MENTOR ME, PROFESSOR

by Sylvia Fox

  Mentor Me, Professor

  Sylvia Fox

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  3. Two Months Later

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Also by Sylvia Fox

  Copyright © 2016 by Sylvia Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Sylvia’s Other Titles:

  Drill Me, Sergeant

  Frisk Me, Officer

  Cock Me, Pilot

  ... with more coming soon!

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter One

  I trudged up the stairs, pausing halfway up the final set that led to the third floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad without my backpack and the two bags of groceries I was carrying, but for all the good it was doing my calves, having a dorm room on the top floor was awful. As much as tuition costs at Moultrie, you’d think they’d have the decency to install an elevator.

  Sure, there was nobody above us to drop things on the floor at all hours, and we had decent views of campus, but just once I’d love to walk across the quad, walk straight to my door (no stairs!) and be home.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside, letting my backpack and my bags drop to the floor. The Gatorade could wait to be put in the fridge. I just needed to collapse and relax for a minute. Or an hour. Or until Alexa, my roommate and best friend, came home and woke me up.

  I sat, kicked off my flip flops, and fell backwards onto the bed, arms outstretched.

  “Why didn’t I listen when they said not to take so many hours my first semester?” I complained to the empty room.

  “The same reason as yesterday. And the day before that. And the real question is, why didn’t you drop half your classes when you still had the chance, doofus?”

  The disembodied voice of my roommate, Alexa Merriweather, came from behind the closed bathroom door.

  “I thought it would get easier after the first few weeks,” I replied.

  Alexa exited the bathroom and plopped down on her own bed, across the room from mine.

  “You’re too stressed. You need to get laid,” Alexa said.

  “How’s that working for you?” I answered.

  “Fabulously,” Alexa answered, a wide grin lighting up her face.

  I sat up. “Shut! Up! Who?”

  “Graham. He’s a junior. He’s on the rugby team. He’s from South Africa,” she said matter-of-factly, flicking her hair across her slender shoulder.

  “Really short blonde hair?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  “How did you two…?”

  “You know that guy Trevor, my friend from high school?”

  “Yeah, I remember him,” I said.

  “He’s on the rugby team too. It’s not really a team, it’s a club sport, but whatever. I was at that sub shop across from the theater building, Satch & Irma’s, getting dinner yesterday and a bunch of rugby guys were in there. They had just had practice. So Trevor called me over to their table and introduced me to them. By the way, is it like, the law that guys who play rugby have to be so hot? And total dicks? Anyway, I’m standing there talking to Trevor and they’re all cool and super cocky like all those guys are, but Graham starts talking to me, and his accent is just… I mean he could’ve told me I was fat and ugly and he’d just fucked both my sisters with that accent and it would still sound sexy, you know? So he’s asking me how long I’ve known Trevor, if Trevor and I ever hooked up, what classes I’m in, all this stuff. And his friends started giving him shit like ‘why don’t you two get a room!’ So he told them ‘fuck off, you tossers’, and-”

  I had to interrupt. “I thought you said he was from South Africa. Why are you doing an Australian accent?”

  “Shut up, are you a linguistics minor or something?” Alexa rolled her eyes at me. “He told them to stop being rude and that he was going to follow their advice, except he’d get us a table rather than a room. So we went to the other side of the counter where they have those booths, you know? And we sat down over there and ate and flirted and yeah. We wound up at his apartment. Where he fucked the shit out of me. And incidentally, I’ve been in the best mood all day. So I highly recommend finding yourself a rugby player. Or an Australian guy. Or South African. Or just a penis with a guy attached to it and blowing… no pun intended… off some steam. This is college. Loosen up.” She raised her eyebrows at me.

  Alexa thought I was way too serious for my age. She was probably right.

  “I knew you didn’t come home last night, and I didn’t figure you were in the library studying all night, but God, Alexa, did he at least buy your sub?” I asked.

  “I paid for my own sub. I’m a feminist. But he came through with the foot long,” she grinned.

  “Alexa!” I said, covering my face with both hands. “How do you know you aren’t just a notch on his belt? I mean if you’re okay with that, that’s fine. I just can’t imagine going that fast.”

  “Now you’re slut shaming me, Jo? Not cool,” Alexa responded.

  “No, no, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come off like that. I’m happy for you if you’re happy. I’m just not as, I don’t know, experienced as you are. I’ve only had one boyfriend. Connor is the only I guy I’ve ever been with.”

  Connor Evans grew up two doors down from me. Our moms had us playing together in our backyards by the time we were two. As the only kids in our neighborhood near each other’s age, we inevitably wound up getting closer and closer, and by middle school we were a weird version of boyfriend and girlfriend. Jojo and Connor. It was how everyone referred to us.

  My name was in a constant state of flux. I was born Josephine, but as a baby my older brother Jeff started calling me Jojo, and the pet name stuck. My grandparents insisted on Josephine, but to the rest of my family and to playmates, I was Jojo.

  Around third grade, I decided Jojo was a “baby” name, and I asked to be called Joey. After a few weeks of constantly correcting people, I convinced everyone, except my brother, to call me Joey. He stubbornly refuses to ever call me anything besides Jojo.

  When I arrived on campus at Moultrie College, I decided on a clean break from high school. I started introducing myself as Jo Faulkner, and since nobody knew me as anything else, I was just Jo. I could reinvent myself as anybody I wanted to be. It was the beauty of going away for school.

  In high school, I wasn’t part of any of the traditional cliques; I didn’t do music or theater, certainly not sports, and I didn’t rebel against anything. On Friday nights I wasn’t at the game or the big party. I was reading or watching CNN or C-SPAN. Politics fascinated me from an early age, and my idea of high comedy wasn’t Seinfeld or Modern Family, it was watching British Parliament.

  Out of a dozen applicants from my high school, I was the only one accepted at Moultrie. My parents both being alums didn’t hurt my chances, although my grades and test scores probably would have gained me admittance without the legacy factor.

  My dream was to one day run a presidential campaign. Not to be President, no way would I want that spotlight, but to strategize and plan and guide a candidate into office, sounded amazing to me. I never even ran for student council, because that would mean having to give a speech; to put myself out there. Nope. That kind of spotlight wasn’t for me. I was a behind-the-scenes kind of person. I liked pulling the strings behin
d the curtains of life.

  I did write speeches for classmates running for various offices, and I got Scott Carmichael elected student council president my senior year. Maybe I just helped. After all, he was captain of the baseball team and looked like he could be Taylor Lautner’s little brother. It wasn’t exactly tough to get the female vote. Swaying enough guys who weren’t athletes to support him was the only trick.

  As a thank you, he made out with me. At his house, where nobody could see him kissing the nerd, he put his big, rough hands all over my body and kissed me like he meant it. He almost made me believe I’d spend my senior year as Northside High School royalty, but alas, the next time we saw each other in school, in front of classmates, I was lucky to get a nod as we crossed paths in the hallway. Wouldn’t want any cheerleaders to get the wrong idea, I guessed. There might have been one or two he hadn’t hooked up with yet.

  Yep. Even with boys, I was always behind-the-scenes.

  By freshman year of high school, my neighbor Connor and I had been more off again than on again as boyfriend and girlfriend, but we had decided to play the tried and true “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours game.” Which became the “I’ll touch yours if you touch mine” game. By the summer between eleventh and twelfth grade, it evolved, or devolved, to the “if you can smuggle a condom from your dad’s medicine cabinet, we can see what this whole sex thing is all about” game.

  Connor and I kissed, and touched, but nothing serious. A few weeks into the summer after our junior year, after a few painful shots of Jim Beam he’d borrowed from his dad’s liquor cabinet, we decided to go all the way.

  It was then that life started to make sense to me. And not in a good way.

  We’d all been sold the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, and when we got old enough, we figured out that they weren’t real. We were sold that our government wanted what was best for us, that our government was “of the people, by the people, for the people,” which the more I read and learned, was a complete scam.

  And now I’d uncovered the biggest ruse of all: that sex was actually fun. Or pleasant. Or enjoyable in any way. I mean, I knew orgasms were amazing; I was an expert on giving myself those. But sex? Between two people? If it was even half as a good as pop culture and the world would have you believe, the population of planet Earth would be more like one hundred billion people, and nobody would ever do anything but have sex.

  But after being with Connor, I now knew the truth. Sex was sloppy, clumsy, painful, and just plain… overrated.

  Kissing was fun. Cuddling, laying on the couch all tangled up with Connor while watching Netflix, was fantastic. But having him on top of me, trying to figure out where and how to get it inside me before he finished? Or have his face down there, scraping his teeth on places teeth should never be? Or, worst of all, wanting me to let him put it in my mouth? Shudder.

  Don’t get me wrong, the fantasy still aroused me. But sex with Connor was so terrible that I couldn’t imagine it could be much better with anyone else.

  I also worried there was something wrong with me.

  By the time senior year started, Connor had found a different girl to have terrible sex with and I was happily left to my own devices.

  The previous summer, my body had decided it was time for Josephine Isabelle Faulkner to become a woman. It went from what was best described as “skinny-fat” to “Kardashian-lite”. Suddenly, I had boobs. And an ass. And hips. Curves in places I hadn’t even had places the week before.

  And the attention was mortifying. I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, hadn’t happened, and I wore the same clothes I’d always worn. I even kept wearing the same sky blue bikini that after being a little big two summers before, had fit perfectly the previous summer.

  I’d never forget that first hot June day when I went to lay out by our pool and dig into the Communist Manifesto. Ten pages in, Jeff and two of his high school friends showed up.

  Seven years my senior, Jeff was home from college, and annoyed that his little sister was hanging out by the pool where he and his friends planned to drink the afternoon away. He made a comment about my choice of reading material, how weird I was, but I just flipped him off and dug my heels in; Mom and Dad had that pool installed for both of us, not just him.

  Before long, his buddies (and these were guys in their very early twenties) were showing me an inordinate amount of attention. Which meant any attention at all, since I’d been basically invisible to them my entire life.

  I didn’t recognize it at the time for what it was, but they were hitting on me. Which was equal parts flattering and slightly terrifying. Jeff found it much more the latter, and he got pissed and reminded them that “Jojo” was just fifteen.

  Older guys hadn’t really been on my radar before; hell, I wasn’t on anybody’s radar, so why should anybody be on mine? But that night my mind wandered to the difference between them and guys my own age. Deeper voices, broader shoulders, stubbly faces, more experience with…things.

  By the time school started in the fall, I was acutely aware of the increased male attention, and I did whatever I could to divert it away. The baggier the clothes, the less of my new body anybody knew was under there. I could blend in as I always had, just the way I liked it.

  Maybe it was an age thing. After all, whenever I saw couples in movies having sex and loving it, they were never in high school. Maybe I needed a college guy.

  Maybe I needed somebody older than that.

  There was something sexy about older men, after all. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Confidence? Their bodies were more developed and solid. I didn’t know. But I’d definitely had a few male teachers who’d entered my fantasies from time to time. And my dad’s college roommate, Dr. Hardwicke, or John, as I’d known him ever since I could remember… he was the stuff dreams were made of.

  Literally.

  I turned eighteen in the middle of my senior year. That’s when the dreams started.

  I remembered when we had sex ed in middle school and learned that guys had something called “wet dreams.” I always thought that as weird as it would be, that I was a little jealous that guys could have an actual orgasm while they slept. It hadn’t occurred to me that girls could have them, too. Until it happened.

  And oddly enough, it wasn’t even really a sex dream the first time. Just a weird dream where I was in a field on a sunny day. I was lost and walking, and I heard a voice calling to me. The voice became more insistent, more demanding, calling me by name, and I wound up walking along the shore of a lake and through a waterfall, and in my dream since my clothes were wet it made sense to take them off. I took them off and went into the cave behind the waterfall, the cave where the voice was coming from. And inside the cave was John.

  He was sitting in a chair watching me, and he asked me why I was naked. I didn’t have an answer, so he told me I was a naughty girl, a very bad girl for being naked like that. And the way he looked at me somehow made me want to run away and hide while at the same time wanting him to look at me more. Which made no sense, but it was a dream, right? So he just kept telling me how naughty I was, how bad, how filthy, and the next thing I knew, I was more turned on than I had ever been in my life.

  And he just kept looking at me, like a wolf, like something hungry, and I just started coming. In my sleep! It was so unexpected. And so hot. And in my dream he asked me what I was doing, and when I told him I was coming he told me how disappointed he was, how surprised he was at me, which all just made me come harder. I woke up shaking. And after that, masturbation took a serious turn, in both subject matter and in who showed up in my mind.

  So when my parents drove me down to Moultrie for orientation, and we had dinner with Dr. Hardwicke, newly-appointed dean of the Political Science department, I knew I was in trouble.

  Dr. Hardwicke and my dad were thrown together as roommates from their first day at Moultrie, way back when, and they’d been friends ever since. John had been my dad’s best man when he’d mar
ried my mom. He’d taken a position at Oxford University in England prior to my junior year in high school, but after two years, he returned to his alma mater, unbeknownst to me. Inevitably, we’d have to work closely together as I progressed toward what I planned would be my own political science masters or doctorate degree.

  John had never married, but according to my parents, in conversations I was never meant to hear, he had a healthy appetite for women and was a bachelor by choice, not due to a lack of female interest or opportunity.

  I had explained all of this to Alexa as she sat across from me, her perfectly toned legs crossed as she listened to my pathetic sexual history.

  “Then you need to broaden your horizons, girl. Get a college man to show you what’s what and leave the boys behind in high school,” Alexa insisted.

  Maybe she was right.

  “We’ll see,” I responded. “Just going up and down those damn stairs wipes me out. And my course load is ridiculous. I almost wish high school hadn’t been so easy and that I’d learned how to study.”

  “Hashtag ‘smart girl problems’. I don’t feel bad for you. This weekend you’re going out with me. Graham told me there’s an SAE party Friday night. You’re going. No excuses. I’m going to get you the two Ds,” she winked at me.

  “Two Ds?” I asked.

  “Drunk and dick! Or maybe it could be the two Ls. Loaded and laid,” Alexa said, laughing at herself.

  “Why beat around bush? Just call it what it is. Fucked up and fucked!”

  We both laughed.

  “Exactly!” Alexa exclaimed.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe Alexa was right; I needed to loosen up. Sow my wild oats.

  But even as we continued to laugh and plan, I couldn’t help but think of John.

  Chapter Two