by Corgan, Sky
Bonus Excerpt from His Indecent Lessons
The first day of college is always nerve-wracking. While most people worry about getting to school on time and finding their classes, my mind was utterly and totally consumed by boys. This would be a whole new league of boys; a whole new class. College boys. They would be older and more mature than the high school clowns that usually hit on me. At least, I hoped they would be.
I stirred my cereal absentmindedly, sighing as an image of the perfect guy invaded my brain. He would be slightly older, by a year or two, with a broad muscular chest and chiseled six-pack abs. He'd be tanned like a surfer, with long dark hair and hazel eyes. Or maybe blue eyes . . . or green eyes. Who would be looking at the eyes anyway? I pictured him wearing board shorts, coming up from the ocean after a good long swim, my eyes trailing hungrily down his body and stopping at his crotch. Below those shorts would be a deliciously handsome cock. Not too big. Not too small. One thing I wasn't was a size queen. Huge cocks were nice to look at, but I had been told they hurt. Not that I would know.
At eighteen, I was still a virgin, but by far the raunchiest virgin I knew. At least, inside my head. My mind was on sex twenty-four seven. On the outside, I was a perfect lady, fairly conservative and definitely not promiscuous, though I'd had more than my fair share of chances to be.
I told everyone I was waiting for my one true love, but that wasn't exactly true. It was more like I was waiting for someone who really caused a spark. None of the guys I had dated before had been spark inducing, though many had been great guys. In truth, maybe I didn't really know what I wanted. Too many romance movies had muddled my brain with love at first sight. I had thought I experienced it a few times. You see a hot guy. You both seem interested in each other. Then you start to talk and realize he's either arrogant or a douche or too timid.
College guys would be different though. I was sure I'd find my prince charming. My parents met in college. Why shouldn't I meet my perfect match there?
The entire drive to school was consumed with thoughts of the variety of men I'd meet. It felt like I was about to walk into a smorgasbord of hot bodies, gorgeous smiles, and arousing intelligence. My mind got the better of me, stimulating my excitement to the point that I wished I would have released some tension before leaving the house. A good finger bang might have helped me to be more focused on what really mattered—my education. Guys were great and all, but it wasn't the real reason I was going to college.
Time was short though, and by the time I pulled into the campus parking lot, it took every last minute to gather my things and hurry to my first class of the day. I breathlessly took my seat, splitting my focus between my backpack and the rest of my classmates. My eyes darted around the room, jumping from man to man like a bee moves across a field of flowers. Dud. Dud. Dud. Damn. Maybe my next class will have better pickings.
Disappointed, I scowled, pulling my textbook out and focusing my attention toward the whiteboard, my thoughts drifting away from excited fantasy and slipping back into boring reality.
My next class wasn't much better. There was a cute guy here and there, but no one who blew my mind, who caused any type of spark. You're too damned picky, I told myself. Caring about looks is shallow. All that should matter is finding a guy with a good heart.
I already knew such a guy. Chase Vogel. We had been friends since our freshman year in high school. He was good and sweet and loving, and kind of my type. For most of high school, I had a crush on him. One of us was always dating someone else though, and by the time we were both single at the end of our senior year, it felt like he had fallen into the friend zone. Before I left for college, he had confessed his love to me. The words sounded strange coming from his lips, as if hearing a relative say them. Any romantic notion for him was twisted inside my mind. Did I love him as a friend? Or something more? Perhaps part of me worried about losing him as a friend. We had been friends for so long—four years already. In the end, I abandoned him anyway . . . sort of. Instead of manning up about my feelings, I decided to avoid him. I didn't answer his phone calls, and most of the time, I didn't even respond to his texts. Once he realized a relationship wasn't what I wanted, he tried to turn things casual. Everything had changed when he said the words though. I would never be able to look at him as just a friend again.
“Cheyenne Grear,” the professor said, his voice deep and husky. My thoughts were elsewhere though, my pen busy scratching out a doodle on paper while my mind lingered on Chase and the love lost between us. “Cheyenne Grear,” he repeated. The second time, I heard him.
I raised my hand to say, “Here,” and then our eyes locked.
It felt like someone had punched me in the gut, and all I saw was stars. They didn't seem to be interested in swirling around my head for too long though and instead went straight to my cunt, causing a needy aching. Sparks.
He gave me a disapproving look, then moved onto the next student, the intimate second between us quickly slipping away. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, set beneath heavy brows. He looked like a rock star . . . or a movie star . . . or a model . . . or too perfect to be just a . . . college professor. Really? Was he really my professor?
Hunger flooded my nether regions as I watched him like a cat watches prey. While he wasn't particularly broad, his T-shirt stretched tight across his body, and I could definitely tell he was fit beneath it. Jeans hugged his thighs and the small curvature of his ass. Everything in me wanted to wrap my hands around his hips and press his groin between the heat of my legs.
Calm down, Chey, I chastised myself. He's way too old for you, and probably married, and it's totally against the rules to sleep with one of your professors. He certainly didn't look old though. Late twenties. Early thirties, maybe. Whatever his age, that body was rocking. And his eyes were so powerful. Confidence oozed from him as he walked and spoke. That's what a real man is supposed to be. I sighed, blatantly staring for a bit before I gazed around the room. Some of the other girls were giving him a similar appraisal. The gorgeous bastard could probably have his pick from the room if he wanted it.
He stood in front of the white board, the dry erase marker a bit too dry, scratching across the smooth surface of the board as he wrote. When he was done, he turned to face the class, pointing to his words. “My name is Damien Reed. I will be your Art Appreciation teacher for this semester. Please feel free to call me Damien. Calling me Mister Reed makes me feel old and/or married, and I am neither.”