Try a more “personal” approach

"I want to understand more about these props of yours. The phone I just broke—was it real? I mean, physically real?"

Dr. Voss smiled, seemingly pleased by his curiosity. "A fair question, Mr. Blossom. Yes and no." She gestured toward the new phone on her desk. "The phone is physically real in the sense that it occupies space, has mass, and functions exactly as a genuine smartphone would. You could take it apart and find circuit boards, a battery, memory chips—all the components you'd expect."

Tom picked up the phone again, turning it over in his hands. It felt substantial, with the expected weight and the slight warmth of electronics. "But it's not manufactured by humans?"

"Correct," Dr. Voss confirmed. "It's created through matter manipulation—what we might call transcendental matter. The materials exist physically but originate from my energy rather than from a factory in China."

Tom's gaze shifted to her left hand, where her wedding ring had reappeared. The gold band gleamed under the office lights, its diamond catching and refracting the sunbeams streaming through the window.

"And what about this?" he asked, gesturing toward the ring. "Is this just energy too?"

Dr. Voss extended her hand, allowing Tom to examine the ring more closely. The diamond was exquisite—at least two carats, with excellent clarity and cut.

"Unlike some of my colleagues," she said with a playful glance toward Dane, "I only wear real jewelry." Her tone was smugly superior, though her smile made it clear she was joking. "The gold is genuine 18-karat, and the diamond is flawless. I could dissolve it and recreate it, certainly, but the materials themselves are authentic."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me you created actual gold and a real diamond?"

"Indeed," she replied. "The atomic structure is identical to naturally occurring elements and minerals. If you were to have this ring appraised, it would be valued at approximately twenty thousand dollars."

Professor Dane cleared his throat. "Eleanor has always had a flair for the dramatic when it comes to her accessories. Some of us prefer simplicity."

Tom couldn't help but laugh at their banter, which seemed so... human. "What about bigger things? You mentioned your car—the Volvo. Is that 'real' too?"

The Volvo is indeed physically real," Dr. Voss confirmed with a nod. "It has a vehicle identification number that would check out in any database, registration papers filed with the DMV, and even a service history at the local dealership. If you were to take a sample of the metal or upholstery, it would be molecularly identical to what Volvo manufactures in their factories."

Tom ran his fingers through his hair, trying to process the implications. "So everything about you—your clothes, your possessions, even your office—it's all physically real but... philosophically fake?"

"An astute observation," Dr. Voss said, looking genuinely impressed. "In material terms, these items exist. They occupy space, have mass, and function as expected. But their origin is not what humans would consider 'natural' or 'authentic.' They weren't manufactured or grown; they were manifested."

A thought suddenly occurred to Tom. "What about money? Can you just... create cash whenever you want?"

Dr. Voss's lips curved into an amused smile. She reached for her handbag—a tasteful leather tote that sat beside her desk—and extracted a wallet. Opening it, she pulled out several crisp hundred-dollar bills and fanned them out on the desk.

"I can materialize sufficient funds to maintain my human facade," she explained, her fingers lightly touching the bills. "These are genuine United States currency, down to the security features and serial numbers. They would pass any counterfeit detection test."

Tom stared at the money, his mind racing with possibilities. "So you could make me rich? Just create millions of dollars?"

Dr. Voss chuckled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Blossom. There are strict limitations to prevent exactly that kind of... creative solution to financial problems. I can only manifest what's necessary to support my cover identity."

She gestured around her office. "Did you know that Romero University doesn't actually pay its philosophical zombie staff? There's no paycheck deposited into my account every two weeks. I simply maintain the appearance of a salaried professor, including having the appropriate amount of money for my lifestyle."

Tom picked up one of the hundred-dollar bills, examining the intricate details—the watermark, the color-shifting ink, the embedded security thread. It felt completely authentic between his fingers.

"That's... incredible," he murmured. "And a little terrifying."

Professor Dane, who had been quietly observing their exchange, stepped forward. "It's worth noting that our materialization abilities are governed by certain protocols. We can't disrupt economic systems or create objects that would significantly alter human society."

"But what about other things?" Tom asked, his gaze drifting from the hundred-dollar bill to Dr. Voss's face. He studied her features more carefully now—the soft curve of her cheekbones, the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and particularly, the shape of her mouth.

"You have quite nice lips," he said abruptly, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider them.

Dr. Voss blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. She recovered quickly, however, her professional demeanor returning as she offered a polite smile.

"Thank you, Mr. Blossom. My design specifications included features that would be considered conventionally attractive without being distracting in an academic setting."

Tom set the hundred-dollar bill back on the desk and leaned forward in his chair. The pendant swung slightly from his neck, catching the light. "I want you to kiss me," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Passionately."

Professor Dane shifted uncomfortably beside them but remained silent, observing the interaction with evident curiosity.

Dr. Voss's eyebrows rose slightly, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of those lips he'd just complimented. "My, my, Mr. Blossom," she said, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. "I believe there are rather strict university ethics policies regarding faculty-student relations. As a department chair, I should remind you—"

"You're not faculty," Tom interrupted, his confidence growing with each moment of wielding his newfound power. "You're an object pretending to be faculty. The ethics policies don't apply to you."

Something flickered in Dr. Voss's eyes—not offense or hurt, but a kind of amused acknowledgment. She rose from her chair with fluid grace, circling her desk until she stood directly in front of Tom. The subtle scent of her perfume—something floral with notes of vanilla—enveloped him as she leaned down, placing her hands on the armrests of his chair.

"As you wish, Keybearer," she murmured, her breath warm against his face.

Her lips met his with surprising intensity. They were soft and pliant, but there was nothing hesitant about the way she kissed him. Her mouth was wet and warm, her tongue skillfully exploring his as she deepened the kiss. One of her hands moved to cup the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair with just enough pressure to communicate desire without ****.

Tom found himself responding instinctively, his own hands reaching up to touch her waist.

Her body pressed against his, the curves of her figure evident even through her professional attire. Tom was struck by how real she felt—warm, soft, with the subtle movements of breathing that made the illusion of humanity complete.

When they finally broke apart, Tom was breathless. Dr. Voss remained close, her face just inches from his, those remarkable lips now slightly reddened from their kiss. Her eyes studied him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

—

Note: sorry for taking over an MxM thread with MxF content, I really like the Romero University premise! Besides, I try to focus more on the control and deception aspects, rather than straight up smut.