Chapter 107 Control me, Professor
Will’s P.O.V.
It’s been a few days since the car session.
A few days of pretending things are better.
A few days of watching her trying to live normally, even though the panic attacks are tearing her apart from the inside.
She smiles. She talks. She even laughs sometimes.
But I see through it.
I see the way her hands start trembling when certain topics come up. The way she gets lost in her world in the middle of a conversation.
And at night… It’s worse.
She wakes up gasping, clutching at me like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her above water.
It kills me to watch her like that.
I want to help her.
But I don’t know how.
I’ve tried holding her, distracting her by controlling her, punishing her, anything that might pull her mind away from those dark spirals. Sometimes it works for a while.
But the panic always finds its way back.
Tonight, after dinner, I finally bring it up.
“Iva,” I say carefully, sitting beside her on the sofa. “Maybe we should talk to a doctor.”
She freezes.
I continue gently. “It might help. A therapist, maybe. Someone who understands panic attacks and trauma.”
She doesn’t look at me.
Instead, she focuses on the mug in her hands like it suddenly requires all of her attention.
“I’m fine.”
I lean forward slightly. “You’re not fine.” As she glances at me, I continue, “You don’t have to go through this alone. There are people who can help.”
Her fingers tighten around the mug.
For a moment I think she might actually consider it.
But then she shakes her head. “No.”
Just one word.
Firm.
Final.
I frown. “Iva—”
“I said no, Will.”
Her voice isn’t harsh. But it’s defensive. Like she’s protecting something.
And that’s what confuses me the most.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. “If something could make this easier for you, why wouldn’t you at least try?”
She looks away again. Too quickly. Too deliberately.
And that’s when I realise something. This isn’t just reluctance. She’s avoiding it.
The idea of seeing a doctor scares her more than the panic attacks themselves.
I study her quietly. Trying to figure out what she isn’t saying. Because something about this doesn’t add up.
And I have no idea why.
I wake to the sound of frantic breathing beside me. Iva is shaking. It’s midnight, the world is sleeping peacefully, and she is drowning again.
“Professor.”
No response.
She’s sitting, gripping the blanket, eyes wide but unfocused. Her whole body is trembling.
“Iva, hey.” I sit up hastily and touch her shoulder.
She jerks as I burn her.
“Will—” Her voice breaks. “It’s happening again.”
Her breathing is too fast.
I pull her into my arms immediately. “I’m there with you. You’ll be fine.”
"Will... help me. Please. Make it stop. The images... they won't stop." She begs, clutching my t-shirt.
I hold her tight, but I realise that my usual methods—dominating her, punishing her, comforting her with my own strength, are only temporary fixes. The trauma is rooted in her feeling powerless. To heal her, I need to flip the script. I need to force her mind into a territory so shocking, that the grief won't be able to find her.
So something different clicks in my head.
A strange idea.
Risky.
Uncomfortable.
But maybe exactly what she needs.
"Professor, look at me," I command, pulling back just enough to catch her blown-out gaze. "We are going to do something different tonight. Something I have never asked you."
She trembles, leaning into my touch. "Anything. Just... make the pain go away."
I hesitate for a second. Then I say the words I never imagined would leave my mouth. “Tonight… you’ll control me, Professor.”
Her eyes widen in absolute shock. The shaking stops for a split second, replaced by pure bewilderment. "What?"
"Yes. Tonight is your opportunity to make me do anything. You’ll have one night to live in my shoes. You will be the one holding the reins."
She stares at me like I’ve started speaking a foreign language. The idea of a man like me, a man who breathes authority, who lives to control every variable in his environment, willingly handing over the whip is unfathomable to her.
"But... how? Will, you're... I can't," she stammers, shaking her head. "You're the Master. I don't know how to be... that."
"Don't think about anything. Just seize the chance.” I stand and hold out my hand. “Come with me.”
A few minutes later we stand inside the room she knows too well.
The BDSM room.
Usually, when she enters here, she knows exactly what role she plays.
Tonight…
Everything is different.
I walk to the centre of the room.
Then, I do the one thing I never thought I would do for anyone. I sink to my knees in front of her. I clasp my hands behind my back and lower my head. “I’m at your service, Madam.”
Her mouth falls open. She just stares at me. For a moment neither of us speaks.
And I have to admit. This feels unbelievably strange. It’s a jarring sensation to be the one looking up from the floor. My predatory instincts are screaming at me to stand up, to take charge, to pin her to the wall. But I suppress them. For her.
Control has always been second nature to me. Commanding. Leading. Giving it away? To anyone? Unthinkable.
But for her… I’ll break every instinct I have.
Because if this pulls her mind away from the pain for even one night… It’s worth it.
“I can’t,” she denies. “Will… I can’t do this. You’re my Master.”
“Not tonight,” I say in a firm tone. “You have the control.”
She still hesitates. So I give her the one thing she always obeys.
An order.
“Show me what you’ve learned from your Master all these years.” I keep my gaze fixed on her. “Show me, Professor.”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Then she clears it nervously. “Okay…”
I knew she would never refuse my order.
Her voice is timid as she commands me, “Take off your t-shirt.”
For a second I just look at her. Her first command. And something strange twists in my chest. This is new territory for both of us.
But I follow the order.
As I grip the hem of my t-shirt, one thought runs through my mind.
So this is what it feels like. To wait for someone else’s command. To surrender control. It’s unsettling. Unfamiliar.
I pull the fabric over my head in one motion before dropping it to the floor.
I watch her eyes trail over my bare chest, and I see it, the flicker of power. It’s working. Her focus isn't on the hospital or the loss, it's on the man kneeling before her, waiting for her next move.
It feels incredibly strange to be the one waiting for permission, to be the one whose next breath depends on her word. It’s a total shift in my universe.
But seeing that tiny bit of confidence return to her face? I’d stay on my knees for a lifetime if it meant keeping that haunted look out of her eyes.
"What's next, Madam?" I ask, trying to sound obedient.