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Kimberly Plays Hard
Copyright March 2016
By Katrina Millings
I needed to see to Professor Landford about my grade as soon as possible. My GPA had dropped significantly since I'd begun the fall semester at the university and now this. He gave me a C on my last trigonometry test. I supposed I was lucky I hadn't flunked all together. Math wasn't my cup of tea, but a C wasn't going to help me keep my scholarship. It didn't help that he was so damned good looking. It seemed when I was in his class the only thing I could concentrate on was his steel hard body, coal black hair and dark eyes. He was the only guy I'd ever seen who could make a pair of bifocals and a tweed jacket sexy. He spent the entire hour of class writing formulas on the chalkboard and I spent it staring at his ass and the bulge in his jeans. He'd caught me staring at him several times and it seemed he loved to go out of his way to call me on it.
“Are you paying attention, Kimberly? Or are you daydreaming about boys and parties, or whatever else you cheerleaders find so much more fascinating than my class?”
I felt my face grow hot when the other students started to chuckle. “Yes, sir, I'm paying attention.”
“You couldn't prove it by your grades,” he said, shaking his head. I thought you might have your mind on the homecoming dance.”
“No, sir,” I whispered.
He was treating me like a bubble head. I should have been furious, but I wasn't. Partly because I knew he was right about me. Since I’d turned twenty-one I did party more than I studied. I was more concerned about homecoming than I was boring math. I just wasn't used to men who didn't think that was a good thing. I was a blond with a killer body. It sounds conceited to say, but enough guys had told me so that I knew it was true. I was beautiful and most men didn't seem to care if I was academically challenged. Professor Landford expected more from me and he wasn't the type to let me slide by on my looks, but that was okay, because unbeknownst to the rest of the class and faculty, Professor Landford was giving me lessons in self-discipline. I'd started seeing him for what he called private “tutoring” a month ago. I wasn't getting much better, but that was fine. He enjoyed the process of teaching me and I submitted to his lessons with an eagerness to please and a willingness to take my punishment when I failed. You see, the professor was more than my teacher. He was my master.
“We'll take a break now. Class will reconvene in fifteen minutes,” he announced.