Page 36

I do think I’m far more selective than what he’s implying. It’s not as if I want to cause anyone pain. Despite what the readers of the paper may think, I don’t revel in others’ agony. But I also don’t want to just fall to my knees to the first person who orders me to do so.

No. The only person I can see myself obeying like that is Dean Anderson. Why, of all people, does he strike such a chord in me? As much as I want to ask the shrink who stares at me as if reading my very thoughts and soul, I don’t dare engage with him any more than I have to.

Gripping the paper in my hand, I make my way back outside so I can catch a breath before going to class. With the sheet balled up the way it is, sharp angles, wrinkles, and divots dig into my hand until I’m forced to open up my fist and take a look.

A list. That’s all it is. A simple list.

Dominant

Submissive

Master

Slave

TPE

CNC

Discipline Kink

Just reading these makes my head swim and my nipples ache. They poke out against the rough fabric of my shirt, forcing it to rub against what should be soft fibers. Forget class. I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate, anyway. I’d much rather research these and figure out how to stop getting so aroused around Dean Anderson so I can actually think with something other than my pussy for once.

ChapterFourteen

Ashleigh

Three Weeks Later

Too much. Everything is just too fucking much. Soft ticks sound ominous in my ears as the stupid analogue clock ticks away above the door.

Why the hell do we even have those? Shouldn’t Loftry be further into the twenty-first century than this? Grabbing the chair from my desk, I drag it over to where it resides.

With what this dorm room costs, they shouldn’t care if the clock is here or not. Unfortunately, as I tug on it, I find that it’s somehow adhered to the wall. What exactly am I supposed to do if the batteries run out?

Irritation slithers up my spine as I slump away, defeated. I just need something to go right. A win. That’s what I need. A fucking win.

Pulling up the app where I write my articles, I skim this week’s lineup. Not much happening on campus. At least, not much that’s going on with the school. I, however, seem to be taking the brunt of the students’ frustration.

It didn’t matter that I did a nice, touching article about the candlelight vigil held for Chase Ackerman. They still seem to want blood. Hell, even Dean Anderson had nothing bad to say about this one. At least, if he did, it was never conveyed to me.

The other students, however, not mollified with my treatment of the overdose situation, seem to be latching onto my side article about skiing for spring break. How the hell am I supposed to know that most of these students here aren’t rich enough to ski?

It’s very clear that the school helps out with scholarships and such, but to my understanding, it’s not as if people can just get financial aid. I suppose that’s my rich girl privilege then. But to send me angry emails and messages over something so stupid? Asinine.

Now, instead of publishing some hard-hitting piece like I want to, I have to play to the crowd again and placate them. It’s stupid. All of this is so fucking stupid.

A soft growl rips from my throat as I toss my laptop onto the bed and pace back and forth. Pain slices through my soul, leaving me to bleed out in a way that has no evidence. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels right. And it’s not these stupid articles or this stupid paper.

Deep down, I know this. I know exactly what’s wrong. It’s him. It’s Dean. Fucking. John. Asshole. Anderson.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks with no interaction with the mighty dean. It’s as if the meeting with that jerk psychiatrist was the catalyst for his absence.

It’s not as if he’s been gone. I’ve seen him out and about on campus. He’s given addresses, speeches, and even slipped in and out of dorm rooms for some odd reason.

Not that I was watching. Somehow, we kept ending up within several yards of each other, yet out of reach. No way was I going to draw attention to myself. Not when he so clearly doesn’t want to communicate with or even see me.

Unfortunately, I can’t know for sure there’s anything wrong without confronting him and coming across so paranoid that it might get me locked up in Doctor Andrew’s cage of horrors.