Obey me, Dean. (Erotica)
Bellmere University wasn't supposed to be a punishment. But it became one the second Aria Lancaster met him.
Sebastian Wolfe-the new Dean. Billionaire. Ruthless. And her father's oldest friend.
He's twice her age, cold as ice, and dangerously in control.
She's innocent, defiant, and off-limits.
One mistake lands her in his office.
One punishment strips her bare.
And one rule changes everything:
Obey him, or be expelled.
But what starts as punishment quickly turns into obsession.
And when secrets unravel and control slips, there's only one thing left to do:
Break the rules. Or break each other.
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Chapter 3
Aria's POV:
I was late. Not fashionably. Not dramatically. Just enough that my heart was pounding when I knocked.
Wolfe didn't answer.
Of course he didn't. That would've been too easy.
These past days, I had been thinking too much about him. That night, I had been thinking of him touching me the way I wanted, to fuck me where I wanted.
I tried the handle. Unlocked. Inside, his office was empty-except for the envelope waiting on his desk with my name written in black calligraphy.
Another envelope.
Another game.
I didn't hesitate. Not this time. I opened it with trembling fingers.
I wanted something more intriguing than last time, something that would make him touch me, and I wanted to feel him all over my body.
"Go to Room 207. Now. Do not knock. Do not speak. Obey."
That was it. One line. No signature.
I knew where Room 207 was; my body already moved before my brain could argue. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears as I climbed the marble steps of the east building.
Room 207 was tucked at the end of a silent hallway. The door looked ordinary, wooden and dark. I stared at it for a moment before I twisted the knob.
It was dim inside.
Curtains drawn. One long table at the center. No chairs. And him-standing at the head of it, hands clasped behind his back.
Wolfe.
"Close the door," he said without turning.
I obeyed.
"Lock it."
The click of the lock felt louder than it should've.
"Strip."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
Did he just want me naked?
He turned slowly. His eyes dragged down my body from my head; he paused slowly when he reached my breasts. I felt happy with the way he was looking at me, but I didn't show it.
I used my hands to hide my nipples.
He put on a smirk at my actions.
"Aria..," he said, licking his lips. His gaze lingered on my pussy, and I couldn't help but wish it was his tongue instead.
"I said, strip. You're not here as a student today. You're here as my subject."
"Subject," I echoed. My voice barely a whisper.
"I told you this would escalate. This is your first test."
I looked at the door, then back at him.
Then I obeyed.
One button at a time. One layer after another. Until I stood before him in nothing but skin and fear.
He said nothing for a moment. Just looked at me. Not like a man staring at a girl, but like a master assessing his canvas.
"Come here," he said lustfully.
I walked.
He didn't touch me-yet my body ached for it, my mind craving the heat of his hands.
This was a man old enough to be my father but still, I didn't care.
He just circled. His voice a low hum of control.
"Shame doesn't serve you, Aria. Fear will, for now. But eventually, I'll take that too."
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a leather collar.
"This is not a symbol of ownership," he said. "It's a symbol of choice. Yours."
I stared at it.
"Put it on," he said.
My fingers shook, but I did. The leather was cool against my throat. The click of the clasp sounded final.
"Good girl."
The praise hit harder than the crop.
I didn't expect it to feel like victory.
He stepped behind me. "Hands flat on the table."
I obeyed.
Then the first strike. Open palm, right on my ass. I gasped but stayed in place.
I expected to feel pain, but instead -I weirdly enjoyed it. The sound. The wetness of his palm on my ass. I couldn't bear it. I wanted more.
Another. Harder.
Then two fingers between my thighs, just grazing, sliding down to my pussy. He paused for a moment.
Just enough to make me gasp again.
"I told you," he murmured. "You don't get to hide from me anymore."
He leaned in, lips brushing my ear.
"Next time, you'll beg."
He stepped away, leaving me trembling.
"Dress. You're dismissed."
Just like that?
I couldn't believe my ears-what kind of psycho was this? Dress? Or did I hear him wrong?
The lesson was over?
I left Room 207 with the collar still around my throat.
And I didn't take it off.
I kept the collar on all night.
Not out of defiance. Not out of fear.
But because taking it off would've meant admitting what I was becoming.
I barely slept. My body buzzed like a live wire. Every nerve replayed the sound of his voice, the sting of his palm, the heat of his breath on my neck when he said, "Next time, you'll beg."
Just the thought alone sent heat pooling between my thighs. I was wet again, aching with no one to blame but my own hunger.
I wasn't sure whether to scream or come.
By morning, Jules was eyeing me like I'd grown horns.
"You okay?" she asked, sipping her black coffee.
"Fine."
"You've got that glow. The I've-been-dominated-by-a-billionaire glow."
I didn't respond.
She set her cup down. "Just promise me one thing."
"What?"
"If he ever crosses a line-really crosses it-you burn him to the ground."
I met her gaze. "That's the problem, Jules. I don't think I know where the line is anymore."
---
He had asked me to meet him again in the same room, but this time Room 207 was darker. Lit only by a single red bulb that made the shadows crawl.
He was waiting, of course.
"Strip," he said, before the door had even closed.
I obeyed. No hesitation.
"Good girl."
The praise warmed me. Addictive, like a drug.
"Climb onto the table."
I did, the cold wood biting into my skin.
"Lie back. Arms above your head."
He bound my wrists with soft leather cuffs, anchoring them to the table's corners.
Then he stepped back to admire it.
"You're learning," he murmured. "But now we test how far you'll go."
He reached into a small black case and pulled out a slim, steel wand.
My breath caught.
"I won't hurt you," he said. "Unless you want me to."
"If you obey me."
The wand buzzed to life in his hand. Low. Threatening.
"Eyes on me."
I obeyed.
He slid it down my stomach, making me shiver.
"You don't get to come," he said.
I whimpered.
"Not until I say."
He pressed the tip between my thighs, and I nearly came undone. Pleasure surged, thick and sharp.
But every time I got close, he pulled back.
Teasing. Tormenting.
Until I was crying.
"Please," I gasped. "Sebastian-please."
He froze.
"You've never said my name before."
I met his gaze, tears in my eyes. "Then punish me for it."
His control shattered.
He undid the cuffs and pulled me upright, dragging me into his lap as he sat back in the leather chair.
"Ride me," he said, unzipping his pants.
I didn't hesitate.
He was thick, hard, already leaking. I sank down slowly, moaning as he filled me.
"Eyes on me," he repeated.
I moved slowly at first, then faster as his hands gripped my hips, guiding, forcing, bruising.
"You feel that?" he growled. "That's mine."
"Yes," I gasped.
He thrust up harder, punishing, claiming.
"I said no coming until I say."
"Then say it!" I cried, unraveling.
He grabbed my chin. "Come."
I was shattered.
My body collapsed into his, shaking, raw, alive.
He held me there for a moment.
Then whispered, "We don't need a safe word. Not anymore."
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7.4
My mother was dying and desperately needed a half-million-dollar deposit for an experimental heart surgery by tomorrow.
I swallowed my pride and begged my wealthy husband, Garrick, to save her life.
Instead of helping, he laughed coldly and threw a thick stack of divorce papers right in my face.
"A hen that can't lay eggs gets slaughtered," he sneered, ruthlessly poking my flat stomach.
He revealed that his secretary, my supposed friend Lacey, was already pregnant with his heir.
To him, our three years of marriage was just a business transaction, and now that my family was bankrupt, I was nothing but damaged goods.
He flicked a humiliating five-thousand-dollar check at me as his final act of charity, then locked me out of our townhouse into the freezing, pouring rain.
I had spent years enduring agonizing hormone treatments for a fertility issue that wasn't even my fault, only to be discarded like trash when I needed him the most.
Was my dignity, my absolute devotion, and my mother's life really worth nothing to him?
Driven by pure, reckless desperation, I threw myself directly into the path of a moving Rolls-Royce Phantom on Fifth Avenue.
It belonged to Holden Tillman, the ruthless patriarch of the Tillman empire—and the uncle Garrick lived in absolute terror of.
I thought I was walking into my death, but instead, I became his fiancée, ready to make Garrick and Lacey pay for every tear I shed.
9.1
For ten years, Ran hid in the shadows as Hollywood star Jincheng Lu's secret girlfriend and assistant, starving herself to pay for his acting classes.
On their tenth anniversary, she sat in a cheap apartment with $9.87 in her bank account, watching him slide a massive diamond ring onto a wealthy heiress's finger on live television.
When she called the number she had memorized for a decade, she only heard a cold busy tone. He had blocked her.
Despair swallowed her whole. She forced down a handful of sleeping pills with stale whiskey and died alone on the cold bathroom tiles.
His mother found her rotting body three days later, calling her a "filthy bottom-feeder" before ordering a cleanup crew to dispose of her existence like industrial waste.
Jincheng didn't even ask if she suffered. He just ordered his PR team to digitally erase her ten years of sacrifice from the internet.
"Make sure the press release is airtight. She was an unstable former assistant. She had a history of mental illness. That's it."
Until her heart stopped completely, she didn't understand. She had abandoned her status as the hidden heiress of the wealthy Qin family to build his empire from the ground up.
How could he erase every trace of her without a second thought, using her corpse as a PR shield for his perfect new life?
Opening her eyes again, the sharp smell of hospital antiseptic burned her lungs.
She hadn't just died. She had woken up in the body of a notorious, D-list reality TV influencer who shared her exact name.
Looking at her new face in the mirror, a cold smile spread across her lips. She was going to tear his perfect life apart, piece by bloody piece.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
7.7
In my past life, the bullet chambered in the gun on the desk was less lethal than the indifference of the two men standing beside me.
Dante and Matteo were supposed to be the future kings of Chicago, and I was their queen.
But they threw it all away for Sofia—a liar with a pretty face and a fake sob story about a gambling father.
They forced me into a gilded cage, making me serve Sofia like a maid while they played her saviors.
They let me rot in isolation until I swallowed a bottle of pills just to escape the coldness of their neglect.
They didn't even mourn me; they were too busy comforting the girl who would eventually destroy them.
I died realizing that my loyalty was my fatal flaw.
I had worshipped men who saw me as nothing more than an accessory, while they sacrificed their empire for a woman who played them for fools.
But the universe has a sick sense of humor.
It sent me back.
Back to the day that sealed my fate.
The Consigliere pushed the assignment papers toward us—the path to becoming Bosses.
"We are not going," Dante said, looking at me with cold eyes. "Sofia needs us. She is fragile."
In my past life, I begged them to stay.
This time, I stepped forward and picked up the pen.
"I will go," I said, signing my name in sharp black ink.
"I don't need your protection anymore."
7.2
My grandfather sold me to a man named Maverick to settle his gambling debts. I stood on the private platform at Union Station, a human payment waiting to be collected.
But he never came. An hour later, his assistant called to say the deal was off. I was told to disappear by morning or face the consequences.
My family blamed me for their ruin and threw me out onto the street. Homeless and disowned, I had no choice but to take a low-level job at Prosperity Group, the biggest investment firm in Chicago. I needed to survive.
I never understood why he rejected me. I had followed every rule, worn the red dress he demanded, and waited like a lamb for slaughter. Why would he agree to save my family only to destroy us at the last second?
On my first day, I was called into the CEO's office. The man behind the desk was Damien Maddox, the city's most ruthless billionaire. He looked at me with a chilling familiarity. He was the man who had bought me. And he was the man who had thrown me away.
9.8
I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule.
While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?"
When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child."
He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me.
"He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect.
Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.