Teach Me Something New, Part 1 Read online

  Teach Me Something New

  Part 1

  Summer Olsen

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible maybe liable in law accordingly.

  Summer Olsen 2013

  Copyright © Summer Olsen, 2013. The right of Summer Olsen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) 2000

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  As usual, I was running late. If you ask my mother, I was late to my own birth and still haven’t seen fit to catch up with everyone else. But hey, I’m only twenty-two. I can be on time later. Maybe.

  Still, I was hurrying. I had been looking forward to this class since I’d seen it on the course list at the end of last semester. A warm blossom had unfurled in my heart at the prospect of an entire course on Victorian literature. I didn’t really have space for it in my schedule, but I couldn’t resist. So here I was, way too early on a Wednesday morning, rushing across campus to audit a class that had nothing to do with my degree.

  I tried to ease my way into the lecture hall and quietly take my seat. I really did. But the only spot left was in the middle of the second row. I had to climb over people. And okay, maybe I didn’t have to try and walk along the back of the seats, but it seemed easier. I have really good balance. When I hopped off, I took a bow, smiling at the laughter and applause.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  I swallowed hard. I had heard good things about Professor Sherwood, but no one had mentioned how gorgeous he was. His brown hair was a little long, brushing the collar of his button down shirt. With his broad shoulders and barrel chest, he looked like he belonged on the docks working a trawler, not in front of a literature class. His voice was low and firm, his grey eyes cool. I grinned at him.

  “Lucy Montgomery,” I supplied.

  “Miss Montgomery,” he said, softly. “Thank you for gracing us with your cheerful presence. However, I’m sure at least some of your classmates would like to hear what I have to say. Now, sit.” He motioned at the chair behind me.

  I sat, cheeks burning, heart thumping. I had to sit. My knees were suddenly wobbly. It was that tone of voice. Deep, quiet, firm. Like a touch. It made my mouth go dry, and my pussy go wet. I squeezed my legs together as Professor Sherwood continued, giving us a brief explanation of what we’d be covering this semester. I listened without hearing, letting the words wash over me and wanting nothing more than to sneak my hands down between my legs. I’d never had a man’s voice affect me like that. Hell, I couldn’t remember the last time a man’s touch got me that turned on. My sex was hot and throbbing and all he’d done was reprimand me.

  I managed to take notes for the rest of the class, somehow. But all I could think about was Professor Ryan Sherwood’s broad shoulders and low voice.

  * * *

  I was sipping my mocha latte with extra whip when I heard it again. He was sitting at one of the wooden tables on the quad, papers spread out in front of him. A cellphone was pressed to one ear, and he was wearing glasses. They were incongruous to his burly physique and strong, square jaw and that was somehow ridiculously sexy. I approached as he hung up his phone and reached for his coffee, and slid into the seat across from him. Something about him drew me like a moth to a flame, ready to be burned.

  “‘I’m still too young, too young to sit alone’,” I quoted, giving him my best smile.

  “Miss Montgomery,” he replied. Just that was enough to give me goosebumps. I wanted to reach out and touch his lips with my fingertips, feel him make those words. I already felt a sweet ache beginning to build between my legs.

  “Professor Sherwood,” I said. “I really enjoyed last week’s class. I can’t wait until we get to Christina Rossetti.”

  “Not Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” His voice was cool, but he was talking. That smooth, deep voice was washing over me.

  “I love them all,” I admitted. “I don’t get much chance to read for pleasure. The business course work is pretty heavy. But I love the Victorians. So much repressed emotion just bursting out. It’s lovely.”

  His only response was a non-committal ‘mmm’. Those opaque grey eyes studied my face, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t exactly seem like an English professor.” I waved a hand at his shoulders, trying to encompass his broad, muscular physique.

  He quirked a brow at me. I would have thought he was amused, except his mouth didn’t so much as twitch upward as he spoke. “You don’t exactly look like a student of Victorian literature yourself,” he said, nodding at my lemon and fuchsia skirt and black tank top. I plucked at the hem, baring a little knee. Beneath the skirt my legs were smooth, tan, and bare. No harm in showing them off.

  “I don’t look like a Business major either. The rest all wear suits. Even the girls.” I fluttered the hem of my brightly colored skirt out a bit. “Blame it on my Hippie parents, I guess. I can’t stand to be in all black or grey.”

  “Mmm,” he said again, and it almost drove me crazy. I couldn’t tell whether it was an ‘mmm, interesting’ noise or an ‘mmm, why are you still talking’ noise. His face gave nothing away. “And what kind of business are you planning on working in?”

  I grinned. “One where I don’t have to wear boring suits. Other than that, I don’t really know.” I shrugged. It was the truth. I was getting a degree in Business because it seemed like a good degree to have. Commerce made the world go ‘round, despite what my parents still liked to believe. But it’s not like I had a passion for spreadsheets or anything.

  “You’re getting your Master’s, correct?” His t’s were very clipped. I could almost hear his straight, white teeth biting them off. The image of those teeth closing gently over one pink nipple made me shiver, my breasts suddenly aching and heavy.

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice coming out a little husky. I sipped my mocha. “But it was mostly just an excuse to stay in school until I figure out what I really want to do.”

  He stacked the scattered papers into a neat pile and began tucking them into his briefcase. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore. “You couldn’t do that while working out in the real world?”

  I snorted, which drew his attention. Both his thick, dark brows rose this time. I had a weird urge to kiss them. “Of course I could,” I offered. “But the parties are much better in college.” I winked. I was hoping for a reaction, any reaction. A smile. Even just the slight quirk of that eyebrow again. But he only regarded me coolly as he stood, taking the briefcase in one hand and plucking up his coffee cup with the other.

  “Well, I hope your social life doesn’t make you late for my class again, Miss Montgomery.”

  I smiled my widest at him. “It won’t. But I can’t promise my innate inability to get anywhere on time won’t.”

  Nothing. Not even the flicker of an eyelid. “For your sake, I hope that’s not true,” he said, and then turned to leave.

  “See you tomorrow, Professor S,” I called after him. He didn’t acknowledge me. I watched him walk across the quad toward Denbrough Hall. H
e kept his head up the whole time, and though his back was to me I’d be willing to bet those calm grey eyes scanned everything around him. Most Professors wandered around campus with their heads down, in their own world.

  But not Ryan Sherwood. There was something different about him. He was unlike any other professor I’d ever known. And, I thought, watching his retreating form, he had a fantastic ass.

  * * *

  “He kills her because he thinks she’s a massive slut,” I said. “Idiot.” There were shocked gasps, and a few muffled coughs of laughter. The room erupted into dozens of muttered side conversations. I had no doubt many were about me.

  We were discussing Robert Browning’s poem ‘My Last Duchess’. I hadn’t quite meant to blurt out the slut part, but I hadn’t been able to take any more of the guy in the front row’s inane babbling about how the Count was mourning. Mourning, while he talked about buying his next bride!

  “That’s enough, class,” Professor Sherwood said, sternly. He was wearing his glasses today, the light reflecting off them as he scanned the room. I couldn’t see his eyes. “We’ll continue this discussion next class. Until then, read ‘Porphyria’s Lover’ and be prepared to contrast the two.”

  I began shoving my books into my bag, still juiced from the debate and wanting to kick the guy in the front row in the shins.

  “Miss Montgomery,” Professor Sherwood called from the front of the classroom. I paused, bag halfway to my shoulder. When he saw he had my attention, he looked down at his watch. “I’d like to see you in my office if you have a few minutes.”

  A bit of ice water burbled in my stomach. As usual, my big mouth had gotten me in trouble. It happened so frequently, you think I’d be accustomed to it by now. I’d actually talked myself into a ticket on three separate occasions when I’d been pulled over. I sighed and nodded, waiting as the rest of the students filed out of the lecture hall. The nimrod from the front row shot me a triumphant look. I kissed the tip of my middle finger at him.

  “This way, Miss Montgomery,” Professor Sherwood said drily, motioning me toward the exit beside him. I made my way down the steps and followed him into the narrow hall that led to the English department.

  His office was a bit of a surprise. It was way down at the end of the hall, past a storage closet and the restrooms, some distance from the other faculty offices. Unlike their office doors, his didn’t sport any frosted glass with his name etched in gold. It was solid, dark wood and a hand lettered sign said ‘R. Sherwood’ and then listed his office hours. The room itself was large, though it didn’t appear so at first glance, due to all the clutter.

  Bookshelves lined three of the walls from floor to ceiling, broken only by the one, small window. A massive mahogany desk took up a great deal of space near the far wall, a deep, leather wingback behind it. A single straight-backed chair was set on the opposite side, where I was to sit, presumably. Other than that the only furniture was an old record player in one corner, a crate of records, and an end table with a beat up looking coffee machine on it.

  Despite the afternoon sunlight filtering in through the window and the bright fluorescent overhead, the room still seemed to have an air of darkness around it. As if it should be lit by firelight, or candlelight instead of man-made electricity. Professor Sherwood motioned me toward the narrow chair closest to me as he took his own seat in the plush wingback.

  I sat, plucking at the worn knee of my jeans, waiting for him to speak. He removed his glasses, studying my face intently for a moment, and then leaned his elbows on the desk.

  “This is a college, Miss Montgomery,” he began, his low voice strict. “Not an episode of reality TV. I expect a certain level of conduct in my classes. That does not include shouting profanity and insults at your classmates.”

  I bristled at the slightly condescending tone in his voice. “So, what? You want me to raise my hand and wait to be called on? That’s not a discussion. A discussion is a free exchange of ideas.”

  He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest. It made his biceps bulge beneath the thin material of his button-down shirt. “I don’t expect you to raise your hand and wait to be called on, no. But I do expect some decorum.”

  “Or what? You’ll spank me?” Did I mention I have a big mouth? I tensed before the words were even completely out, prepared for him to snap at me. Instead, those brows just rose a fraction of an inch.

  “Is that what it’s going to take to get you to behave in my classroom?”

  The image that conjured of me bent over Professor Sherwood’s knees, bare ass in the air as one of those big, strong, dock worker hands came down on my flesh with a ringing slap, set me alight. The hot flush began at my toes, which curled inside my sneakers. It blazed up my legs like a flash fire, scorching my thighs and smoldering deep inside my sex. My nipples tightened to almost painfully hard points beneath the Summer of ’69 t-shirt I was wearing. I caught my breath.

  “Uh, no,” I breathed. Though a heretofore unknown part of my psyche was desperately clamoring ‘yes, yes’. “I’ll...” I trailed off, swallowing hard as the image faded only slowly from my mind’s eye. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

  “Good,” he said. A slow smile unfurled across his mouth, and I noticed that his lips were full and sculpted. “You have a lot of potential, Miss Montgomery. I’d hate to see you waste it on pointless antics.”

  I nodded, unable to speak any more words. I blinked, trying to clear the picture of him stroking my reddened skin, fingers dipping low between my spread thighs, out of my vision. It didn’t want to go. We sat for a moment in silence before he raised his hand, indicating the door over my shoulder. “Unless there’s anything else?”

  I got to my feet, shaking my head and mumbling a quick good-bye. I don’t think my feet touched the ground the entire way back to my apartment.

  * * *

  I’d been doing homework for the last two hours. I’d ignored multiple texts and phone calls inviting me out, still too keyed up from my earlier reprimand to contemplate a night out. All through my Ethics and Principles of Advertising coursework, my mind kept straying back to those low, calm words. ‘Is that what it’s going to take to get you to behave in my class?’

  Every time it looped through my brain, I felt another tight shiver in my abdomen. Finally, after staring at my half-written essay, I gave up. I couldn’t concentrate. It had taken me twenty minutes to write the last sentence, and glancing at it I realized I’d typed It is best to spank clearly. I snorted, deleting spank and replacing it with speak before closing the document. I stared at my laptop, fingers tapping restlessly on the mousepad.

  With a muttered expletive, I pulled up my browser. What was it about the burly Professor that had me so turned on? I’d known other men with the same basic physical proportions. I’d even slept with one of them. It had been pleasant, but nothing compared to the heat caused by Ryan Sherwood’s words. It was something about the firm tone of voice, the calm authority in it. Normally I rebelled against control. I’d been raised to do so. But his quiet commands felt... different. And while I’d never, ever before thrilled at the thought of punishment before, I remembered the vividness of the mental image from earlier and typed ‘spanking’ into the search engine.

  The plethora of sites and images this returned was staggering. I’d known, of course, that stuff like this was out there. Who didn’t? I guess I’d just never realized how prevalent it was. There was everything from psychological papers on the appeal of submission to hardcore fetish sites featuring something called ‘edgeplay’ that sounded very intimidating.

  I read some of the papers. They talked about the psychology of submission, the idea of trusting someone to take care of you, being free to truly let go. One female psychologist explored the attraction of boundaries and something in me responded to that. Growing up, I’d had none. No curfew, no rules. With my parents, everything was open for discussion. I’d learned early that all limits could be pushed, all lines crossed. Puni
shment was most often a discussion of cause and effect.

  Was there something in me that had been craving structure this whole time? It seemed so. Professor Sherwood’s even-tempered instruction was striking a chord in me I hadn’t even known existed before I met him. But now...

  There were apparently a lot of people into in teacher/student spanking. I clicked one of the myriad links, and an image very similar to the one I’d pictured earlier splashed across my screen. I gulped. The girl looked nothing like me, apart from the fact that we both had slender builds. She was Asian, with long black hair up in a high ponytail. She was bent over the “teacher’s” lap, her small hands gripping his pants’ leg. One of his hands gripped the nape of her neck while the other was lifted high in the air, ready to strike.

  The skirt of her uniform was flipped up onto her back and her white panties were around her ankles, baring her ass. Her pussy peeked from between her pale thighs, which like her ass were red with handprints. The look on her face was indescribable. Her cheeks were flushed nearly as dark as her backside, and her mouth was open in a wet O. Teacher seemed to be enjoying the altercation as well, judging by the intense look on his face and the bulge in his pants.