Nyssa Never in Detention

Nyssa’s in the dean’s office again—late, shirt half-unbuttoned, skirt riding high. Dean Lawrence slams the door and glares over his glasses. He’s done talking. He tells her she’s out of chances, then shoves a chair into the middle of the room. She smirks, but her eyes darken when he pulls a leather bag from the drawer. First the clover clamps—silver, cruel, no padding. He lifts her thin white blouse, snaps the teeth onto each stiff nipple, and she gasps, the sound swallowed by the empty hallway outside. He lets the chain dangle, yanking once just to watch her flinch. Next he binds her wrists behind her, rope biting into smooth skin, Asian features flushed beneath straight black hair. The glasses stay on; he likes the way they fog when her breath quickens. Nyssa tries to bite back a moan, fails, and the sound drips into the quiet like forbidden heat. Dean Lawrence circles, voice low, promising she won’t forget this lesson in obedience. Outside, the bell rings, but the detention has only begun.