My Mouth Before 10

“You look lost,” Cleo said, tossing a crinkle-cut fry straight at my face. It hit my cheek and fell into my lap but I didn’t even flinch.

“Hey,” I muttered, lazily brushing it off. “Don’t waste food. There are kids in Africa starving.”

Cleo rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d stick in the back of her head. “Stop with that guilt-trip bullshit. That line is so overused, even the kids in Africa are like, ‘Girl, be serious.’”

I sighed and stared blankly at my tray—half-eaten fries, a warm soda, and my untouched textbook open like it was begging me to care.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked, softer this time. “Is it Lewis? He still giving you shit in lit?”

My cheeks burned immediately, and I cursed the universe for inventing blood vessels.

Lewis wasn’t just giving me shit. He was giving my pussy a heartbeat.

And it had been two days.

Two days since I knelt on his office floor. Two days since he slid my panties into a folder like it was just part of my midterm. Two days since he whispered a proposition that shattered every part of me I thought I’d locked away.

Since then, I have been… floating. No, adrift.

Trapped in a storm of arousal, confusion, and something dangerously close to full blow surrender. Every class with him was unbearable. He acted normal—cold, professional, barely looking in my direction.

But I knew better now. I felt it. The way his eyes followed me when I shifted in my seat, when my fingers curled too tightly around my pen, when I crossed and uncrossed my legs just a little too slowly.

He was waiting. For me to decide. But how could I?

The idea of submission was as intoxicating as it was terrifying. To give someone control—not just of my body, but my thoughts, my breath, my boundaries. It sounded like freedom and death at the same fucking time.

And I didn’t know the difference anymore.

My past didn’t exactly encourage trust. Not in people. Not in power. Not in letting go. Because once, I did let go. Just once and I lost everything.

It was in middle school. After mom had left, my little sisters were too little and my dad was barely functional for far more than one year. And I got close to someone—my guidance counselor, of all people. I let him see the cracks, the ones I hid from everyone else.

He saw them. And he used them.

His concern turned possessive, compliments got dark and before I knew it, I was trapped under someone else’s idea of “care.” It wasn’t until he tried to kiss me in his office that I ran.

So, yeah. The idea of surrender? It still made me want to bolt.

But with Lewis, it felt different. Dangerous, yes. But also deliberate, like he wanted to break me… in a way that made me whole.

I was still spiraling when Cleo elbowed me hard. “Jesus, why is that woman staring at you like she wants to dissect your brain?”

“Huh?” I blinked. “What woman?”

Cleo nodded toward the far corner of the cafeteria. “Miss Vaughn. Or should I say Dr. Vaughn. Teaching literary feminism to seniors. But why is she in our cafeteria instead of the teacher lounge? She’s never here.”

I turned slowly. She was beautiful in that perfectly intimidating way.

Red hair twisted into a sleek bun with that pale glassy skin that looks like she lived under moonlight. Sharp black glasses perched on her nose, and a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks that screamed power and polish.

She looked like a Vogue article and a death sentence all at once.

“Maybe she just wants to eat with the students,” I said weakly, popping a fry in my mouth to hide the crack in my voice.

“Hardly believable.” Cleo narrowed her eyes. “She’s not looking at students. She’s looking at you.”

“No she’s not.” I scoffed. “There’s a giant banner behind us. Maybe she’s just… looking at that.”

“Really?” Cleo arched an eyebrow. “The banner that says ‘Don’t be silly, cover your willy?’ That one?”

I turned back and peeked again—just in time to catch Dr. Vaughn’s eyes shifting away like I’d caught her in the act.

“Mmh,” I muttered. “Maybe she’s beefing with other professors and doesn’t want to be in the lounge. Should I ask her?”

Cleo’s grin was wicked. “Oh, should I ask her?” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed in my lap and her eyes lit up like a raccoon spotting glitter. “It’s him, isn’t it, Mystery Daddy?”

I gave her a sheepish smile. “Stop calling him that.”

“Ohhh,” she sang. “Does he have a name now?”

‘Oh, he does,’ I thought. ‘Professor Lewis.’ But I didn’t say that. Some things were better left in the dark.

“No,” I lied.

“Then Mystery Daddy it is.”

I opened the message. His tone had changed since that day. No longer playful. No longer a stranger. Now, the messages were sharper. Structured. Every word is a command disguised as a suggestion.

He had begun giving me rules. Tasks. Thoughts to consider. What kind of touch made me feel safest. What kind of punishment I feared the most.

He asked about my boundaries. My other fantasies. My fears. He made me write them down. List them. Own them. There was no pressure, but there was always precision.

His newest message read:

Private Room Service: You have time until the end of the week to decide. If you want to be mine—mind and body—I expect a yes. Or nothing.

I stared at it. My fingers hovered over the screen. I thought about every moment I had felt most alive. And then I typed:

Me: Yes.

The response came instantly.

Private Room Service: Good girl. Now the real fun begins.

My hands shook. When I looked up, Dr. Vaughn was staring straight at me. Right into me.

And this time, she didn’t look away.