Teach Me Something New, Part 1 Read online

  I scrolled through several more of the series, heart beginning to thump like a drum in my chest. I shifted in my kitchen chair, feeling my pussy growing slick and warm. My fingers felt tense as they moved over the arrow keys, a fine tremor running through my muscles. The blandly handsome guy in the picture became broader at the shoulder, wider in the chest. Soon he wore Professor Sherwood’s features, the cool grey eyes and slightly shaggy brown hair brushing his collar.

  And the girl in his lap was me. I imagined how it would feel, the sudden sting of his palm connecting with my flesh, the spreading heat. The sensations would race over my nerves like a relay, rippling down between my legs. My folds would grow heavy and hot, slick with my juices. He’d talk the whole time, of course. He’d tell me why I was being punished and how proud he was of me for doing this penance. When he felt I’d been chastised, that the soreness in my bottom would serve as a lesson, reminder of my bad behavior, he would stop.

  My hands slid down my belly, stroking the jumping muscles there, and I frantically unbuttoned my jeans. I yanked them open and delved between my thighs with all ten fingers, desperately aroused by my thoughts. I was soaking wet, my trimmed pubic thatch sticky with secretions as I parted my pussy lips. I stroked the satin slick flesh slowly, picturing Ryan Sherwood’s big hand lightly caressing my ass, massaging each aching globe gently before probing lower to cup my cunt. I mirrored the movement, squeezing softly.

  I didn’t touch my clit. If I did, I’d cum right now, and I didn’t want the fantasy to end. I pretended my fingers were his, imagined him teasing apart my pussy lips to plunge inside my slippery channel. His thumb would stroke across the tight pucker of my anus, rubbing in gentle circles until I relaxed enough for him to slip it inside. And still his other fingers would keep working, pressing and curling against my clinging walls as he told me how well-behaved I was, taking my punishment.

  Exemplary behavior gets rewarded, he would tell me. I would feel the hard press of his cock against my belly and beg for it, because god did I want to feel full. His fingers were good, they were so delicious, but I wanted - needed - more. He’d laugh. I hadn’t heard him laugh yet, but I imagined it was a rich, dark sound. He’d laugh and say ‘Not yet’. But one long finger would slip out of me and stroke upward to glide over the taut nub of my clit.

  I came, shuddering, clenching around my own thrusting fingers. My whole body spasmed, arching and trembling in the chair as I cried out. The orgasm was quick and hard, leaving me limp and exhausted, panting. I could almost hear a growled ‘Good girl’ in my ear, and I quivered through another mini-orgasm. When it finally subsided, I felt boneless and tired. I had never cum that hard before, either with someone else or alone.

  I shut my laptop and stumbled to my bedroom. It was still early, but my brain was a fog of deep satisfaction, and I could think of nothing I’d rather do than sleep.

  * * *

  I wanted to fuck Professor Sherwood. Badly. I could think of little else but finding a way to get his hands on me. I’d never faced this particular problem before. I’d had exactly two serious relationships in the last seven years, and they’d both pursued me. I’d never wanted someone so much, and had no idea how to go about getting him. Every class I watched him intently, trying to read his moods and expressions, trying to learn him. But while he was polite to me, he showed absolutely no interest in me beyond that of a teacher for a student. I began to despair. Really despair. I wanted him to touch me so bad it hurt, and he seemed barely aware that I was alive.

  I was sitting in the quad, picking at a muffin and sipping dejectedly at my mocha while pretending to study, when he sat down. “Do you mind? The rest of the tables are full.”

  I quivered at the sound of his voice, pussy automatically beginning to throb. I’d surfed the internet for dominance and submission sites and spanking stories and reenacted them in my head starring him. My body was attuned to respond to him now. “Not at all,” I managed. I actually smiled. I don’t know how. I was so turned on I wanted to leap over the table and straddle him. “You’re welcome any time.”

  He quirked a brow at me, but the rest of his expression was unreadable. “Thank you.” He didn’t offer anything else. He just opened his briefcase and pulled out his papers, disappearing into academia. I tried to focus on the textbook in front of me, but the mathematical symbols suddenly looked like a foreign alphabet. I forced myself to work anyway, slogging through and pretending he wasn’t within touching distance.

  I lasted five minutes before sighing in defeat. He looked up at the sound. I pushed the book away, and pulled out a romance novel. My brain needed a break, I decided. I flipped open to my page and began reading, licking muffin crumbs off my lip.

  “I thought you didn’t have much time to read,” he remarked drily. I was a little surprised he’d remembered what I said. I glanced over the top of my book at him.

  “You’re a bad influence.” I flipped over to the next page as the hero shoved up the heroine’s skirts. My pussy clenched in response. This was a heady combination.

  “Me?” he blinked. “I have nothing to do with you reading...” He trailed off, perusing the lurid cover of the paperback. “The Pirate Prince?”

  I giggled at his grimace. “Oh no, you’re a book snob!”

  He leaned back in his chair, setting his pen down, and frowned slightly at me. “I’m not.”

  “Yes you are,” I countered. “You’re one of those people who think no one should read anything but edifying texts and scholarly articles. You’re a...” I searched for the word. “A fuddy-duddy!”

  His lips twitched. I saw them. They curled up slightly, just at the corners. “Points for word usage, Miss Montgomery. But I hardly think disdain for that,” he waved a finger at my book, “is elitist of me. Those novels, and I use that term loosely, are universally considered dreck.”

  I cocked a challenging brow at him and glanced down at the page, beginning to read. “‘Raoul stroked the tender skin of her inner thigh with a big, rough hand. Sarah marveled at the contrast of his sun-browned fingers against her lily white flesh, breath catching in her throat as he moved ever upward.’” I looked up at him, grinning. He shook his head, but he was smiling now too.

  “Why do you read that?”

  I shrugged, setting The Pirate Prince aside. “For the same reason people watch action movies or game shows, I guess. Mindless entertainment. Not everything has to be Shakespeare, you know. Or Oscar Wilde. It’s fun. Like... gilded porn.”

  He choked a bit on his coffee, coughing to clear his throat. “That’s a unique way of putting it.”

  My cell chimed. I scowled at it, but began packing my bag. “Well, I’ve got to get to my Accounting class, so the table’s all yours.”

  He watched me, not saying anything. At the last second, I tossed him The Pirate Prince. “I’ve read it already,” I said with a wink. “And you know, at one point in time the gothic novel was universally considered trash too.”

  * * *

  I began to think I’d been wrong about his complete lack of interest around the third time he sat down at my table. It wasn’t every time we ended up in the quad at the same time. Only when the tables were all full. The first time after our discussion of romance novels, he didn’t even talk. He just sad down (without asking this time) and began going over his papers. I was in the middle of some brutal marketing homework and concentrated on that. We sat in mutual silence, working and sipping coffee, for over an hour. He got up first, nodding thanks, and left.

  The second time he was going over essays from a freshman course and made a random comment about their lack of writing ability. We ended up in a lengthy discussion of the educational system, particularly in regards to English, which led to a debate about the state of the modern novel and the publishing industry. When my phone chimed in reminder of my Ethics class, I silenced it and tucked it back in my pocket. It was over three hours before he looked at his watch and got up to go to a faculty meeting.

  But the
third time... I hadn’t even been aware he was standing beside me until the paperback landed smack in the middle of my Business & Technology textbook. I jumped, looking up into those pale grey eyes. They twinkled with laughter as he sat, handing me a mocha latte, extra whip. “I was right,” he said.

  I tossed my empty cup into the nearby trash bin and toasted him with the fresh one. “About what?”

  He nodded at the worn copy of The Pirate Prince. “It was terrible.”

  I snatched it up and held it to my heart. “No! Poor Raoul, throne usurped and exiled from his beloved country, forced to take to the high seas to make a living. And brave Sarah, the gentle missionary who claims his heart and helps him reclaim his crown? C’mon! How could you not love it?”

  “Well,” he said, sipping his own coffee. “They totally just drop the Pheadre storyline, for one. The meek maidservant made to pose as her mistress, the heiress, being married off to a wealthy but mysterious Count? She’s shipped off to London and then poof, nothing. See? Bad writing.”

  I chuckled, surprised he’d actually read the whole book. “Good writing,” I argued. “You just have to get the sequel.”

  He blinked at me. “There’s a sequel?”

  “The Counterfeit Countess,” I said, nodding. “It’s a whole series, actually.”

  “Well...” He trailed off, glancing down at the book. I leaned over the table, whispering conspiratorially.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll lend it to you.”

  He laughed. I felt the sound roll over me like warm water. My phone chimed. I could have thrown it in the nearest garbage.

  “You’d better get going. Professor Langston hates tardiness worse than I do,” he said, grinning.

  I gathered up my things, thanked him for the coffee and left, still dazed from the shock of his warm laughter. It didn’t occur to me until later to wonder how he knew I had Professor Langston for Accounting.

  * * *

  I had to do something, I decided. My desire for Ryan Sherwood was becoming consuming. I was missing more of my other classes than normal, and handing in sub-par work because I was so distracted. I hardly went out with my friends at all anymore, because I’d rather stay home and fantasize about my hunky Professor. Something had to give, or I’d be spending all my money on batteries.

  I decided to try and beard the lion in his den, so to speak. I went to his office on a non-class day, moving down the long corridor with steady steps that belied my thundering heart. No one answered my knock, but when I turned the knob, the door opened easily. I stepped inside, breathing in the scent of books, wood polish, and a spicy scent I realized must be his aftershave.

  I didn’t know where he was, or when he’d be back. Soon, surely. These were his office hours. He’d probably just stepped down the hall to the restroom. I could wait. Not that I had any precise idea what I was going to do once he got here. My philosophy was just ‘wing it’. But I couldn’t resist snooping a little.

  The bookshelves were full of, no surprise, scholarly tomes and classical texts. There was a lot of leather binding and gold leaf, and no dust. I perused the records, some Motown, old jazz, and some great classic rock. All that was left was the massive desk. I moved around it, heart hammering on my ribcage in time with my rapid breaths. My fingers trembled as I reached for the first drawer. Nothing but pens and office supplies greeted me. I pushed them around a bit and closed it again.

  The second drawer held a planner, calendar and a few other unexciting, nondescript things. The books and the records had so far been more telling about the man who inhabited this office several days a week. I grasped the cool brass handle on the third drawer, but it didn’t budge. I glanced at it in surprise, wondering if it was locked. But no, there was no lock on it. Stuck then. I tugged harder.

  It came open with a small thunk, and I had to scramble to keep my balance. The first thing I saw was something I recognized well, and it brought a grin to my lips. The bright, garish cover of The Counterfeit Countess. I reached in and picked it up. His was a newer printing than mine, and the cover was slightly different. I meant to study it closer, but my gaze strayed to what was beneath it, and I froze. The smile on my lips trembled, disappearing as I swallowed.

  Underneath The Counterfeit Countess was a magazine called Paddled, and the glossy picture on the cover made it clear it wasn’t a rag for canoeing enthusiasts. The blonde on the cover was bent over what I knew from my Googling was called a Berkley Chair. She was completely naked, hands and feet bound in such a way that spread her legs, revealing the smooth, bare flesh of her pussy peeking between her thighs. Her ass was bright red. I touched the magazine’s cover with a shaking hand.

  Below that was another magazine, this one focusing on dominance and submission. The picture on the cover was a woman kneeling at the feet of a man who was obviously her Dom. He was cupping the back of her head and pulling her toward a rather impressive erection.

  I felt hot all over, so wet that I could feel the slide of my pussy lips against each other. There was a noise in the hall then. I flung The Counterfeit Countess back into the drawer and eased it shut as quietly as I could. I didn’t wait to see if Professor Sherwood was coming back. I rushed out the door and down the hall, back to my apartment where I had to masturbate myself to four orgasms before the pulsing in my pussy subsided.

  Knowing what got him hot just made me hotter. I’d thought my lust for him had been at fever pitch before. I’d been wrong. I had to find some way to let him know I was willing. As a teacher, I know that’s a line he’d be very cautious about crossing. And Ryan Sherwood was a cautious man by nature, I thought. So, I had to give him the green light.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a very good plan, I admit. I blame my lust addled brain. But misbehaving in Professor Sherwood’s class had seemed like the best way to get him to act when I’d thought it up. After all, it was that first instance in his office that had began this whole thing, and he’d called me in then because I’d called that idiot in the front row an idiot. So, I reasoned, I just had to get him to reprimand me in private again.

  I didn’t think it through much past that, honestly. I was too busy fantasizing about the things he’d do to me once we were alone in his office. My dreams were a mix of romance novel ravishings and kink magazine spankings. Yet, nothing seemed to be working. I interrupted other classmates, but that only earned me a stern look. I cursed, but only a few times. It’s hard to work that much vulgar language into a literature discussion, believe it or not. I got admonished shortly for language.

  I thought about texting, or talking on the phone, or sleeping through class. But I loved the class and didn’t want to miss it, so those were all out. I was at the end of my rope, seriously contemplating blatantly plagiarizing a paper, when he finally acknowledged my reign of terror. I’d actually been well-behaved during that particular class. Or at least, well behaved by my new standards. I interrupted Professor Sherwood twice to ask questions without raising my hand, and called another student an imbecile. That was a low-key day.

  Still, at the end of the lesson as we were all filing out, Professor Sherwood called coolly, “Miss Montgomery. I’ll see you in my office. Now.” He turned and was walking down the hall before I’d even processed the words fully.

  Several of my classmates gave low whistles. There was a smattering of applause. I curtsied, grinning, and hurried off after Professor Sherwood. I’d done it! Now I just had to quickly figure out my next move. In hindsight, I should have been cautious, taken more time to feel the situation out. But I swear, by that point my libido was entirely in charge and it had ideas.

  He was sitting behind his big, mahogany desk, fingers steepled in front of him, studying me as I shut the door. I didn’t even give him time to say a word. I dropped my bag and was across the room in an instant. He looked up at me in surprise, brows arching, as I plopped myself into his lap and pulled off my t-shirt. I threw it backwards over my head and wrapped my arms around his neck, bending to press my mouth ag
ainst his.

  Like I said, not a very good plan. His hands came up and caught my shoulders, holding me away. I froze, meeting his grey eyes with my own startled green.

  “Miss Montgomery,” he said firmly. “I expect better from you.”

  Hot blood scalded my cheeks, and I might even have felt tears sting my eyes. My scalp prickled with shame. I yanked away from his grip and went scurrying around the desk, frantically searching for my shirt. I had never been so embarrassed in my entire life. “Oh god,” I was repeating, almost blind with mortification. I finally found my shirt hanging from the record player and tugged it over my head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, grabbing my bag. I couldn’t look at him as I turned the doorknob. “I don’t know what--”

  “Lucy.”

  My mouth shut with a snap and I went still as stone. He’d never called me by my first name before. Despite the humiliation, I felt myself shiver in response. He waited until I gathered the nerve to turn around and look at him.