The week that followed was a slow burn of anticipation and dread. Natasha moved through her days like a ghost, her body present in lecture halls and libraries, but her mind trapped in that office, reliving the feel of the cool air on her bare skin, the hard floor beneath her knees, the weight of his gaze. The memory was a constant, low hum under her skin, a secret frequency only she could hear.

She found herself reciting the rules in her head at odd moments. On the bus. While making tea. In the middle of a conversation with a classmate. Your body belongs to me. You will learn to beg for what you want. The words were a collar she wore invisibly, a constant reminder of her new reality. At night, alone in her bed, she would fight the urge to touch herself, his fourth rule a phantom hand restraining her. The ache was a living thing, a hollow, pulsing need that settled deep in her belly. She wanted, and the wanting itself was a form of torment. She had never felt so aware of her own body, so attuned to its every thrum and shiver.