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Schooled (NYC Doms #5)
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She’ll learn to be daddy’s good little girl.
I never fraternize with my students.
But when Giada Romano walks into my classroom, my perfect resolve crumbles.
I’ll bend her over my desk and teach her the manners her daddy should’ve taught her.
This girl needs way more than a lesson in grammar.
Please note: Schooled is a newly-expanded re-release, previously entitled Professor Daddy.
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I walk toward my office, my mind a million miles away from here. I’m still not entirely sure why I took on this job in the first place. I feel weirdly out of place, and a part of me wonders if I’d have gotten this position if the powers that be knew anything about the last relationship I was in. Yeah, professors keep their private lives to themselves, and it’s not against the faculty rules for me to have a certain… proclivity… for younger women. But still.
How many professors here have girls they tie up or bend over their knees? How many are members of private, exclusive BDSM clubs?
How many like to be called daddy?
Ahead of me, I see a petite girl with chestnut-colored hair that hits right at her chin turn the corner, and for one brief moment, my pulse races. She looks just like… Could it be? But when she turns, I see she’s wearing glasses, and looks nothing like the girl I thought she was.
God, I miss Philippa. But she’s gone, and I am not gonna be one of those creeps who pursues his students.
I haven’t taught a creative writing class in years, but when I saw the job posted online, I decide to take a stab at it. I needed to do something to shake me out of the funk I’d been in since Philippa left. It was the most amicable break-up I’d ever gone through. A mutual agreement. She had to help her mother, and we had the kind of relationship that doesn’t work well long-distance. Still, a part of me longs to have that connection again. And even though I still stay in touch with Philippa, we’ve let ourselves fade to merely friends.
I was Philippa’s dom for six full months. Hell, I was more than her dom. I was her daddy.
We met at Club Verge, the most renowned kink club in all of NYC. I’m a long-term member. Not that I’ve gone back. And until Philippa, I’d only played at the club. Ours was my first relationship that took off outside club doors. The first relationship where I discovered my true self, how I thrived as a dominant giving real rules and accountability to another. Leading her to achieve success fulfilled a need in me.
We had an instant connection. She obeyed my rules, and I gave her structure, and we–
No. I won’t think about that anymore. We’ve moved past that, and now it’s time for me to move on.
So when I saw the little advertisement for a creative writing professor for the summer, I leapt at the opportunity. Hell, I figured maybe I could channel my need to nurture and guide in a more…wholesome way. And I found that I could. That throwing myself into being the best damn professor I could be helped me let go of the past and focus on the present. I might even be a little overboard, pretty married to this job. I do little more than work and hit the gym, and don’t have time for Club Verge anymore. I tell myself I’m too busy for a relationship, and that’s good enough.
I love my job. I have high expectations for my students. I don’t believe in coddling. It never served me well, and it won’t serve my students. I’m not their friend. I expect they come to class on time. I expect they do their work promptly and efficiently. And when they don’t, they answer to me.
I have a reputation for being a major hard-ass, and I like that I do. I don’t have time or patience for bullshit. I like to see my students reach their potential, thriving under my rigorous instruction.
Taking my place at the head of the classroom, I go down my attendance sheet and note the numbers as they come in the room. There are exactly nine people on my list, and exactly eight are here. When the clock strikes the very minute class begins, I lock the door and begin.
Maybe the ninth won’t show up. Or maybe the ninth will come late, and I’ll get a chance to live up to my reputation.
I glance at my calendar one final time.
Creative Writing Exploration. Professor Geoffrey Slade. Room 721, Dove building.
I inhale deeply, square my shoulders, and sling my bag onto my back. I’m making a major concession coming to school in the summer, the time of beach parties and sunbathing and cruises, but a long time ago, while he was still here… I made my father a promise. And it means something to me that I keep that promise, so here I am.
I purse my lips and open my bag, removing my sunglasses and sliding them on. The sun beats down hot and merciless, and I’m momentarily thankful I chose my tiniest sundress, a handmade beauty I picked up in Rome over Easter break, hunter green with spaghetti straps, a low vee in the front, hitting mid-thigh with delicate edged lace. I smile to myself. The nuns at Saint Augustine’s would have a conniption if they could see me now. But hey, I guess local community colleges have their benefits, and casual dress to class is one of them.