Submission

You were staring at your reflection in the mirror, meticulously pulling your hair into a neat bun like he had instructed. Every strand felt significant, every lock a piece of the puzzle you were stepping into or rather, diving into. The collar of your uniform felt tighter than usual, your exposed neck, just for him, sending a chill down your spine. This was real. And there was no going back.

You attended your morning classes in a daze, barely aware of your surroundings, the voices of your professors sounding distant and muffled. You tired to focus, but your mind was elsewhere, the memory of you standing between his legs as he gave you commands taking up all the space in your head.

When it was finally time for your DADA class, your heart pounded in your chest. You suddenly regretted having all those fantasies and acting on them. You were dumb. A dumb, horny teenager desperate to be dominated by her professor. Desperate to give in, to submit, to be used. You took your usual seat, consciously trying to keep your breathing steady. You were filled with a weird mix of nervousness and excitement as Professor Lupin entered the classroom, his gaze momentarily meeting yours before he began the lesson.

As the class progressed, you noticed his gaze lingering on you more often than usual. Every time he looked at you, his eyes would drop to your neck, observing the exposed skin there. The heat that spread through your body was both exhilarating and terrifying, like you were going to combust, leaving you feeling breathless and flustered.

His voice, usually so soothing and calming, felt different today. Every word he spoke seemed to be laced with an undercurrent of something more, something only the two of you were privy to. Each time he said your name, it felt like a secret shared, a promise made. However, he gave no indication of any change in your relationship, but those lingering glances, the slight change in his tone when addressing you, were enough to make you want to kneel right then and there. Pathetic.

Dinner felt like a strange dream, the food tasteless in your mouth as your mind raced with possibilities of what the event might hold. Would he bend you over and fuck you senseless? Would he slowly tease you and make you beg for his touch? Was he even going to touch you? You didn't even care at that point. You would take anything he gave you. You wanted him, needed him.

You finally left the Great Hall, your heart pounding in your chest, barely able to breathe, and made your way to Professor Lupin's quarters. The hallways, usually so familiar and comforting, felt alien tonight. You cursed yourself for being so nervous. You had willingly put yourself in this situation, yet at that moment, it was like you wanted to run away from it, the anxiety consuming you entirely.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before knocking softly. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing him standing there, his expression calm and composed.

"Come in," he said simply, stepping aside to let you enter. As you crossed the threshold, you felt like you were going to combust. His quarters were warm and inviting, a reflection of the man consuming your thoughts. A roaring fire cast flickering shadows across the room, bathing everything in a soft, golden light. It smelled of tea, fresh parchment, and something uniquely him. You were dizzy, nauseous, aroused, absolutely intoxicated.

"Sit," he gestured towards a chair near the fireplace. You did as you were told, your hands nervously clutching at the edge of your skirt. He took a seat opposite you, his gaze steady and serious.

"Before we continue," he began, his voice firm yet gentle, "we need to discuss the possible consequences and punishments if you fail to follow my instructions. It's important that you understand what is expected of you, and that you agree to these terms."

He paused, letting his words sink in, before continuing. "Are you ready to hear them?"

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to maintain eye contact with him. "Yes," you finally let out, your voice barely above a whisper.

He arched an eyebrow, a clear sign that you'd made a mistake. "Yes, what?" he corrected, his tone stern.

You blinked, realizing your error. "Yes, Sir," you corrected yourself, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Good. Firstly, if you fail to maintain eye contact or address me properly during our sessions, you will lose privileges. This could mean that our sessions are shortened or certain activities are taken off the table."

You nodded, feeling the heat pool between your legs. The simple act of him giving you a mundane instruction was enough to make your breath hitch in your throat, and you hated yourself for it. He was your weakness and you could not deny it.

"Secondly," he continued, "if you fail to follow my instructions, either inside or outside our sessions, you will be given a chance to explain yourself. However, if I find your explanation unsatisfactory or if it happens repeatedly, you may be subjected to physical punishments. These may include, but are not limited to, spankings, or standing in the corner for a predetermined amount of time. Do you understand?"

You felt your heart race at the thought of such punishments. Were they even punishments for you? You were ready to beg to be spanked by him, to be manhandled, humiliated, but you managed to reply, "Yes, Sir."

"Very good," he continued, satisfied. "Lastly, I must remind you that if you ever feel uncomfortable, unsafe, or overwhelmed, you must tell me immediately. Failing to do so will be considered a breach of our agreement and may lead to the termination of our arrangement. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir," you said, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. You went into this thinking you wouldn't have any limits, but how far would he be pushing you? And how much were you able to let go entirely?

He nodded, satisfied with your response, and leaned back in his chair, studying you with a focused gaze. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and it was oddly thrilling.

"Are you ready to proceed to the next part of our session?" he asked, his voice steady and calm.

"Yes, Sir," you replied again, feeling as if you were going to pass out.

"Good," he said, nodding in approval. "Stand up."

You quickly rose to your feet, your legs slightly shaky beneath you. His gaze never left you, taking in your every move, every reaction. It was dark, intense, almost predatory. A stark contrast to the kind and soft professor you were used to see in the classroom.

He stood up from his chair, moving to stand in front of you. "Kneel," he commanded. You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing, but eventually obeyed. Sinking to your knees on the plush rug in front of him.

He looked down at you, his gaze softening. "I can see you're nervous," he said, his voice gentle. "It's okay. I want you to relax and let me take over completely. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes Sir," you managed to whisper, your gaze flickering up to meet his.

He watched you, his gaze steady and patient. "Good girl," he praised, the words sending a jolt of electricity between your legs. You felt a rush of warmth at his words, a sense of pride that made you eager to please him further.

"Now," he said, his voice taking a more serious tone, "I want you to take off your shirt. Slowly."

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you did as you were told, slowly unbuttoning your shirt and sliding off your shoulders, leaving yourself exposed to him, your eyes locked with his.

He walked around you, his gaze taking in your bare upper body, burning into your skin, the anticipation making you shiver. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but there was something exhilarating about it, too. You were baring yourself to him, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

"Stay still," he instructed, his voice low and soft. You felt the tip of his wand touch your back, and you braced yourself for what was to come.

With slow, deliberate movements, he traced a pattern on your skin. It felt like a soft burn, not painful but intense. You bit your lip to keep from making a sound, your body tense.

The mark he left was intricate and beautiful. It resembled the moon in its various phases, starting from a full moon at the top of your spine, gradually waning to a crescent at the small of your back, only to wax back into a full moon. The lines were smooth and seamless, glowing faintly against your skin.

"Beautiful," he murmured, tracing the mark with his fingers. His touch was feather-light, but it was enough to make you shiver. "You've done well, taking the marking so bravely. Good girl."

Another rush of warmth spread through your chest at his words, at the pride in his voice. Your heart was racing, your skin tingling under his touch, but you felt more alive than you had in a long time.

"Remember," he said, his voice serious, "this mark is a symbol of our bond, of the trust between us. It's a reminder of the rules, the consequences, and the promise we've made to each other."

"Yes, Sir," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked at you, his eyes searching your face. "Now, it's important for you to be able to express your desires openly and honestly," he said, his voice firm. "I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. Use your words, and keep your eyes on me."

You felt your cheeks burn, your heart race. It was one thing to think about your fantasies, to imagine them in the privacy of your own mind, but to say them out loud, to admit them to him…was terrifying.

You tried to look at him, to meet his gaze, but your eyes kept darting away, unable to hold his steady stare. "Eyes on me," he reminded you, and you forced yourself to look back at him.

It took a few moments to find your voice, to gather the courage to say the words out loud. "I… I want you to… to take control, to… to make me submit to you."

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Go on," he urged, his voice soft but insistent.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to continue. "I want you to… to touch me, Sir. To push me to my limits, to make me… beg for your touch. To spank me until I can't speak anymore."

He leaned in slightly, his eyes locked with yours. "What else?" he asked.

You swallowed hard, feeling your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I want you to… to tie me up, Sir. To bind me, to keep me helpless under your control."

He took a moment, studying your face, your eyes, looking for any signs of hesitation, fear, or uncertainty. Finding none, he nodded, his expression serious yet gentle.

"Stand up," he instructed firmly. "I want you to trust me. Let me guide you."

You stood, your legs a little shaky but your resolve strong.

"Good," he murmured, a note of approval in his voice. "Now, I want you to put your hands behind your back."

As you did as he instructed, he conjured a piece of silk rope, long and soft. Your heart pounded in your chest as he approached you, the rope in his hands.

He saw the look in your eyes and gave you a reassuring smile. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Sir," you managed to whisper, your throat dry.

"Good," he said softly, before he started to tie your hands behind your back. His touch was gentle, the knots firm but not too tight, allowing enough room for your skin to breathe.

"Now, let's see about that spanking you asked for," he said as he sat back in his chair, guiding you over his lap, your hands still bound behind your back. His touch was firm yet gentle, making sure you were comfortable. He lifted up your skirt, making it pool around your waist, and slowly pulled down your panties, revealing your bare skin.

The first smack landed on your backside without warning, a sting that made you gasp. It wasn't painful, just surprising.

"Good girl," he praised. "You're doing well."

He continued, each smack making your body jolt, your skin tingle. You could feel the heat spreading between your legs. You were wet, the mix of pain and pleasure that was so intense, so arousing. You bit your lip and breathed deeply. It was all you could do to keep yourself from squirming. You could feel a bulge insistently pressing against your lower abdomen, a sign you were not the only one finding this arousing.

He would pause every now and then, his hand gently rubbing your ass, soothing the sting. His touch was comforting, grounding, a reminder that he was there, that he was in control, but that he was also taking care of you.

When he finally stopped, you were panting, your skin hot, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Good girl," he murmured, helping you sit in his lap. His eyes were soft, his voice full of praise. He placed his hands on your bare thighs, his hard length now pressing against your abused ass through his trousers.

He untied your hands, his touch gentle as he rubbed your wrists, soothing the slight sting from the ropes. He scanned your body for any signs of discomfort. Finding none, he stood from his chair, guiding you up to your feet. "On your knees," he ordered in a calm, steady voice.

You did as you were told, slowly sinking to the floor until your knees hit the soft rug beneath you, your eyes perfectly levelled with the evident arousal straining against the fabric of his trousers. Your heart pounded in your chest as he approached you, his steps slow and measured. His hand found its way into your hair, threading through the strands and closing into a firm grip. He tugged lightly, tilting your head upwards, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were serious, dark with desire.

Your cheeks heated up as he tightened his grip on your hair, pulling your head closer to him, a silent command that made your heart race.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry as a knot of anxiety formed in your stomach. "Sir… I… I've never…" you started, your voice shaky.

He paused at your confession, his gaze softening. "It's alright," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "I will guide you. But I will not ask you to do anything you're not comfortable with. Are you willing to proceed?"

"Yes, Sir," you replied, the knot in your stomach loosening slightly at his words.

His free hand reached down, unbuttoning his trousers and pulling them down just enough to free his hard length. He glanced down at you, his eyes locking with yours. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice soft but firm.

You nodded, whispering, "Yes, Sir."

"Good girl," he murmured. He positioned you properly, your hands resting on his thighs as he guided you forward. "I want you to start by kissing and licking the length of me, getting a feel for it."

Tentatively, you followed his instructions, placing soft, hesitant kisses along his length before using your tongue to explore his contours. He continued to hold your hair, guiding your movements as needed.

"Good girl," he praised again. "Now, take the head into your mouth, and slowly work your way down."

You did as he instructed, the intimacy of the act causing your heart to race. He guided your head with gentle pressure, his fingers still tangled in your hair. "Relax your throat and breathe through your nose," he advised, his voice never faltering.

As you continued, you found yourself getting lost in the sensation of him filling your mouth. You tried to be careful, to keep your teeth out of the way, to pleasure him. He was big, making your jaw hurt in a delightful way.

After giving you time to adjust to the new sensation, he took more control over the movements, his hand in your hair holding you in place as he slowly thrusted in and out of your mouth. "Keep your eyes on me," he commanded when you momentarily looked away, and you quickly refocused your gaze on his. "Take your time," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "You're doing well. Just breathe."

You tried your best to follow his advice, to relax and just breathe, but you couldn't help but tense up as he pushed further, the unfamiliar sensation making you choke slightly. He paused immediately, pulling back a bit and giving you time to adjust.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yes, Sir," you managed to say, your voice muffled around his cock stuffing your mouth.

He began to move again, his eyes never leaving yours as he thrusted slowly and deliberately, hitting the back of your throat every time, making you gag.

"Relax your throat for me," he instructed, ensuring that you pleasured him as he desired. "That's it…just like that," he commanded, his voice low and gruff, thick with desire.

His breath hitched as you took him deeper, causing him to let out a low growl of approval. The sight of you on your knees, teary eyed, with your swollen lips stretched around him drove him closer to the edge. He could feel his release building, the familiar coil in his lower abdomen tightening with every passing second. But he didn't want this to end, not just yet. He wanted to savor this moment, to draw out this sweet torture for as long as he could.

"Good girl…you're doing so well," he praised, his voice barely above a whisper. The praise made you feel warm, a sense of accomplishment washing over you.

You focused on your breathing, on his voice, on the sensation of him in your mouth. The taste of him on your tongue, his hand tightly gripping your hair, the sound of his growl every time he hit the back of your throat…it was intoxicating, it was enough to make you come right then and there. But this was not about you, it was about his pleasure, about him dominating you in the most intimate way. You couldn't help but close your eyes at the thought, your hands gripping his thighs in an attempt to ground yourself.

"Keep your eyes on me," he growled, his grip on her hair tightening. "Don't look away." And as you complied, your gaze locking with his, he felt a sense of possessiveness wash over him.

His thrusts became more urgent and forceful, and you struggled to keep up, your jaw growing tired and your eyes watering. But you were determined not to disappoint him, so you pushed through the discomfort.

His grip on your hair tightened, his breaths becoming ragged. "I'm close," he warned, his voice strained.

His words sent a jolt of anticipation through you, your heart pounding in your chest. He was trusting you with this, with his pleasure, his release.

He looked down at you, his gaze intense. "Swallow for me," he commanded, his voice low and hoarse.

The command was a shock and made your heart pound in your chest, a flush creeping up your cheeks. But you nodded, ready to obey, ready to please him.

In one final deep thrust, he groaned, his release washing over him as he spilled himself in your mouth. "Swallow," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

You could feel his cock pulse on your tongue, the warm salty liquid filling your mouth. You struggled, the sensation and taste overwhelming. But his grip on your hair remained firm, holding you there as he watched you swallow down his seed, some of it dribbling down your chin.

When he finally pulled away, there was a moment of silence, a pause filled with heavy breaths and the pounding of your heart. He looked down at you with a gentle but intense gaze, his thumb wiping away the salty remnants of his release. He brought it up to your lips, and without hesitation, you opened your mouth to suck it clean, looking up at him with wide innocent eyes. The sight was sinful enough to make his cock twitch once more.

After a moment, he helped you to your feet. His touch was soft, caring as he helped you put your shirt back on. The fabric was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat still emanating from the mark he had left on your back.

He stepped back, studying you for a moment. Then, he reached out, his hand coming up to cup your chin. "I have a new rule for you," he said, his voice low and serious.

You looked up at him, waiting for him to continue.

"You are not to touch yourself without my explicit permission," he stated, his gaze never leaving yours. "Do you understand?"

You nodded, a rush of excitement coursing through you, although you couldn't deny the disappointment. You weren't sure how you would be able to hold out once you were on your own with your filthy mind, replaying tonight's encounter. "Yes, Sir."

"Good," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. Then, he moved to your neck, his lips pressing against the soft skin. You could feel the pressure build, a sharp sting as he sucked a deep red mark onto your skin. The sensation was both pleasurable and painful, a reminder of your submission to him.

His voice was a whisper against your skin as he spoke next. "Tomorrow," he began, pulling away to look at you, "I want you to wear no panties for our next session."

You swallowed hard, nodding in understanding. "Yes, Sir."

He smiled at you, his expression soft. "Now, off you go. I expect you to complete your homework and go to bed early. Rest up; you'll need your energy for our next session."

You looked into his eyes, feeling a mix of excitement, anticipation, and gratitude. "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

With a final, lingering touch to your cheek, he sent you on your way, his gaze following you as you left his quarters. The night air was cool against your heated skin as you made your way back to your dormitory, your mind racing with thoughts of what had transpired, and what was to come.

As you lay in bed that night, the red mark on your neck throbbing gently, your skin tingling with an afterglow that made your knees weak. You couldn't shake off the memory of his touch, his voice, his gaze - it was all too much, too overwhelming, and you were desperate to touch yourself.

Every nerve in your body was screaming for his touch, his command. You wanted to feel his hand threading through your hair again, his fingers gripping firmly. You wanted to hear his low, firm voice, instructing you, guiding you, praising you. You craved the sense of surrender, the thrill of obedience, the intoxicating rush of relinquishing control.

Another part of you hated feeling so submissive, so weak, so desperate. You hated the fact that you needed him, that you wanted him. It was confusing, conflicting. And yet, there was something about him – something that drew you in, something that made you want to submit, to surrender. His gentle yet firm demeanor, his patient understanding, his stern but caring guidance – it all made you feel seen, heard, valued.

Your fingers traced the red mark on your neck - a constant reminder of your submission, of your surrender. Your throat was sore from being used. Your scalp was sensitive from having your hair pulled. You could still feel his hand on your backside. He was everywhere. On your skin, in your mouth, in your stomach. And it was perfect. And you wanted more, needed more, craved more.