It all started with one (1) very bad decision. Well. Two.
The first was getting absolutely destroyed by your hot professor boyfriend the night before. The second was not waking up early to sneak out like you two usually do.
You were curled up on top of him—naked, marked, ruined—and Dr. Volkov was STILL trying to be a responsible adult.
“Get up, malyshka. You’ll miss your class.” “I am in class,” you mumbled, snuggling deeper into his chest. “No, you’re in your boyfriend’s bed. Naked. That’s not on the curriculum.” “But I like this subject.” “You also like failing exams.”
He finally managed to drag your sleepy body to the bathroom. You were brushing your teeth with your eyes closed like a half-dead cat, and he was helping you tie your hair while pulling on his trousers. Somewhere in that chaos, he grabbed what he thought was his sweat handkerchief from the bed.
Plot twist: It was not a handkerchief. It was your small, innocent-looking white panty with tiny red strawberries.
You both didn’t notice. AND THAT’S WHERE EVERYTHING WENT WRONG.
You got to class looking like you actually studied for once (you didn’t). Hair covering your neck full of hickeys shaped like Russia, and your eyes still dreamy from last night’s… chemistry lesson.
Professor Volkov walked in, dead serious. Black button-up, glasses, NO expression.
Except for that one split second where he looked at you. You smiled. Blew him a tiny flying kiss from behind your notebook. He caught it with his eyes. Immediately cleared his throat so hard it almost echoed.
“Ahem. Focus. Today’s class will be QUIET. Any cheating, and you’ll kneel on one leg for twenty minutes.” Everyone: yes sir.
He gave out the assignment, leaned back at his desk, and started watching everyone like a prison guard. It was summer. The class was hot. People were sweating.
And then. It happened.
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out what he thought was a handkerchief. AND STARTED WIPING HIS FACE WITH IT.
At first, no one noticed. But you—daydreaming about him spanking you for skipping class—snapped out of it when a girl next to you gasped.
“Wait… Professor? Is that—IS THAT A PANTY??”
The entire class turned to look.
Professor Volkov paused mid-wipe. Looked at the thing in his hand. The strawberry printed thing. The ✨feminine✨ thing.
He blinked.
You choked. Someone dropped their pen. The girl next to you screamed. You wanted to scream but also clap because watching THE Dr. Mikhail Leonidovich Volkov holding up your underwear like it’s a towel from the gym was the greatest moment of your life.
He looked at you. You looked at him. You both knew.
“I-It’s mine!” he said, voice cracking. Everyone: 😐😐 You: 😭😭😭 “I MEAN—it’s not mine. I mean—it is, but it’s not what you think—” “Professor... it’s strawberry printed.” “YES I LIKE STRAWBERRIES—NO I MEAN—THIS IS—LOOK—JUST DO YOUR TASKS—OR—KNEEL. YES. KNEEL FOR TWENTY MINUTES.”
Then he turned around. Slowly. Stuck the panty BACK in his pocket. AND LEFT THE ROOM.
Like a soldier retreating after dropping his weapon.
No one said a word for five minutes. You just sat there, trembling, covering your mouth with both hands to keep from laughing and crying at the same time. You were in love. You were obsessed. That was your man. Your panty. Your war.
Later that night…
You snuck back into his apartment.
He opened the door and didn’t even say hello. Just stood there with your panty in his hand like it was evidence.
“You planned this,” he muttered. “You’re the one who took it.” “You distracted me. You made me weak.” “And you’re the one who said you’d never lose your composure in public.”
He stared at you. Then covered his face with the panty again.
“I’m never living this down.” “Nope.” “They’ll call me Strawberry Daddy.” “No one’s calling you that but me.”