UPDATE: The winner of the contest is…Julie!
* * * * *
First, thank you to everyone who purchased Frannie and The Private Dick! If you haven’t already done so, NOW’S THE TIME, because very shortly I will be raising the price to where it really belongs for the length of work it is. But thank you, you early purchasers. We writers don’t just appreciate kind words written in reviews, we appreciate you spending money for our stories, so that we can continue to afford to spend our time writing more stories. It’s just a vicious circle! 🙂
By the way, what do you think of that title? My daughter thinks I sometimes go too far—to which I reply, “Is there such a thing?” Maybe. I have a title for this smutty little office-sex-slave short-story series that might be too much. It will be coming after I finish all the “With His…” stepbrother stories.
For the Stepbrothers Stepping Out, so far I’ve done:
- With His Partner
- With His Boss
- With His Professor
Right now, I’m writing With His Friends and I already have a sexy cover for With His Team. And then, I’m out of “With His…” titles.
Unless… You have suggestions…
One lucky titler (yes, a made up word!) will
win a small Amazon gift card!
Have fun! ~DD
*~*~*
And while you’re thinking, here’s a little taste of With His Professor…
With my brother Darien’s paper crushed in my hand, I marched down the dimly lit hallway of the English Department, heedless of the fact I hadn’t changed after work. My four-inch heels clicked on the tiled floor like mini hammers.
From the moment he’d sat across from me in the club, his shoulders slumping and his expression dejected, I’d been alerted something was seriously wrong. Darien hadn’t wanted to worry me. Didn’t I have enough on my shoulders, supporting us both while he finished his degree? When I’d finally wormed the source of his distress out of him, I’d seen red.
I’d stared at the paper—recognizing the terse handwriting telling my brother that his work wasn’t good enough. The 57 points the professor had given him meant my brother would have to repeat the class, which he’d needed to pass because it was a prerequisite for another. And now, his graduation date was at risk.
Not without a fight. And since Darien was the quiet one, it was up to me to confront Professor Allcock.
“Don’t you want to change first?” my brother had asked, eyeing my costume.
“Does he still stay in his office until nine to see students?”
“Yes, but—”
“It’s eight-fifteen. No fucking time left for me to change.” I slid across the vinyl seat and reached for my furry coat. It only reached to the top of my hips, but the skirt of this particular costume at least covered my ass. “Can you walk home?”
He slid the keys across the table. “I should go with you.”
“You have a chem test to study for.” I bent and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. “Dare, I’ve got this.”
I’ve got this. The adrenaline that had fueled my drive here fizzled. My steps slowed. I glanced up and down the hallway, then reached for the hem that peeked from beneath my coat and tugged it lower.
Good lord, I was walking into his office wearing pasties and a tear-away skirt. Standing in front of his door, I paused. The smells were the same—floor wax, polish, old books. His door was exactly the same thick wooden door. I’d spent several sessions in his office during my very short college career, begging for second chances, for him not to give me a bad grade because my dad would kill me.
I’d even opened my blouse, thinking I might be able to bribe him with a peek…or more.
Would he even remember? As handsome as he was, he probably had more coeds flashing their tits and asses than a construction worker on payday in a tittie bar—which was where I now worked. And I was the one flashing the dude with concrete dust in his hair and grime beneath his nails, hoping he’d ask me for a lap dance because I needed the money.
My hands fell to my sides. What could I say that would change his mind? Back when I’d been the student, unbuttoning my blouse had only gotten me shoved out his door with a stern reprimand. I glanced down at the paper I held again. I wasn’t here to beg for me. I was here to beg for my brother, for our future.
I raised my hand, preparing to knock when the door swung open. Caught by surprise, I blinked and stepped backward. The young man coming out of the door gaped at me, his gaze sweeping the expanse of my legs, my overly made up face. “Professor, you have another…student?”
I edged around him, getting through the door, then held the knob, waiting for him to move out of the doorway. At last, he shook himself and grinned. “Delta Zeta, right? Damn, girl. I’ll see you at the kegger.”
I took a deep breath and slowly turned to face Professor Allcock. I’d hoped he’d gone bald. Grown a gut. My heart fluttered in my chest as I stared across at the man I’d crushed on when I’d been a student here.
“Can I help you?” he asked in his deliberate way—softly spoken, but clearly enunciated. I’d always wondered if he’d commanded his women to bend over and take it in exactly that tone of voice.
I took a deep breath and raised the hand that still clutched Darien’s paper. “I’ve come to talk to you about this,” I said, my voice sounding uncertain, even to me. Which pissed me off. I tilted up my chin, and strode toward his desk, depositing the paper in the center.
He sat back, his gaze going to the crumpled sheets. “This is Darien Koslow’s paper. Why are you concerned?”
“I’m his sister.”
“And he has you to fight his battles?”
“He’s not…into confrontation.”
“And you are?” His eyebrow rose, and his gaze skimmed my thick coat and thin, short skirt.
“It’s a division of labor,” I muttered.
His gaze narrowed on my face. “Do I know you?”
Something about the way he said it, like he’d never in a million years know a piece of trash like me, fired my blood. “You might remember these,” I said, and tore open my coat, flashing him my boobs with the sequined stickers covering my nipples.
“Ah. Yes,” he said. “Miriam White. You were in my class…five years ago?”
“Four,” I said, slowly closing my coat. So, he didn’t quite remember my face, but he remembered my boobs? “I had to drop out.”
“A death in the family, I recall.”
“Two deaths. My father, Darien’s mother.”
“He’s your stepbrother? Half?”
“Step,” I said, beginning to shake because my anger once again was beginning to retreat, and I was tired and my brother was about to fail this class, and I couldn’t fix this. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Have a seat, Miriam,” he said then tapped the paper. “Let’s talk about this.”
“You don’t give second chances. I remember that.”
“And I remember you. It was early in the semester. Still time for you to turn around your grade. But you wanted a quick fix.”
“You told me to read the damn book.”
His mouth twisted then straightened into a firm line. “What did you come to ask me for tonight?”
“I wanted you to let Darien resubmit the paper. He’ll do better. I promise.”
His gaze remained narrowed on my face.
I felt a blush creep across my cheeks.
“I have to ask…”
“Yeah, I’m a stripper.”
“Not what I was going to ask, but good to know. I was disappointed when you didn’t reenroll after your parents’ deaths.”
“My priorities changed,” I said, glancing at his bookcase, his diploma-covered walls, anywhere but at his all-too-keen eyes.
“I might be inclined to give your brother a second chance…”
My gaze shot back to him. “Really?” I sucked in a quick breath then stilled.
His gaze had dropped to my chest.
From daring escapes by tough women to chivalrous men swooping in to save the day, the creativity switch to Kishan Paul’s brain is always in the “on” position. If daydreaming stories were a college course, Kish would have graduated with honors.
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