Smut University: The Complete Series, Page 2

  “He can teach me any damn thing he wants, and how,” Brandy put in. I could hear her breathing heavy behind me.

  “Ohhhh,” Cheryl murmured softly.

  Involuntarily, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs to capacity as I watched the professor set his briefcase on the desk, unbutton his blazer and sit causally on the corner of it, the knee of one leg bent, and his other foot flat on the floor as he surveyed the room. He was too far away for me to see the color of his eyes, but I knew from Michelle’s research that they were a piercing, deep blue. Contrasting with his golden summer tan, they’d be striking. The way he moved was effortless and I felt my body quickening; wondering if he could live up to his own words.

  I cleared my throat as he looked out over the room, commanding silence without uttering a single syllable. The students were speechless for various reasons. I was unsettled by his effect on me; I was a serious student, and I wanted to learn as much from him as I could. This would be my only opportunity to learn from a published author; especially one as successful as Jaxon Michaels. I reminded myself how prolific he was; how intelligent and talented. That’s who he was; not this sex god sitting casually on the edge of his desk surveying those of us who could only dream of coming close to his skill.

  His skill, I thought, as a shiver ran through me, causing goosebumps to breakout all over my skin. I closed my eyes, and my sex clenched as my breathing hitched. I swallowed again.

  Class, I reminded myself. This was a just another class, but now I was feeling nervous. Even among all of these students, I was as worried as if I had his direct attention, his laser-like focus solely on me. I always strove to excel, but now… another emotion took over. I wanted to impress, to stand out, to make him… come. I let out a choking cough.

  Proud. I berated myself. I wanted to make him proud. I was struggling for composure, surprised at the direction of my thoughts. Was I no better than any other swooning woman here? If he had this kind of effect on me without even a glance in my direction or one word spoken, I was done. I was forced to acknowledge the commanding presence of this man.

  He rubbed a hand over his lower jaw and then trained his gaze sharply out into the room. He was smoldering, and sexier than any of us could stand. If I didn’t know better, he was looking right at me and I sat up a little straighter in my chair, waiting with the same bated breath as every female and gay male filling the vast facility… to see if his voice, when he spoke, would be as devastating as his body; his face; his presence. He had a strong, overt elegance that exuded sex. He was dripping with it… so who better to articulate it on the page?

  “Ahem,” Dr. Michaels cleared his throat.

  “Here we go,” Michelle murmured. She nudged me hard with her elbow.

  “Ow!” I grunted, rubbing my injured arm.

  “I told you, right?” she asked.

  I turned my head and looked at her. Her skin was flushed and her eyes wide. I could only imagine I had a similar red hue to my appearance, as did every woman in the room.

  Indeed, I thought.

  “Yeah. You told me,” I agreed.

  2

  “Welcome to The Art of Sex...” I paused suggestively for effect and waited for the room to burst out with enthusiasm, then dashed their hopes. “…in Writing,” I said sternly.

  Perched casually on the edge of my desk, I looked out over the mass of young, wide-eyed faces of my students. “I’m Dr. Jaxon Michaels and over the next few months we’re going to get intimate on the page.”

  As intended, the room erupted in a mass of expletives and enthusiastic shouts again. I flashed a smile and wagged a finger. “Don’t have any misconceptions. This course is not about sex.”

  An ensemble of moans, grunts and gripes replaced the zeal of just seconds before.

  “It’s in the title!” a young man shouted from about twenty rows back.

  I folded my arms across my chest and stood away from the large piece of antique mahogany that had been placed for my use at the front of the large lecture hall. My voice was amplified by the small microphone that was clipped to the lapel of my dark grey Hugo Boss suit jacket.

  “Yes, it’s in the title. How else would the university get this many butts in these seats?” I asked, pausing to wait for the groans and guffaws to cease. Outwardly, I offered slow smile, but I was silently disgusted and sort of pissed off. I’d hoped at least half of the students filling the lecture hall were here to learn something, but it was always the same result.

  It was always the same, and while it had been amusing two years ago when I first taught the course, it had become aggravating over time when a good majority of the students failed to take it seriously. The classes were smaller then, easier to get to know a student’s writing style, but now, there were too many students taking the class for entirely the wrong reasons.

  These days they seemed more interested in exploring sexual behavior than in the writing of it in a realistic, believable way; thinking they’d get to spend three hours a week being titillated with little work involved. Young men who were looking to get their rocks off and young women would wax ignorance for my office time.

  I huffed out indignantly. If only the course wasn’t allowed as an elective; I wouldn’t have these fucking problems. It fell under the umbrella of liberal arts, mass communications, English, media, marketing, journalism and several others, including my favorite, creative writing. I found it a somewhat ironic oxymoron that, in reality, most creative writing courses actually taught students how to write realism. That was what I found so rewarding about teaching this class. Realism was my forte; my editor and publisher assured me it was the formula for my vast success, though my agent had her own ideas about what pushed me to the top of New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, and her version pissed me off, too.

  I groaned inwardly as my eyes scanned the faceless masses. The university had moved this class into an actual lecture hall in order to accommodate the larger demand for the spring semester. I ran a hand through my thick mop of hair, uncaring that I was messing up the meticulous style, held in place by the gel I’d used earlier that morning. I cleared my throat and adjusted my designer glasses.

  “It’s not about evolution or procreation, or about getting off,” I said, dryly. “Though, having a solid grasp of these things will improve your skill, and we’ll explore all of it.” More hoots and pleased comments followed. I pushed my glasses up on my face with one finger at the bridge again; irritated.

  Clearly the hundred and fifty or so students who filled the hall were going to be disappointed that they actually had to work in this course. “It’s not about improving your sexual prowess; that’s not what I meant either, though undoubtedly, I’m sure many of you need instruction,” I added drolly.

  I almost laughed at the resurgence of hoots, suddenly replaced by groans; many of them uttering they didn’t need lessons in the bedroom. It all became a confused din in the large space. I wanted to frown to show my disapproval, yet I couldn’t help but grin and shake my head.

  Stupid assholes, I thought. “Mostly, you need to understand that writing is fucking hard. If you expect it to be easy, drop the course right now.”

  Instantly, the room went quiet.

  “First the rules: When I talk, you don’t.” I started to pace back and forth on the platform. “Second, this is not a throw-away course; you will earn your grades just like any other class at Columbia. Third; I expect excellence. If you aren’t prepared to give one hundred percent; get out. Fourth, get your writing assignments in on time; I live by deadlines and I expect you to live by them, too; all successful writers, do. If you abide by those four things you won’t piss me off, and you’ll pass.”

  Now that I had their full attention, I continued.

  “If you’re here for anything less, or if you’re here just to get off, you’ll be sadly disappointed. You might be in the habit of disappointing yourself, but you will not disappoint me. I won’t stand for bullshit, so if you aren’t going to take
this course as seriously as any other, there’s the door.” I pointed to the two sets of double doors located at the back of the hall at the top of both rows of stairs that led down toward the platform where I stood. I paused to give anyone who wanted to leave the time to do so.

  Several students shifted in their seats, but not one stood to leave.

  “Let me repeat: Getting off is not what this course is about.” Clearly, I was baiting them; seeding the waters with sexual tension; the very tension I was warning about. I waited for a response but there was none; there was no sound other than the sound of students shifting in their seats and some paper shuffling. “So? What is it about? And, why do we care?” I walked from the podium back to the desk and resumed my haphazard seat on one corner. “Anyone?”

  Crickets. I could literally hear them chirping.

  In a room with so many students, who would have thought a pin dropping would have been thunderous as endless pairs of eyes stared widely in my direction?

  “Waiting…” I said. “No one is brave enough to open your mouth? How will you open your mind, then? The answer is in the syllabus, isn’t it? If you can’t read, how in the hell do you think you’ll be able to write anything?”

  My gaze roamed the room, the students were scrambling to look on their computers, through printed versions, or the less prepared began digging in their book bags. They were stacked up in front of and above me; in many rows; cinema-style in the large lecture hall generally reserved for basic liberal arts classes that were required of every undergraduate freshman; such as Psychology 101, Theology of Human Existence, Origins of Philosophy, or Studies of Classic Literature, and now this one single senior level course, The Art of Sex in Writing.

  The department head wanted to increase the number of sessions offered on the schedule, but I’d insisted that my publishing career was too busy to accommodate them. I already taught other classes in suspense, and crime drama, but somehow, this was the one that students clamored for. As it was, I’d have to have my TA read and grade many of the assignments if I was going to give my other classes the attention they deserved. And, God help me ... some of the writing would be awful. My head almost hurt remembering many of the atrocious things that had been submitted over the past two years.

  “Ummph!” I responded to my own thoughts with a grunt of repugnance.

  I should have been flattered at the number of students, but I wondered if these kids truly want to learn something, or if most were thinking it would be an easy A? Or worse; assuming it would be a substitute for internet porn or a break from their real class load with the added bonus of earning college credit?

  “Come on, people! You aren’t going to learn much if no one is talking! If it isn’t about getting off… What. Is. It. About?” I demanded. The timber of my voice boomed across the microphone and echoed through the room as I punctuated my words.

  More silence, until finally someone spoke.

  “It’s about getting your readers off,” a soft, yet lilting female voice said from somewhere in the middle of the lecture hall. My head snapped around in the direction of the reply as I searched for the owner of the voice.

  “What was that?” I asked. “Please stand and say it again so that everyone can hear you.”

  My eyes roamed the room, waiting for the girl to rise. It only took a few seconds for a slight young woman about midway back to stand. She had delicate features and flowing dark hair; dressed in jeans and a casual shirt that clung to her body. Typical of many students at the university, yet there was something electric about her that went straight to my dick like an electric shock. I stood and waited, my gaze upon her.

  “I said; it’s about getting your readers off,” she said, this time with more confidence.

  Lifting my hands to the heavens, or rather the ceiling some thirty feet above my head, I replied. “Ah! See? Thank you, Jesus! There it is. Boom! Well done.”

  I smiled wryly as the room filled with tinkling laughter as she returned to her seat.

  “Yes!” I kept looking at the pretty brunette. “The point is to use words to craft a scene in your reader’s mind. It’s not an easy task. It’s personal. Your purpose is to draw them into your thoughts, your fantasies; to make them see those thoughts play out in their imaginations, as it has in yours… and make the reader actually experience them. It’s not easy putting your own vulnerability on the page.” I shoved both hands into the pockets of my suit pants, as I began to walk along the platform again. “To create tangible passion and real physical arousal without the use of lips, fingers, tongues, genitals, or sex toys.” More laughter and inaudible roars filled the air. “I see that got your attention!” I flashed a brilliant smile. “Allowing your readers to live your thoughts as if they are the characters you have created is no small feat, eh?”

  “No!” the room answered back in and out of unison in a series of enthusiasm and low grumbles. “No, Dr. Michaels!”

  “You have no fucking idea,” I added casually, shaking my head for effect. “Are you shocked that I used the word?” My shoulders lifted in a casual shrug and I smiled again. “If you are, you need to question if you’ve got what it takes. How can you write it well enough to do it justice… if you can’t even say it aloud without being embarrassed? The course description said that this wasn’t for the timid of mind or heart, so you have been warned. It’s for future writers of bestsellers, and sex sells.”

  After the room had settled down again, I continued. “What kind of sex sells?”

  “All kinds!”

  “Intercourse!”

  “Oral!”

  The room broke out in a chorus of boisterous answers.

  “It’s all kinds, true, but one of the best sellers is the slow burn. Your story doesn’t have to include actual intercourse if it’s filled with sexual tension which is built with careful precision; the promise of sex, the desire, the want… foreplay… a descriptive kiss… all the juicy bits are what truly draws the reader in. But, smut for smut sake alone…” I paused briefly to shake my head, “not so much. Yes, there is a market for nuts and bolts screwing, but for this course porn is not the goal. Desire…intense and so tangible that readers can reach out and touch it… even taste it… is the end game. That, my friends, is your task; to be accomplished with just words; twenty-six characters arranged in different ways. Simple words, and the skill with which you weave them together will be your only tools.”

  By now I had the rapt attention of my class, with the occasional outburst when I said words like nuts, hard, or fuck, as I meant to happen in this first class, but overall, I was encouraged by their concentration. “Writing reality is hard people. It’s harder in fiction than it is in news; no disrespect to the journalism students in attendance, but in fiction you have to completely craft a story in your mind, and then, bring it to life, to create the facts, if you will.”

  The class was silent save some incessant whispers from the less serious attendees. “So where do we begin? What do you think is the most erogenous of all body parts?” I asked the question, knowing the answers that would be shouted out.

  “Cock!”

  “Tits and ass!”

  “Pussy!” Answers were offered by several of the young men, followed by some embarrassed giggles from some the women.

  Jesus, I thought, wanting to roll my eyes. Even I was thankful for the ten years that had passed since I had been a horny kid. Not that there was anything wrong with my libido; far from it, but at least I was in complete control of it.

  “Hmmmm.” I laid a flat hand on my chest. “Thank you for those well thought-out, reverent, and enthusiastic answers… but alas, they are sadly lacking.”

  I sometimes wondered how in the hell some of these morons were even accepted into the university, then I remembered how popular the subject of this course was. Sex sells, I had said, and Columbia was a business like many others. They wanted their classes full.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun, and I’ll encourage some of the m
ore nefarious banter, but most of the students are here to learn a craft, so after today, consider pissing around in this manner disrespectful to them and to me.”

  “Um… Dr. Michaels?” Again, the same lilting voice, but this time I was able to find the source and our eyes locked as she stood again. Her heart shaped face and beautiful doe eyes were mesmerizing in their intensity, even from this distance. “Isn’t it the… brain?” She smiled slightly; her expression astute yet slightly teasing. She knew the answer already, and I was intrigued more than I wanted to admit. “The most erogenous zone, I mean.”

  I always made professionalism a priority but felt slightly unnerved that this young woman might be capable of creating a well-placed crack in my resolve. It was always a risk teaching a course like this, the subject matter arousing as fuck. She was extremely beautiful, but more than that, the intelligence behind her eyes could not be mistaken. She was certainly compelling, and I found myself anxious to read her words … to find out what her mind was capable of creating.

  Nodding, I tried to connect a face and the voice with a name. “Indeed. Miss…?” I asked.

  “Tomms. Addison Tomms.”

  I nodded, repeating her name in my head. Addison. A beautiful name for a beautiful young woman.

  “Well, Miss Tomms, thank you for having the balls to answer, but do you have what it takes to leave it all on the page?”

  “I believe I do, sir,” she answered immediately.

  My eyes narrowed on the beautiful body of the now standing girl. She was a fair distance away, but even so, I could see she possessed the soft swells in all the places men love. Her face was gorgeous, though I longed to see the color of her eyes. I rubbed the back of my neck at the heat rising there, as I reminded myself that she was my student, no different from the other one hundred and forty-nine in this room, or the countless ones I’d had in the past.

  “We’ll see. You may sit down,” I directed her, then gathered my thoughts for a moment. “We’ll have many assignments during our weeks and months together, each with a different purpose. Like the slow build I spoke of before, we will layer the learning. Setting the scene for romance, then exploring lust, tension, actual sex acts, emotion, frustration, and the epitome of them all; love. These things are not written in the same way; there are nuances that will be determined by the goal of the piece, the emotion you’re trying to illicit, and the type of reader you’re targeting. I’m sure many of you hoped that the first assignment would be to write a basic smut scene. Smut for smut’s sake, right?”