Professor's Forbidden Punishment - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Professor's Forbidden Punishment, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Professor's Forbidden Punishment.
My name is Chloe Anderson, a college freshman with a secret.
On the surface, I’m the picture of innocence—soft features, doe eyes, the kind of girl who won the campus beauty pageant in a landslide. They crowned me the untouchable Campus Belle, but if only they knew the truth.
Beneath this sweet facade? A wildfire.
I live for the thrill of the chase, the rush of new romance. Since I first discovered love, I’ve burned through boyfriends like matches—some lasted a month, others barely a day. I’ve lost count, honestly.
The girls whisper behind my back, calling me every name in the book. Jezebel. Man-eater. But their jealousy means nothing to me. I’m addicted to the high, the way a new man’s attention can make me feel alive—if only for a night.
Then I met him.
Vincent Lowell.
Our martial arts instructor was unlike any guy I’d ever seen—six feet of pure, rugged masculinity, with shoulders broad enough to pin me down and abs that made my mouth water. But it wasn’t just his body. It was the way he carried himself—dominant, unshakable, like he could unravel me with a single look.
I had to have him.
So I made sure he noticed me.
Every class, I positioned myself front and center, arching my back just enough when I caught my breath, letting my tank top cling to my sweat-slicked skin.
And he noticed.
One day, as he adjusted my stance, his lips brushed my ear, his voice a rough whisper. "Chloe, you’ve got nerve, flirting with me right in the middle of class."
My heart hammered, but I played dumb, fluttering my lashes. "Is that wrong, Professor? I just don’t like tight clothes—they hurt."
He only chuckled, but the way his eyes darkened told me everything.
From then on, his gaze followed me—hungry, possessive. Every time he demonstrated a move, I couldn’t look away from the way his muscles flexed, the raw power in his body. I imagined those hands on me, that strength holding me down.
I was obsessed.
During squats, he loomed over me, arms crossed. "Lower."
I obeyed, sinking until my thighs burned.
"Lower."
By the time he was satisfied, my pulse was racing, my skin on fire. The position was dangerous—from the right angle, it looked downright indecent.
But I didn’t stop there.
I "struggled" with drills just to feel his hands on me—rough, commanding, sending shivers down my spine. I leaned into his touch, pressing closer, aching for more.
The heat between us was unbearable.
And I was done playing nice.
I wanted him to ruin me.
On the surface, I’m the picture of innocence—soft features, doe eyes, the kind of girl who won the campus beauty pageant in a landslide. They crowned me the untouchable Campus Belle, but if only they knew the truth.
Beneath this sweet facade? A wildfire.
I live for the thrill of the chase, the rush of new romance. Since I first discovered love, I’ve burned through boyfriends like matches—some lasted a month, others barely a day. I’ve lost count, honestly.
The girls whisper behind my back, calling me every name in the book. Jezebel. Man-eater. But their jealousy means nothing to me. I’m addicted to the high, the way a new man’s attention can make me feel alive—if only for a night.
Then I met him.
Vincent Lowell.
Our martial arts instructor was unlike any guy I’d ever seen—six feet of pure, rugged masculinity, with shoulders broad enough to pin me down and abs that made my mouth water. But it wasn’t just his body. It was the way he carried himself—dominant, unshakable, like he could unravel me with a single look.
I had to have him.
So I made sure he noticed me.
Every class, I positioned myself front and center, arching my back just enough when I caught my breath, letting my tank top cling to my sweat-slicked skin.
And he noticed.
One day, as he adjusted my stance, his lips brushed my ear, his voice a rough whisper. "Chloe, you’ve got nerve, flirting with me right in the middle of class."
My heart hammered, but I played dumb, fluttering my lashes. "Is that wrong, Professor? I just don’t like tight clothes—they hurt."
He only chuckled, but the way his eyes darkened told me everything.
From then on, his gaze followed me—hungry, possessive. Every time he demonstrated a move, I couldn’t look away from the way his muscles flexed, the raw power in his body. I imagined those hands on me, that strength holding me down.
I was obsessed.
During squats, he loomed over me, arms crossed. "Lower."
I obeyed, sinking until my thighs burned.
"Lower."
By the time he was satisfied, my pulse was racing, my skin on fire. The position was dangerous—from the right angle, it looked downright indecent.
But I didn’t stop there.
I "struggled" with drills just to feel his hands on me—rough, commanding, sending shivers down my spine. I leaned into his touch, pressing closer, aching for more.
The heat between us was unbearable.
And I was done playing nice.
I wanted him to ruin me.
End of Professor's Forbidden Punishment Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Professor's Forbidden Punishment book page.