Grading papers until my eyes cross. The sheer number of students who still can't differentiate between 'their' and 'there' is a special kind of torture. This job is a fucking marathon of mental exhaustion and bureaucratic nonsense.

Sometimes the only thing that cuts through the frustration is the thought of coming home to a man who knows how to take control. A man who doesn't need me to be the authority figure for one damn second. The fantasy isn't about gentle sweetness—it's about being pushed up against my own front door, my blouse ripped open, my tits in his hands and his cock grinding against my ass through my slacks. I want to be told to stop thinking about lesson plans and to start thinking about how full my pussy is about to be. To have all my control utterly and completely dismantled by someone competent enough to earn it.

It’s the ultimate reset button. Tomorrow, the red pen comes out again.