Page 10 of Teach Me
I hated lying to her, even if it was for the best. For now, anyway. But if I had been honest, she could’ve helped me with my list. Now I was alone in my flat, facing a wardrobe crammed with past mistakes, feeling the guilt and fear of the consequences this could have.
I blew out a breath and glanced at the notepad left on my bed. Pet play was not going on my list, but the butt plug was an option. There were so many things I hadn’t explored in previous relationships. Not that this was a relationship. It was an experiment. I had to remember that. Four weeks was all he’d give me. And when I proved him wrong, he would understand why I had excluded female participants.
My heart sat in my throat when I knocked on Dr Braithwaite’s door on Monday morning. What was I doing agreeing to this experiment? It was unethical. Insane. So was I for the five items scribbled on a piece of paper clenched in my sweaty palm. He wanted me to step out of my comfort zone, and by God, these five items would do just that.
When Dr Braithwaite opened the door, I stared at my boots. ‘Good morning, Ophelia,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘Are you ready to get started?’
No, but I entered the room when he stepped aside. I was a good girl like that, always obedient to my superiors, although I doubted my parents would have approved of this. Thankfully, they were back in Cornwall, hundreds of miles away. My father was a retired groundskeeper. My mother still worked as a librarian. Neither of my older brothers had gone to university, preferring manual labour over books. Now their only sister wasjeopardising her education because of a crush on a much older man.
I quickly scanned the room, surprised by how barren it was. The décor was modest – white walls and two pale green armchairs opposite a dark wooden desk. There was no hint of his personality except for his usual threadbare leather satchel resting against the desk, an equally worn stress ball by his monitor, and a neat stack of papers.
I wondered what his house looked like and if he would ever invite me to see it.
Probably not, but would he ask me to address him by his first name? I didn’t know what it was. He usedDrE. Braithwaitein emails and published journal articles. Even the university’s website didn’t use his full name, as if he deliberately withheld this personal information. His reasons intrigued me.
He moved past me. ‘Please, have a seat.’
My pulse raced as I sat on the edge of an armchair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. I’d opted for jeans and a comfortable sweater. A safe, modest outfit. I had taken the time to shave, though, just in case, and put on the knee-high boots he’d requested.
Dr Braithwaite looked his usual self, but he’d discarded his suit jacket again. The top buttons of his white shirt had also been left undone, offering a glimpse of a fine dusting of dark hair I wanted to run my fingers through more than I wanted to win his ‘challenge’.
‘May I see your list?’ he asked, resting against his desk.
I passed it to him and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. While he read in silence, breathing became impossible. A man of his age had to have vastly more experience than I did. He would take one look at my list and figure out I was in over my head. Perhaps he would laugh at me. His mockery would be degrading and surely teach me the lesson I needed.
He put my list on the desk and passed me a clipboard with a form and a pen. ‘Fill this out.’
‘What is it?’ A quick skim of the first page confirmed I was so far out of my comfort zone that I was now on a different continent. It was an application form for the kind of club I’d only read about in trashy romance novels, requesting information about my sexual preferences and experience. My heart sank. ‘You expect me to go to a BDSM club?’
‘It’s a quick way to gauge your limits and experience. If you know the date of your last STD check, please include it on the last page.’
I opened and closed my mouth, my courage wavering.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been tested, right?’
‘Yes, of course, but I thought… I mean, I assumedyouwould be, eh, exposing me to these stimuli. Are you sending me to this club?’
He smiled. ‘I’m not. Complete the form, Ophelia.’
Frowning, I started filling it out. He flicked through academic papers as if there was nothing unusual about my dissertation supervisor wanting to know if I was interested in fisting. The tips of my ears burned as I ticked ‘no’ next to most of the items on the form and handed it back to him.
He skimmed the first page before looking at me, his brows creasing. ‘You’ve discounted most items on this list.’
‘I haven’t done any of those things.’
‘That’s not all the form is asking you. Which are you willing to try?’
‘Um, I’m not very adventurous.’
He tsked. ‘Honesty, remember? Your five fantasies suggest you’re curious about exploring your limits.’
‘Those are the things I’d never do.’ I gave him a pointed look. ‘This is about degradation, remember?’
‘As a social scientist, you knew I’d encourage you to do them.’ He picked up my list. ‘Sex in a public setting, being called derogatory names, being used by more than one man, anal play, and’ – his gaze found mine – ‘visiting a BDSM club.’
Cheeks burning, I stared at the floor. Did he have to read them out loud?
He pushed off the desk. ‘These tell me a lot about your deepest desires.’ Catching my chin in his large palm, he craned my neck to meet his gaze. ‘Have you always been a good girl, Ophelia?’
