Chapter 5

　　Layla's POV.

　　He rose and came around the table, standing behind me. His hands settled on my hips, pulling my back against his chest. I could feel the hard length of his cock pressing against my sore ass through his sweatpants. He was massive.

　　"One more thing before you go get ready for class," he murmured against my ear, one hand sliding up to cup my breast through the tank top, his thumb brushing my nipple. "You're not allowed to come without my permission. Not today, not until I decide you've earned it."

　　I moaned softly, leaning back into him despite myself. "But Sir… I'm so…"

　　"I know," he said, pinching my nipple lightly and making me gasp. "That's the point. You'll go to your classes wet and aching, thinking about how my hand felt on your ass and how my fingers felt inside you. And when you get home tonight, you'll tell me exactly how it felt, every dirty detail."

　　He released me abruptly and stepped back. "Now go shower and get dressed. Something modest for campus. I'll drive you today so I can make sure you're not tempted to break rules."

　　I fled upstairs on shaky legs, my mind reeling.

　　The shower was pure torment. Hot water cascaded over my sore ass, making the handprints sting deliciously. I soaped my body carefully, avoiding my aching clit as much as possible, but every brush of my fingers made me whimper with need. Marcus's warning echoed in my head — no coming without permission.

　　By the time I was dressed in a simple knee-length sundress, modest enough to pass his inspection, I hoped, my panties were already damp again.

　　When I came back downstairs, Marcus was waiting by the door, car keys in his hand. His gaze raked over me approvingly.

　　"Lift the hem," he ordered.

　　I hesitated only a second before obeying, raising my dress to mid-thigh so he could see my plain cotton panties.

　　He nodded once. "Better. But tonight, we'll discuss better choices for what you wear under your clothes."

　　God, what is this?

　　I heaved a sigh as we made our way to the car, trying hard to keep myself in check.

　　The drive to campus was quiet but thick with tension. Marcus's hand rested on my thigh the entire way, high enough that his fingers brushed the edge of my dress. Every stoplight, he would squeeze gently, reminding me who was in control.

　　When we pulled up to the drop-off zone, he turned to me, his eyes intense.

　　"Be good today, Layla. Remember I'm watching. And when you get home, your real lessons begin."

　　I nodded instantly, my throat tight. "Yes, Sir."

　　As I stepped out of the car, the cool air hit my soaked panties, making me acutely aware of my denied arousal. Students milled around me, laughing and chatting about normal college things, completely unaware that my stepfather had just fingered me in the kitchen and forbidden me from coming.

　　I walked toward my first lecture hall on trembling legs, my sore ass and throbbing clit a constant reminder of the new rules.

　　God, how do I survive this?

　　My last class dragged on forever. I sat in the back row of the lecture hall, my thighs pressed tightly together under the desk, trying desperately to focus on the professor's voice droning about economic theory. It was impossible. Every shift in my seat sent a fresh reminder of the soreness in my ass, the lingering heat from Marcus's handprints. And worse, every single heartbeat made my swollen clit throb against the damp cotton of my panties.

　　I was soaked. Achingly, shamefully wet.

　　All day I had felt it, the slick slide between my folds, the way my nipples stayed tight and sensitive against my bra. Marcus's words replayed on an endless loop in my mind: You're not allowed to come without my permission. The denial was driving me insane. I had caught myself daydreaming during a group discussion, imagining his thick fingers pushing inside me again, his deep voice praising me for being a good girl while he spanked me raw.

　　By the time the final bell rang, I was a live wire — frustrated, humiliated, and so turned on I could barely think straight.

　　I texted him exactly as he instructed: "Heading home now, Sir."

　　His reply came instantly: "Good girl. I'll be waiting."

　　The short Uber ride home felt endless. When the car finally pulled up to the familiar house, My stomach twisted with a potent mix of dread and dark excitement. I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me like a prison gate.

　　Marcus was in the living room, sitting on the same leather couch where he had spanked me last night. He had changed into dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose those powerful forearms. A glass of whiskey rested on the side table. He looked relaxed, in control, like he had been thinking about this moment all day too.

　　"Lock the door," he said without preamble. "Then come here."

　　I obeyed, my hands trembling slightly as I turned the deadbolt. I walked over on unsteady legs and stopped in front of him, exactly as I had last night.

　　Marcus's gaze raked over my sundress, lingering on the hem. "Lift it."

　　I gathered the fabric in both hands and raised the dress to my waist, exposing my simple white panties. The crotch was visibly darker, soaked through from hours of denied arousal.

　　Marcus leaned forward, eyes darkening with satisfaction. One large hand reached out and cupped my mound possessively over the wet fabric. I whimpered, my hips jerking forward into his touch.

　　"Look at the state you are," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "All day at college, sitting in class with your little pussy dripping because your stepfather told you not to come. Did you think about me, Layla? Did you imagine my hand spanking this needy cunt?"

　　Heat flooded my face. I nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

　　"Words," he demanded, pressing his palm harder against me, grinding the heel against my swollen clit through the panties.

　　"Yes, Sir," I gasped. "I thought about it… all day. I was so wet. I wanted to touch myself so badly, but I didn't. I swear I didn't."