I decided to make it mighty easy this month.
All you have to do to be entered to win is leave a comment below with an answer to a question. Tell me what you first thought about the title. Been wondering what people think of it! *GRINS*
So without further adieu, I give you…Orgasm University…
Victoria’s been called frigid by every boyfriend she’s ever had. Having never gotten off during sex with even one of them probably has something to do with it. But none of them knew how broken she really is. She not only hasn’t gotten off having sex, she’s never orgasmed…ever.
Then she sees an interdepartmental memo for a university study that claims it can help with her little problem. Once she signs her name on the dotted line, Dr. Hotlidge, finds all the right buttons to push.
He’s been looking for the perfect subject for his grant study, but something’s been missing from each of the women he’s questioned so far. Everything changes when Jane Smith #129 steps into his exam room.
It’s supposed to be anonymous, clinical research and nothing more. But when he finds her inner submissive hiding just below the surface, they both find more than they bargained for.
A Romantica® BDSM erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
No matter how tightly she crossed her legs she couldn’t stop the shimmy. Tiny tremors raced up from her stiletto heels, which continued to vibrate at a nervous frequency.
She tried focusing on the magazine she’d already flipped through three times, but couldn’t have told anyone in the doctor’s waiting room if she’d read Marie Claire or Horse and Hound.
Throughout the day in her office across campus she’d decided to cancel her appointment a gazillion times. The same number of times, plus one, she’d convinced herself there was no harm in coming.
Coming. That pretty much said it all, or not at all in her case.
A two-syllable word, completely absent from her sex life and the reason she sat in the non-descript tan vinyl chair waiting for her name to be called.
Jane Smith #129, at least that’s what it said on the top of her mandatory anonymous paperwork. She’d already filled out and handed back the stack of signed forms to the friendly receptionist behind the sliding glass partition.
Victoria tossed the magazine onto the glass of the metal coffee table in front of her. The multi-colored stack of pages slipped from the slick surface, landing in a puddle on a rather beautiful rectangular rug. Her aim was remarkably akin to her ability to orgasm, close, but no cigar.
She stood on shaky legs, her gray linen pants falling precisely to the top of her arched foot while she straightened her tailored white blouse.
She retrieved the offending pile of articles and advertisements, laying it safe and secure onto the low table. If only finding her “O” face were as easy, she wouldn’t have to be here. If any of the other John Hopkins department heads found out she’d signed up for this study, she’d be the laughing stock of the whole university. She could even lose her job as assistant dean of the physics department if word got out she—
A door off to the side whooshed opened and her heart lodged in her throat as a nurse said, “Jane Smith #128?”
A shy brunette maybe a few years older than her, grabbed her purse, making her way toward the woman who held the door along with a clipboard.
Victoria collapsed back into her chair, thankful she was the only woman left in the light blue-walled room. The colors were lovely, the décor probably tasteful if she could focus on anything other than her rapid pulse.
She glanced out the window, trying to calm herself. The sunset from the top floor of the graduate research building warmed her.
Being called “frigid in bed” by her last three boyfriends had really started to wear on her confidence. Something, she’d never had to deal with before, growing up in a wealthier than average household.
Nervousness was the sign of a weak mind, her late father had always told her. She never got anxious at doctor’s visits. Normally, there was no point, but her appointment with Dr. Hotlidge was as far from normal as anyone could get.
She smoothed her shoulder-length curly hair, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath.
Learning why she couldn’t orgasm was something she’d wanted to know for a long time and honestly didn’t think anyone was out there who could help her. The interdepartmental memo that crossed her desk a few weeks prior said differently. It was a memo like so many others she’d seen and tossed in the round file. But the research this study was granted money for? A spot light might as well have illuminated it from above as little kinky angels sang the Hallelujah Chorus.
They were looking for women just like her.
Ages twenty-five to forty-five, open ethnicity, healthy, with a recent check-up from a physician proclaiming them functional in every way. Well, almost.
But it’s not research on a new skin care product or a diet pill. No, this was something much more important. This was about orgasms. Well, the lack of her ability to have them during sex, or in the shower, or with toys. She batted a big fat zero at the ripe old age of thirty-three.
She almost grabbed another magazine for distraction, but an unbelievably sexy guy stepped up to the counter behind the glass partition.
He gestured toward a folder, saying something she couldn’t hear. Whether the glass was soundproof or if all the blood rushing in her ears blocked the vibrations she didn’t know.
He flipped through the contents of the folder then looked right at her.
The world paused for a few brief seconds.
Her heart pounded away in her chest and at the top juncture of her thighs. That realization alone made her look away. Tunnel vision clouded her sight because she’d stopped breathing. She took a deep breath, blinking rapidly to clear her vision. When she could see again, she stole another glance but he was gone. The same female nurse who’d been calling for patients stood in his spot.
Wondering if it was relief or disappointment running through her veins would have to be left for another day.
The locked door opened into the waiting room and by process of elimination it was her turn.
“Ms. Smith, we’re ready for you.”
After grabbing her things, she prepared to bail.
Excuses disguised as explanations swam in her head. This isn’t for me. I got called away. You can’t help. I’ll figure it out on my own.
But she surprised herself, going so far as attempting to smile at the nurse ushering her through the doorway.
Jennifer Kacey is a wife, mother, and business owner living with her family in Texas. She sings in the shower, plays piano in her dreams, and has to have a different color of nail polish every week. The best advice she’s ever been given? Find the real you and never settle for anything less.
Website – http://www.jenniferkacey.com/
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