Page 7 of Masters of Play

"I've reviewed your methodology section in your dissertation, Ms. Prince."

I turned my attention back to the deep end I was currently swimming in. The devil in a dark suit thumbed over the document. As each leaf of paper left the flesh of his thumb and fell back in line, I felt he was thumbing through the contents of my soul… or my clit. I often wondered if the two were mutually exclusive.

"And you found it exemplary," I said.

Professor Sinead glanced up at me from beneath those lenses. I had a suspicion he didn't need the glasses. I was certain he only wore them to intimidate. I'd once caught him reading without them.

"It appears you're using only qualitative methods in your study," he said, pushing a wayward sheet of paper back in alignment.

"That's correct."

"You can't believe that will be enough to form a robust study." Professor Sinead stood the stack of papers up lengthwise. The edges of the two hundred pages of my dissertation made a clacking sound as they met the top of the desk.

"I'm using several qualitative methods," I said. "I've used the phenomenological method to chronicle the lived experiences of my subjects. Then there's the ethnographic methodology employed as I prove that the BDSM culture is a subgroup. And finally, there's a case study where I perform an in-depth, descriptive investigation of the confined BDSM club where all the kinkery goes down."

Professor Sinead laid my dissertation down flat on his desk. Not a single one of the papers made a peep. When he shifted in his seat, there was an audible squeak of fine, firm ass against aged leather.

I perked up at the subtle squeak of the leather in his chair. Was I making him uncomfortable? Or was I making him aroused? Either was a win for me.

From the open door of his office, I heard raised voices. A student was arguing with a teacher. Likely, Dr. Santos was on the other end of that argument. The man was a hard-ass when it came to citations. He once failed a student because two entries in his bibliography were out of alphabetical order.

"As you know," I said, tuning out the argument on the other side of the wall, "my study looks at how those in the BDSM lifestyle label themselves and how kink is becoming more normalized in main society."

"To do that, you'll need numerical data sets."

"I disagree," I said. "Sir."

Professor Sinead's nostrils flared at that. I'd long suspected that the man was a Dominant. Not just because of how he ran a tight ship in his classroom, or the unbending organization of his office. It was because he could raise a single eyebrow in disdain. I'm certain that is a skill that only Dominants are born with.

Sure enough, that right eyebrow rose as he stared down at me. The left one stayed put as though it couldn't be bothered to deal with my antics at the moment. I was usually a very assertive woman. This was the only man I'd ever brat it up for.

In true brat form, I gave him lip while also showing respect. I'd learned that trick in his statistical analysis class two years ago. I could momentarily trip him up if I disagreed with him but also called him sir. His eyes would flash at mine. His nostrils would flare. And that brow would go up.

"You think I'm doing this to punish you?" he said.

I wish. I almost said that out loud. Damn, if I didn't want those large hands to spank my ass, or pull my hair—right at that spot, right at the nape of my neck. The place where big cats grab up their young. Oh, I wanted this lion of a man to grab me by my scruff and give me a shake.

"It's not just me you have to impress, Ms. Prince."

"Have I ever impressed you. Sir?"

That brow crept up higher, but Professor Sin ignored my question. "Dr. Worth and Dr. Santos will be at your dissertation defense. They will pick apart your findings without a quantitative data set."

"My research doesn't need it. I've proven my thesis without it."

"With oral data only."

"Oral is the best kind of data." I sat back in the chair and crossed my arms. "Sir."

Professor Sinead's nostrils flared. His hands balled. He leaned forward.

My legs were already crossed. I squeezed my ass down in the chair, certain I was leaving a wet spot. I didn't care. I needed the friction, if only to keep myself from hopping across the damn desk and humping his leg.

My multiple orgasms at the rope of the twins last night were a thing of the distant past. In front of Professor Sinead, I always felt like a virgin willing to throw herself at the dragon to be sacrificed. Damn, I bet he'd make roasting in a fire feel so good.

Professor Sinead took a deep breath through those flared nostrils. He lowered his right brow to meet with his left. Finally, he leaned back in his seat, a squeak announcing his retreat.

I leaned back too, but there was no squeak at my movement. The seat was too wet. I'd need a white flag to mop up the mess I'd made.

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