Page 7 of B is for Baby Me (Classes in Kink #1)
Chapter six
The Rules of the Game
JR
I feel freakin’ amazing!
As I walk across Spartacus University’s emerald-green campus, I can’t keep the grin off my face. What a beautiful day. The sun is shining, birds are singing, and everyone I pass has a smile just for me. Life is good.
And dude, my game is on point. I was a brick wall against Penn State on Saturday— nobody got past me. My focus is so laser-sharp, it could cut diamonds. Coach is thrilled. My teammates are ecstatic. Our playoff hopes have never been higher.
I’m kicking ass in class, too. Even with the team’s grueling practice schedule, I’m keeping up with my homework, no sweat. I’ve even found time for extra credit assignments. It’s like I’m a supercomputer that finally got plugged into an outlet. I feel superhuman. Supercharged. Superpowered .
My Molecular Bio re-exam? Slayed it. Now, the professor calls on me in class every lesson. The other students seem jealous of all the attention I’m getting. Pfft , if they only knew. Fletcher’s been after my grad school application like he wants to put a ring on it. I get an email from him every few days—a point-by-point essay on the superiority of his Master of Science in Genetics program. As if I need ‘courting’ (I finally clued into what that meant. Duh ). It would blow my mind to be mentored by such a respected scientist as Dr. Thomas Fletcher.
Really, it would be stupid not to apply to his MS program—the NFL’s not a given. Who’s to say I’ll even get drafted? Having a backup plan just makes sense. Besides, the professor might be willing to defer my grad school start date if I get into the NFL. A few seasons following in my father’s footsteps might be enough to satisfy Dad, especially if I make first string. Then I would be free to retire and pursue my own dream, right? And it would be a dream to study under Fletcher. To do anything under Fletcher.
And here come the fantasies again in 3... 2... 1...
It’s been like clockwork. Daydreams about my sexy professor hijack my thoughts every few minutes. I’ve been beating my dick so much lately, it’s gonna file a restraining order against me. My roommate, Josh, gives me the side-eye every time I take another shower. I just can’t stop thinking about the taste of Fletcher’s cock. How his fingers gripped and tugged my hair. The seductive growl of his voice as it issued those heavenly, sinful commands. Not to mention that mind-bending BJ. The orgasm I received at the hands (and mouth) of my professor had crashed over me like a tidal wave. My dick throbs at the memory, begging for me to stroke it again . Down, boy. Seriously, we’ve got to quit beating like this.
“Yo, JR! Wait up.” Blake jogs across the quad toward me. “Where ya been hiding? You missed a sick party on Friday.”
I shift my backpack to cover my Fletcher-wood. “Um... y’know, homework, paper to write...”
“Dude, it’s your senior year! Your degree is in the bag. Besides, the way the NFL’s scouting you, who cares about getting your bachelor’s? You should stop pounding the books and start pounding the babes—like Rachel.” The quarterback jabs me with an elbow.
Thanks for the bone-kill, buddy. Rachel is Reason #1 that I avoid parties (rap music and vomiting are Reasons 9 and 10). She’s been stalking me like a serial killer for the past year and a half. That girl clings harder than a halfback running a football.
“You know how it is,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the science building. “I, um... gotta go. Later?”
He gives me a fist bump. “Yeah, man. See you at practice.”
It’s not that I need to be in the science building exactly—I don’t have class or labs there today—but maybe I can catch Professor Fletcher during office hours. To discuss, y’know... stuff. Thesis ideas or whatever. I can ask him a question (some question, any question), and then sit back and stare at him while he brilliantly explains... stuff. I’ll pay attention. I promise, I will . My dick is standing at attention already.
When I knock on the professor’s office door, I receive a growled response. Ducking my head inside, I ask him, “May I bother you, sir?”
Fletcher leans back in his leather chair, waving at me to enter. He pushes his glasses up into his thick black hair, his full lips quirking into a half-smile. “Bennett, I was just thinking about you.”
“You were?” I ask, my voice—and other body parts—rising.
“I was wondering how your coping skills are coming along,” he says. “Are you practicing any stress-reduction techniques, such as meditation?”
My face heats up as I lift my right hand. “Meet my friend, Buddha. He and I have been meditating together a lot lately.”
“I’m glad you and Buddha are finding enlightenment.” The professor smirks. “Actually, I’d like to discuss a stress-management strategy with you—but first, there’s a serious topic that we need to address.”
“Um... OK.” I’m not in trouble, am I? Fletcher couldn’t possibly know about my endless fantasies. He’s a geneticist, not a mind-reader.
A line creases Dr. Fletcher’s forehead as the humor slips off his face. “I owe you an apology for that night at the club. What I did is inexcusable. There’s a natural power dynamic between a teacher and student, and I abused that power. I’m truly sorry for exploiting your trust, and I sincerely apologize.”
Is he kidding me? “Professor, you have no reason to apologize. I’m twenty-two years old—way past the age of consent. I asked for it. Repeatedly.” I close my eyes, replaying the scene in my head. “That was the hottest night of my life. Not just the sex—which was like oh my god —but the part where you told me what to do. Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I’ve pictured that night a few times myself. In fact, you’ve made me start my own meditation practice. Buddha, meet the Dalai Lama.” He lifts his right hand as he gazes at me, red-hot embers glowing in his eyes. After a heated pause, he clears his throat. “Which brings me to another topic. That night, we may have uncovered a natural coping mechanism for you. Are you familiar with BDSM?”
“You mean like whips and chains?” A whole new list of fantasies floods into my imagination. Does my teacher want to do kinky stuff with me? Do I want to do kinky stuff with my teacher? (Down, boy. We already know your opinion.)
“Masochism and bondage can be part of a BDSM arrangement,” Fletcher says, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “But let’s focus on dominance and submission—or D/s, as it’s called in the lifestyle. This power dynamic offers a submissive the chance to set aside his everyday pressures, to let a dominant partner take the reins for a while. It may give your anxiety a chance to subside. What are your thoughts on this matter?”
I blow out a breath. “I dunno... I mean, I sure could use a break now and then. But how does something like that work?”
The professor puts his glasses back on, then folds his hands on the desk. “The role of the dominant partner is to try to meet the submissive’s needs, as well as to push his limits. The sub responds to his dom’s commands, though he still retains a position of power. You’ve heard the phrase ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink’ ? In the same way, the dom may attempt to lead, but it’s the sub’s choice if he will do as the dom directs. True submission can’t be forced—it can only be given willingly or denied.”
“So, you can lead a sub to a BJ, but you can’t make him blow?” I snort a laugh.
Fletcher’s mouth twitches in response. “Or, in your case, get blown. I led you to a perfectly willing Glitter Twink, and you didn’t even let him look at your cock.”
“Not my type, sir.” Shudder. “Can you imagine how sticky that glitter is? It would’ve taken me weeks to wash it off my junk. Try explaining that in the locker room.” This time, we both snort-laugh, grinning at each other as we picture it.
“I was guilty of stereotyping,” he admits. “You’ve made me aware of my preconceptions, and for that I’m grateful. You deserve another reward.”
I sit up, my eyes widening. “A reward? Like at the club?”
“Not exactly. I’d like to help you find a dom—someone trustworthy that can offer you this coping mechanism. I think you would thrive in a submissive role.” He temples his fingers, peering at me over the top of them. “I could be your mentor in the search for a suitable partner, if you’d allow me. Would that be of interest to you?”
Hell no. There’s only one person I’d ever let dominate me. “The thing is, I trust you , sir. You didn’t abuse your authority that night. You took care of me... gave me what I needed. I never felt forced or pressured. Just the opposite—I’ve never felt so free. Really, Professor, I’m the one who’s grateful.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Bennett.” Fletcher stares at me intently. “Having you display confidence in me, earning your trust. I find that very rewarding.”
Excitement surges through me. “Does that mean you’ll be my—what d’ya call it— dom ? It’d be great if you’d show me around this whole gay thing, not to mention the D/s stuff. Just a few lessons, a little feedback. Would you consider it, sir? Please?”
The professor looks torn. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“You wouldn’t be, I swear! It’s just... I don’t want anyone else to be my dom. I want you . I mean, um... if you’d be willing.“ Oh god, way to crush on the teacher. It’s like fifth grade with Mr. Peterson all over again.
Fletcher stares at me with a blank face, though he can’t hide the heat in his eyes. The inferno burning in that ice-blue gaze sends a thrill of hope—and fear—up my spine. “We would need to establish some rules, Mr. Bennett.”
I nod my head quickly in agreement, my dick leaping to its feet in victory. Down, boy. Don’t look too eager.
“Roles. Expectations. Limits.” He narrows his eyes at me. “There’s a great deal we would have to agree on before moving forward—but for now, do you have any questions?”
Hell yeah! “When can we get started?”