Page 2 of B is for Baby Me (Classes in Kink #1)
Chapter one
Unimpressed
Fletcher
I’m a patient man. I simply won’t tolerate stupidity. There’s no point wasting my valuable time on undergrads. I have research to do. Graduate students to teach. Who cares if Dean Owens wants me to ‘keep an eye out for IQ’ , as he so nauseatingly puts it? I’m the head of the Biology department, for god’s sake—a nationally recognized geneticist. Babysitting this bunch of idiots and suck-ups is a waste of university resources.
I gaze into the crowded lecture hall with a sigh. Anyone could teach this course—it’s Molecular Biology, not rocket science. Even my teaching assistant (who is both an idiot and a suck-up) could handle the workload today. Josh might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but it doesn’t take a genius to be in charge during an exam. The most challenging task is to stay awake while fifty of Spartacus University’s ‘best and brightest’ try to define basic biological concepts. The test will take up the entire ninety minutes of class, time I could be spending in the lab doing work that is actually important. Groundbreaking genetic research that could save lives and expand scientific horizons. Instead, I’m stuck in a classroom full of kindergartners. It’s infuriating.
At least my graduate students aren’t a waste of my time. Far from it. They have to prove their worth to get into my master’s program. I select only true scholars who are gifted enough to study under me—students able to contribute in the laboratory with forward-thinking ideas and breakthrough experiments. It’s an honor to receive a Master of Science degree in Human Genetics from Dr. Thomas Fletcher. I know it and they know it. In return, I expect them to become the top medical researchers and geneticists in the nation. They are my future colleagues, after all, and I won’t be associated with idiots.
Still, I’ll admit—if it were up to me—I’d spend most of my time in the lab. There’s nothing quite as thrilling as scientific research. My mother and father, who were both college professors themselves, had a different perspective. For them, teaching was their highest calling. Igniting the spark of a student’s curiosity, kindling that spark into a fiery thirst for knowledge. Being ‘the inspiration for exploration’ , as they had so often put it.
“Remember, son,” my father had said as they dropped me off for my junior year of college, “a gifted mind may be curious, but a curious mind…”
“...is a gift,” my younger self repeated the trite phrase with a roll of his eyes.
“That’s right,” my mother had laughed, brushing her hand through my hair. “For a teacher, there’s no greater prize than a prized pupil—just as there’s no greater treasure for a mother than her only son.” She kissed my cheek and gave me one last hug.
And then they were… gone.
Ugh. Enough with the maudlin walk down memory lane. As I lock the painful thoughts away, I refocus on my ‘prized’ undergraduates. They scribble frantically in their exam booklets, giving off such an air of desperation that I can practically smell their fear. Same panic, different day. When I ask even the most elementary question during a lesson, half of them freeze like a deer in the headlights. The rest of them raise their hands so high, you’d think they were doing Hermione Granger impersonations. Honestly. As if having a grasp of the assigned material should impress me. These undergrads are so simple, I know sea sponges who are more evolved. They’re so intellectually insignificant, I would need a micrometer to measure their IQs. If Homo sapiens means ‘wise man’ , then even Darwin would’ve reclassified this bunch. Perhaps I should classify them as ‘Dumb ass-iens’ and ‘Kiss ass-iens’. Which species of undergrad do I loathe more?
My mind wanders as I gaze into the large room with its tiered seating, scowling at my students as they huddle over their exams with heads bent. I’ve been in a piss-poor mood all week. Maybe an evening at The Bent Gent would improve my frame of mind. The invitation-only gay BDSM club may be an inconvenient distance from campus, but it scratches the itch—and a random sub with a willing mouth would certainly make me less itchy. A couple of scenes and I’ll be good as new. Minimal investment of time, zero strings. I could be back in the lab before midnight.
Settling back into my chair, I ponder the evening’s menu of entertainment options. Some light bondage would be delicious. It’s been ages since I’ve tied someone down. It takes a certain kind of man to willingly put himself in such a vulnerable position. The trust involved is breathtaking. I would never give up control that way—I’m not brave enough, I’ll admit it. But proving myself to my sexual partners? Taking their submission, using their bodies… making them beg and then giving them what they beg for? It makes me feel like the king of the world.
My wandering thoughts jerk to a stop.
In the rear of the classroom—my advanced biology class, mind you—is a jock.
An honest-to-god jock .
He doesn’t need to wear a uniform to make it obvious—the testosterone pouring off him is enough. How did he get through the door with shoulders that wide? The man is a monster. Even seated, it’s easy to tell that he’s the tallest person in the room, not to mention the broadest. It’s a wonder he can find shirts that fit around that chest. And who, besides a lumberjack, has biceps that big? The guy looks like he could bench press Idaho. How have I not noticed this giant before now? Not that I ever pay much attention to undergrads, but it’s impossible to overlook someone this size. He’s enormous. Gigantic. Colossal .
I snap my fingers at my teaching assistant. “Who is that jock, and what is he doing in my classroom?”
Josh’s eyes grow wide as he stutters, “D-do you mean JR?”
“I don’t know what his name is, do I?” I narrow my eyes at the TA. “Bigfoot in the back row—the one with the deltoids. Give me his name.”
“That’s JR, sir. Biochemistry major, minor in Bioinformatics.” When I raise an eyebrow, he rushes on, “H-he plays offensive tackle for the Golden Gladiators, but he’s also smart. Really really smart.”
“Really really ?“ I shake my head. If this class were a box of crayons, Josh would be the color ecru. “Last name.”
“Malik, sir.” He stares at me without blinking, his eyes full of fear.
Good lord. “Not your last name, Josh. His last name.”
“S-sorry, sir. It’s Bennett… um, George... um, Junior.” When his voice cracks, he snaps his mouth shut.
Is there a color less bright than ecru? Honestly, some days Josh is an insult to off-white.
“Well, which is it—Bennett? George? Junior? Never mind, I’ll figure it out myself.” Turning my back on the flustered young man, I open up my laptop. The university’s academic portal should have the information I’m seeking.
Bennett... Bennett... Why is that name ringing a bell? After entering it into the database, I scan the records until I locate one George Bennett, Jr.
Molecular Biology scores to date: mid to upper 90s. Acceptable.
Overall GPA: 3.9. Respectable.
Comments from his other instructors: glowing. Even from Professor Patterson, and that asshole hates everyone.
I keep scrolling, reviewing his research submissions. Ah, yes—that’s where I’ve seen the name. Bennett had written a paper analyzing a link between a particular genome sequence and certain types of cancer, investigating how they might relate to the test subjects’ epigenetic defects. His hypothesis was unexpected—radical, even—his research impeccably annotated. For an undergrad, it’s exceptional work. If this student—this JR-Bennett-Jock-Junior—is capable of research at this level already, how far might he go with proper mentoring?
“Is he transferring to Stanford or staying here?” I spin my chair to face Josh, who jumps. “I haven’t seen his application to my grad program yet. Stanford may be prestigious, but my program is far more innovative. He’d be a fool to pass up working with me.”
“The NFL is s-scouting him,” the TA stutters. “You know, sir... f-football.”
Good lord. As if a scholar with Mr. Bennett’s potential would choose to chase a ball for a living. The fact that people are paid to play is ridiculous, especially when there’s vital work to be done. “Nonsense. A Biochemistry degree is useless without a master’s to back it up. He’ll need a doctorate if he expects to publish his research.” It would be stupid for Bennett to waste his time on something as pointless as sports. With my guidance, he could become someone important. He could unravel medical mysteries, solve riddles hidden within strands of DNA. With an eminent scientist such as myself cultivating the young biochemist, there’s no telling what he might accomplish.
A slamming door echoes through the hushed space, and I jerk my head toward the sound. Someone has left my classroom. What kind of moron would leave in the middle of an exam? Who would dare?
My eyes scour the lecture hall, searching up and down each row. When I reach the back of the class, where I expect to see my potential new protégé, there’s nothing but an abandoned backpack. An empty chair. A complete and utter lack of oversized jocks.
Unacceptable.
I glare at my TA. “Josh, watch the class.”