My life has officially split into two parallel universes of psychological warfare.

Universe One: Professor Lewis turning every lecture into my personal academic Hunger Games, complete with intellectual bloodsport and the kind of eye contact that makes me question whether clothes are actually necessary.

Universe Two: Mystery Man turning my phone into a confession booth where I apparently spill every dark thought I’ve ever had about wanting someone to take control of my perpetually responsible existence.

Tonight, I’m sprawled on my bed at 11:47 PM, staring at my phone like it holds the secrets to my rapidly unraveling sanity.

Private Room Service: You’ve been quiet tonight.

Me: Recovering from another day of academic humiliation.

Private Room Service: Your professor again?

Me: Yeah, he has this way of making me feel simultaneously stupid and turned on. It’s psychologically disturbing.

Private Room Service: Is it the authority that appeals to you, or the challenge?

I stare at the question, my pulse quickening. We’ve been dancing around this topic for weeks now, but tonight feels different. More direct. More dangerous.

Me: Both, probably. I spend my entire life being the responsible one, making decisions, taking care of everyone else. Sometimes I want someone else to be in control for once.

Private Room Service: What kind of control?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. This is territory I’ve only explored in the dark romance novels I hide on my Kindle, in the late-night fantasies that leave me breathless and slightly ashamed.

Me: The kind where I don’t have to think. Where someone else makes the decisions and I just… submit.

Private Room Service: Submit how?

Me: God, you really want me to spell it out?

Private Room Service: I want you to be honest. Complete honesty, or we stop here.

The ultimatum sends heat straight through my core. But also? Perfect opening. Time to see if Mr. Mysterious actually gives a shit or if I’m just convenient entertainment.

Me: Sometimes I just want to be told what to do. How to move, what to wear, when to speak. I want someone to see through all my careful control and just… take it.

Private Room Service: Have someone in mind who could give you that?

Oh, subtle. He’s practically gift-wrapping himself for me.

The obvious answer is sitting right there in my contacts under “Private Room Service”, the man who had me coming apart against a club wall with nothing but his fingers and that commanding voice.

But where’s the fun in the obvious?

Me: Actually, yeah. My literature professor.

Let’s see what buttons I can push.

Me: Sometimes I imagine him after class. Keeping me after everyone else leaves. Making me stay bent over his desk while he corrects my “inadequate” analysis. Or on my knees…

The typing indicator appears and disappears. Appears again. Disappears.

Got him.

Private Room Service: Your professor, huh.

Me: Gorgeous looking man. Dark hair, ashy temples, eyes that could strip paint. The way his black shirts clung tightly to his muscled arms… yummy.

Private Room Service: Interesting choice.

That careful neutrality is trying way too hard. I can practically feel him gritting his teeth through the screen.

Me: Are you jealous, sweetheart?

Private Room Service: I don’t do jealousy.

Liar. That response came lightning-fast.

Private Room Service: But I’m not interested in fantasy, princess. If you want to truly surrender, you’ll need to prove it.

The use of a pet name makes my skin prickle.

Me: Prove it how?

Private Room Service: Tomorrow morning, you’ll come to campus without panties.

I stare at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Me: Excuse me?

Private Room Service: You heard me. No underwear. All day. Every class, every interaction, every moment—you’ll remember that you’re bare under that pretty little skirt of yours.

Me: That’s insane.

Private Room Service: That’s surrender. The choice is yours.

Me: What if I get caught?

Private Room Service: By whom? Are you planning to advertise your compliance?

Me: No, but…

Private Room Service: But nothing. This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a test. Pass or fail.

Me: And if I do this?

Private Room Service: Then we’ll see how serious you are about letting go of control.

Me: This is blackmail.

Private Room Service: This is a choice. Make it.

Me: Fine.

Private Room Service: Good girl.

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