The Professor Doing BDSM With Her Ex

In this week’s story, a woman takes her unconventional relationship to a new level: 35, single, Brooklyn. 

DAY ONE

10 a.m. Getting ready to head to leave my apartment in Brooklyn for campus in Manhattan. I’m a professor and I teach class three times a week.

11 a.m. I text Henry, my ex — we recently broke up after six months together. He’s a scientist, and I’m a professor and journalist, so we had plenty to talk about and hit it off right away. He was intense from the beginning — sexually confident in a way that felt rare. Eventually, I wanted more than he was willing to give, emotionally. He wasn’t looking for anything serious, and last month, he ended it. Our last time together as a couple involved rope — and marked a shift. He’d always been a daddy in bed, but that night, he tied me up and pushed us somewhere else. I always liked the idea of being restrained, but I’d never actually tried it. A few weeks post-breakup, I found myself back in his bed again — but now, as his submissive. Collared, owned, and hornier than ever.

This morning, he gives me instructions. “Write ‘daddy’s girl’ on your right hand, take a picture with your left, and send a voice note when you cum.” I have until the end of the day. The thought alone gets me wet.

1:30 p.m. I’m about to teach a class. We text a bit before it starts — mostly memes.

4 p.m. He wants to know what color panties I’m wearing. “Black,” I say. “Good.”

9:12 p.m. Last week, he suggested we start a shared journal via Google Doc — an archive of our journey, a way to track our emotional and erotic shifts. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I’m writing every day. It’s turning into something I crave.

11:30 p.m. I complete the task: I snap a picture, make myself come, and record a voice note. When he texts back, “Good girl,” I melt. I check the doc for his latest journal entry, read it in bed, and come again.

DAY TWO

9 a.m. I wake up in my apartment in Brooklyn with the sun pouring in. I look at my phone and see Henry’s message: He loved the voice note and the photo. “Proud of you,” he wrote.

11 a.m. Coffee, emails, grading. It’s the busiest time of the semester, and I should be focused but I’m distracted. Henry let me sleep over again last week, which feels sweet and familiar but also complicated. We’re not together. But the way he held me after our last scene? It was intense and he spanked me for over an hour, then tied me up and fucked me slowly to the point where he was barely inside me and I was repeatedly orgasming.

12:31 p.m. I ask for today’s task. It’s similar to yesterday’s, but this time, he wants me to suppress my voice in the recording. He wants control, even over my sounds.

2 p.m. I start today’s journal entry. The writing helps me understand what submission really means to me. I’m openly queer, have multiple graduate degrees — including one in gender studies — and I’m trying to reconcile all of that with this new dynamic.

5:14 p.m. Henry and I text a little. But the thing about us is that we can go into dom/sub mode via text then quickly shift out of it and talk about whatever. That’s the thing about Henry, he’s always really gotten me and seen me, and post breakup I’ve struggled with not being able to have that anymore.

9:12 p.m. I finish editing my journal entry. When we started this, I was nervous. Curious. Unsure what it would mean to be a sub, especially with someone I’d already been involved with before. But Henry’s calm. Experienced. He talks about consent and negotiation like it’s second nature. When he asked me to keep a shared journal with him, something we’d both write in to track the highs, the lows, the want, I hesitated. But now it’s become a ritual. A way to make sense of what’s unfolding.

11:30 p.m. I take the photo, record the voice note, and touch myself. When I finish, I get a one-line reply: “Good girl.” It lands right on my chest. After, I check the Google Doc for his entry, read it in bed, and come again.

DAY THREE

11 a.m. I always want to text him in the morning, but I try to hold off. Most mornings, I’ll ask for my task, or he’ll send it before I get the chance. I get on the train and head to campus.

12:02 p.m. Like clockwork, Henry sends today’s task. He wants me to come again and send him a voice note, but this time I have to wear black panties and pull them to the side. There’s something about him telling me what to wear that short-circuits my brain in the best way.

1:04 p.m. I’m getting ready for class and text him: “What should I wear?” He replies: “The black dress and the coat you wore the night we went out to dinner.” I put it on, remembering how that night ended.

5 p.m. I meet my friend K and go to a few art openings. I’ve known them for a few years; we see art together and both work in art-adjacent fields. Over soup dumplings in Chinatown afterward I get them up to speed on the Henry situation.

9 p.m. I’m home and finally have a minute to catch my breath. I get into bed, reread some of Henry’s texts from the day, and get ready to send my voice note. I pull out my favorite toy, record myself while I come, and send it to Henry.

9:31 p.m. Henry “loves” the voice recording and we send each other memes back and forth for a while. Then I fall asleep.

DAY FOUR

10:45 a.m. Working from home this morning and trying to catch up on grading that I’ve put off all week.

12:18 p.m. Today’s task comes through while I’m working: “Write ‘Daddy’s girl’ on your hand. Take a picture. Then come for me. Quietly.” I feel a flutter of excitement, take the photo, and sit on my knees with my hand resting against my thigh. I stay like that for a long moment before moving.

Since our breakup, I’ve kept a few friends in the loop. They know Henry was into some things in the bedroom, but only a handful truly understand the depth of what’s going on now. I half-joke at my local bar that I should start a newsletter about it to keep people informed. One close friend mentioned they knew someone else who had been in a long-term dom/sub dynamic. Sometimes I tell Henry I think what we do is weird — but it’s so intense. It feels like more than just sex.

4:23 p.m. I add to the journal. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how this dynamic isn’t about losing myself — it’s about becoming more visible, to him and to myself.

10:47 p.m. I lie in bed and reread his entry. It’s short but sharp, filled with desire and tenderness in equal measure. He writes that he is in awe of my change and the powerful thing we are doing together. I close my eyes and touch myself again. This time, I’m not silent.

DAY FIVE

8:52 a.m. I wake up feeling anxious and excited. I’m going to his place tomorrow. Just thinking about it makes my stomach flip. But today I get ready for a busy day on campus.

11:15 a.m. I ask Henry what I should wear. He doesn’t hesitate: “The black slip. No panties. Red lipstick.” I shudder with anticipation. It’s the precision of it that gets me. The way he sees the whole scene before I even arrive.

1:02 p.m. I try to go about my day. Grading, class, emails. But I keep picturing tomorrow. His hand in my hair. The way he looks at me when I kneel. The way I forget everything else in the room when he starts giving orders.

4:20 p.m. I write in the journal. I tell him I’ve been caught off-guard by how deep I’ve gone. That I didn’t expect to love this dynamic this much. That it feels like poetry with bite.

8 p.m. Back at home winding down for the day. I do a three-way call with my mom and sister to catch up. I’m from New England, which is where they both still live. We don’t talk about Henry — they don’t know he exists — but we catch up on family and work stuff. It’s helpful to be pulled out of the Henry obsession for a little bit.

DAY SIX

10 a.m. Relaxed morning at home. I hold off on texting Henry.

12 p.m. Henry sends me my task for the day. He wants me to send a voice note while I play with myself and not come. He wants to build me up for tonight.

7:30 p.m. I’m on the train to his place, trying to focus on anything except how wet I am. It’s ridiculous.

8:25 p.m. I text him as I start walking to his place: “On my way.” Then I hit my weed pen, once. Twice. I want to arrive soft around the edges.

8:30 p.m. I text that I’m here. The door clicks open. He doesn’t greet me with a kiss. Instead, he watches me step in and tells me to go up first. I walk ahead of him up the narrow staircase, hyperaware of my body, of the sway in my hips, of the fact that I’m bare beneath the dress. I know he’s watching. We sit at his kitchen table and talk about the week. His job interviews. He’s nervous but trying not to show it. He stares at me for a long time, and I make a face. What?

“I just like looking at you,” he says. “You look pretty.”

9:46 p.m. He walks me through what’s about to happen. The scene. He wants to try something a little different. After that, tie me up. I nod. I want this.

11:15 p.m. I’m restrained, wrists bound above me, legs spread. He’s deliberate. Focused. He spanks me until I can’t wait any longer. Then he fucks me while I’m tied up. I come fast, then again, and again — and then I tell him I need a break. He stops immediately, unties me, and holds me against him.

1:00 a.m. We collapse on the bed together, tangled in sheets and sweat and whatever we just made between us. I press my face into his chest and laugh a little. My brain feels like melted candle wax. But I’ve never felt more known.

2 a.m. We’re still awake. He’s holding me, murmuring soft things, coaxing me into drinking water. I’m floaty, barely able to string words together. He tells me I’ll always be safe with him. I want to cry. I end up staying the night.

DAY SEVEN

8 a.m. His alarm goes off. He stirs, kisses my shoulder, checks on me. I think he might get up, but he climbs back into bed instead, pulling me close again. “You did so well,” he whispers again. He knows I’m still fragile, still half-lost in last night.

8:27 a.m. He finally starts getting ready for work — he has a weekend job. I instinctively begin to sit up, too. No, he says. “Stay, sleep. You need it.” He kisses me again. A long one. Then he’s gone.

11:30 a.m. I wake up alone. The sheets are cold. I drink some water and cry. Not from sadness, exactly, but from release. My phone buzzes. It’s him. “How are you?” I’m not ready to answer. I roll over and sleep a little longer.

12:52 p.m. I finally get up. Move slowly. Still sore, still dreamy. I make his bed. Smooth the sheets. Fold the blankets. I grab a piece of paper and leave a note on his pillow.

“We love to contemplate blue, not because it advances to us, but because it draws us after it.” —Maggie Nelson, Bluets

3 p.m. It’s bright daylight when I step outside. I run around the corner to the coffee shop. Order something hot. Hit my vape.

4 p.m. Sunglasses on, still wrecked, I walk to the train.

10 p.m. Spent the entire journey home still processing. Floating. Trying not to disappear.

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