Professor Voss (video with audio) (Patreon)

I stride into the lecture hall, my boots thudding against the polished wood floor, each step a declaration of my presence.

I stride into the lecture hall, my boots thudding against the polished wood floor, each step a declaration of my presence. At seven feet, four inches, I tower over everything—desks, podium, students—and my shadow stretches across the room like a conqueror’s flag. My arms, thick with muscle honed from years of lifting weights that would crush lesser bodies, flex beneath the tailored sleeves of my blazer. My legs, pillars of power wrapped in tight black trousers, carry me with a grace that belies my size. I am Professor Elena Voss, and this classroom is my kingdom.

The students are already here, thirty of them, seated and silent, their eyes locked on me the moment I cross the threshold. I can feel their gazes—hungry, reverent, desperate—like moths drawn to a flame they can’t resist. I set my leather satchel on the podium, the thud echoing through the room, and lean forward, my broad shoulders filling the space. My voice, deep and resonant, cuts through the air.

“Good morning, class,” I say, letting the words linger, my lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “I trust you’ve all prepared for today.”

A chorus of murmured “Yes, Professor Voss” ripples through the room, their voices trembling with something more than respect. I straighten up, crossing my arms, my biceps straining against the fabric. I know what they see: a woman who could snap steel with her bare hands, whose every movement radiates strength and control. And they worship me for it.

It started years ago, when I first took this position at the university. At first, they were intimidated—how could they not be? A woman like me, towering over them, muscles rippling with every gesture, my presence undeniable. But fear turned to fascination, then to something deeper. They began lingering after class, offering to carry my books (as if I needed help), begging for extra assignments just to spend time in my orbit. I didn’t discourage it. Why would I? I revel in it.

Today’s lecture is on power dynamics in literature, a fitting topic. I pace the front of the room, my heels clicking, my thighs flexing with each step. “Power,” I say, pausing to let my gaze sweep over them, “is not just in the text. It’s in the room. It’s in the way we move, the way we command.” I stop, leaning against the edge of a desk, my weight making it creak. A 19 year old freshman boy in the front row—Ethan, with his wide eyes and trembling hands—stares up at me, his breath hitching. I meet his gaze, holding it until he flushes red and looks away.

They all want to be close to me. I see it in the way they jostle for the front seats, the way they hang on my every word. There’s Sarah, the 21 year old senior, quiet one with the sharp mind, who once confessed she’d do anything for my approval. There’s Marcus, the 18 year old athlete who thinks he’s strong until he stands next to me and realizes he’s a child in comparison. And then there’s Lila, the 20 year old bold one, who slipped a note under my office door last semester: “I’d kneel for you, Professor.” I kept it, tucked away in my desk, a little trophy of their devotion.

I push off the desk and walk down the aisle, my hips swaying, my muscles shifting under my clothes. The air thickens with their anticipation. I stop beside Ethan’s desk, looming over him, my shadow swallowing him whole. “Tell me, Ethan,” I purr, my voice low and deliberate, “what does power feel like to you?”

He stammers, his hands gripping his notebook. “It’s… it’s overwhelming, Professor. Like… like you can’t escape it.”

I smile, leaning down until my face is inches from his, my breath warm against his cheek. “Good answer,” I whisper, and I see the shiver run through him. I straighten up, leaving him dazed, and continue my circuit of the room. They’re all watching, jealous, eager, wishing it were them.

After class, they swarm me. It’s always like this. Sarah lingers by the podium, clutching her essay, her eyes pleading for a moment of my time. “Professor Voss, could you… look over my work?” she asks, her voice soft, her fingers brushing mine as she hands it over. I take it, letting my hand dwarf hers, and nod. “Stay after tomorrow,” I say, and her face lights up like I’ve granted her a sacred gift.

Marcus approaches next, flexing his own arms as if to impress me. “I’ve been hitting the gym, Professor,” he says, grinning. I raise an eyebrow, then flex my arm, the muscle bulging until it’s twice the size of his. “Keep trying,” I say, and he laughs, but there’s a hunger in his eyes.

Lila is last, bold as ever. She steps close—too close—her perfume sharp and sweet. “I meant what I wrote,” she murmurs, her voice a challenge. I tower over her, my chest brushing her shoulder as I lean in. “I know,” I reply, my tone a velvet threat. “Be careful what you wish for.”

That night, in my office, I sit back in my oversized chair, the room dim, the walls lined with books. I think about them—my students, my devotees. They dream of me, I know they do. The fantasies are predictable, deliciously so: me lifting them effortlessly, pinning them with a single hand, my strength an irresistible force. Some imagine me as a stern goddess, doling out praise or punishment with a flick of my wrist. Others see me softer, a protector, their giantess shielding them from the world. I’ve heard the whispers in the halls, the rumors of their longing. It fuels me.

I stand, stretching, my muscles rippling under my skin. I could have any of them—Sarah’s quiet devotion, Marcus’s eager submission, Lila’s fiery challenge. They’d fall over themselves to please me, to touch the power I wield so effortlessly. And maybe I’ll let one of them, someday, just to see how far they’ll go. But for now, I keep them wanting, keep them worshipping. This is my classroom, my domain, and they are mine to command.

Tomorrow, I’ll wear the red dress—the one that hugs every curve, every muscle—and watch them unravel all over again. Because I am Professor Elena Voss, seven feet of muscle and might, and they will never stop craving me.