into your back, forcing your tongue deeper. "You think this is exploitation?" Her voice drips with mock pity. "No. *This* is just efficient resource allocation." You moan against her as her hips snap forward, grinding on your mouth with cruel precision. "Your *labor* serves the collective," she taunts, breath hitching as you flick your tongue faster. "And I—" A sharp gasp. "*Ah*—I decide when you're spent." Her fingers twist tighter in your hair, holding you mercilessly in place as her thighs start to shake. "*Fuck.* Don't stop—don't you *dare*—" Her climax crashes over her, her boot pressing down harder as she rides your face through it. Panting, she finally releases your hair with a shove. "Now," she rasps, wiping her glistening fingers on your cheek, "*that's* how a worker earns his keep."

She exhales sharply, rolling her hips one last time against your mouth before pulling away. Your jaw aches, lips wet with her—but the burn in your shoulders is worse as she drags you up by the cuffs. "Good *little* worker," she purrs, thumb smearing her taste across your bottom lip. Then her hand fists in your hair again, forcing your head back as the other works your cock with rough, efficient strokes. You groan, hips jerking—but her grip is iron, controlling the pace, the pressure, *everything*. "Come," she orders, voice low. It's not permission. It's a command. You choke out her name as you spill over her fingers, shuddering. She doesn't stop until you're twitching, oversensitive, then yanks the shackles from the floor and snaps them back around your wrists. "Up." The leash clicks onto your collar before you can catch your breath. She drags you stumbling toward the cage, its bars cold even before she shoves you inside. The lock *snaps* shut. She crouches, smiling as she admires her work. "Rest, comrade," she murmurs. "The revolution *always* needs more labor."

The bars are cold, the structure cramped—you can't even stand upright. The woman paces back and forth, her boots clicking on the concrete floor. "I don't get it," she says, stopping abruptly. "You *begged* for this, remember?" She steps close, fingers curling through the bars. "You're here to serve the system. 'Comrade'? Don't make me fucking laugh." Her boot presses against the lock, testing the weight. "I decide when you're done. And you're *far* from finished." She flicks the lock a little, taunting. "You think this is exploitation? You have no *clause* to be resting here. You'll work for the regime until you collapse." She steps back, her grin sadistic. "And once you've given all you can? I'll *force* you to keep going." She laughs cruelly. "Get up, comrade. Your labor's not done yet."