About the author:
Trudy Judd fantasized about kinky sex from a young age that she knew her conservative family would never approve of. She’s proud to say that she’s explored many things since then, and is active in the BDSM community. She writes erotic literature and steamy BDSM romances, and has been writing for many years, although you won’t find much under this particular name. She has a Bachelor degree in English and a Master in Adult Education. Trudy lives with her partner in a warm climate with an active scene and celebrates being bisexual.
What inspired you to write your book?
I find the sexual journey from innocence to experienced woman fascinating, and wanted to explore it with someone who knew what she wanted, but had no idea what it would be like. As an active member of the BDSM community, I also find the Master / slave dynamic interesting to explore. In this series, you’ll encounter all kinds of depraved acts, from spanking to bondage to group sex and bisexuality. Enjoy!
Here is a short sample from the book:
Deena squirmed in her seat, stifling a moan.
Of all the horrible timing! It was the first day of class, the first day that she was actually sitting in a college classroom, and her body seemed to think she was lying on a bed of hot coals. Or maybe immersed in warm water. Heat pooled between her thighs, making her pussy throb, making her breasts ache. She was so horny right now, it was a wonder that the whole classroom didn’t know. Deena bit her lip in frustration, scribbling a doodle on her notepad as she tried to weather the storm. It wasn’t the first time her body had done this to her. It just seemed to be getting worse all the time.
She was at a desk in a small cramped room on the second floor of the Psychology building, listening to Professor Sturm talking about the expectations for Psych 101. The professor was a handsome man, perhaps late thirties or so, with thick black hair and the most startling shade of aqua eyes. He spoke with a very slight accent, maybe German or eastern European. It sounded sexy as hell.
Unlike some of the other teachers she’d met so far today, he didn’t go in for the whole suit and tie thing. Close-fitting black slacks and a light blue Polo shirt with the sleeves half rolled, revealing fit arms and nice slender hands. She could tell he worked out—there wasn’t the slightest bit of belly on the man. And he had a sensual smile that belonged in the bedroom.
Deena fisted her hand under the desk and pressed against the apex of her thighs, trying to push away the ache. It just wasn’t right that her teacher should be so sexy. Not when she was already having so many confusing things going on with her body.
“Miss Hancock, did you have a question?” Deena blushed as the professor called her name.
She shook her head. “No, Professor.” Except that she did have a question; several of them, in fact. What had he said about homework? She’d missed the entire lecture. She took a breath, letting it slowly, and tried to focus on her notepad. But the scribblings there could have been in Arabic for all she could read them. Her pussy throbbed.
She was a very naughty girl.
Deena knew this; had known this for some time. Even when she was just entering puberty, trying to figure out things like trainer bras and tampons, she’d known it. She came from a Catholic family, two brothers and a sister, all older than her. She was the baby.
As the baby of the family, she’d gotten more than enough advice. Don’t just give yourself to the first boy you meet. Don’t have sex until you’re eighteen. Don’t have sex at all; there’s too many diseases out there, ick. All of that from her older siblings and then on top of that the lectures in church and from her parents. Sex was bad. It wasn’t even okay to touch yourself. Sex was only for procreation. But she couldn’t help it. When her body started to change, the feelings overwhelmed her. She tried to talk to her friends about it, but they said they only became horny like that maybe a few times a month. Not her. For her it was like non-stop. There had to be something wrong with her.
She’d been good. All through high school, Deena hadn’t done more with a boy other than kiss. It wasn’t so hard. Most of them kissed like a dying fish, all limp and slobbery. Boys tried to grope her, but it was clumsy, inexperienced. She wanted somebody older, somebody who actually knew what they were doing.
Somebody like Professor Sturm.
In a last ditch effort to help her concentrate, Deena reached into her backpack and brought out the little toy she’d bought for herself, immediately hiding it under the desk in her lap. It was a paddle, from an adult video and lingerie store. The paddle was almost warm in her hand, made from polished cherry wood. She longed to feel how it was meant to be felt, on her. It represented her transition to adulthood.
It had taken every ounce of her courage to walk into that store last night to get it.
Why it helped calm, her, Deena didn’t know. Maybe because of what it represented. Punishment. It was right and proper that she be punished for having such urges and wants, especially in class. She’d worked hard to get here. She wasn’t going to throw it all away by being distracted.
With one hand keeping the paddle firmly in place, out of sight, Deena began writing notes with her other hand, jotting down the office hours that were on the chalkboard. Professor Sturm’s words finally broke through the haze of lust. “The syllabus I handed out has your reading list, and the dates for your book reports. I expect everyone to follow proper essay formatting in their reports. Use an introduction, three main points, supporting statements, and a conclusion. Each report should be a minimum of three pages. My office hours are there on the board for any questions you may have.”
Did she dare to visit him after class to ask about what she’d missed? Or would meeting him outside the classroom be too much of a temptation?
Suddenly the lecture hour was up, and the bell was ringing. Deena shoved the paddle back into her backpack before the professor or any of her classmates could see. Her face burned with shame. If every day was going to be like today, she’d never pass this class. Perhaps she should transfer to a different instructor. Only then she wouldn’t get to stare at Professor Sturm three days a week.
Deena started to stand up, when suddenly there he was, standing right in front of her, crotch to eye level. She could see the clear outline of him in the trousers, and he looked very well hung. She sat down in a rush and stared at him, wondering if all her thoughts were written on her face.
His aqua eyes measured her. “Miss Hancock. Were you having difficulty concentrating today? Not enough sleep?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He was wearing some kind of cologne, something subtle and musky. Like leather, which happened to be one of her favorite smells. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “Professor? I—no. I slept fine.”
He tilted his head, looking unconvinced. “No? Then I assume you can relate to me precisely what your assignment for Wednesday is, correct? Who did I quote early as an example for puerile ostentatious sycophants?” He was making her dizzy with his big words. Testing her.
Deena looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know, Professor. You’re right. I was having difficulty concentrating. It won’t happen again.” She stood up, pulling at her backpack as she noticed the outline of the paddle showing through the fabric. This was not the way she’d wanted to meet the Professor! She was breathing too fast; her breasts heaving, the heat between her legs still a maddening distraction.
“I should say not.” Professor Sturm looked her over. Was it her imagination, or could he tell exactly what she was experiencing at this moment? His eyes landed on her backpack and his lips pressed together. “You were playing with something as well. Your phone, I assume? Let’s see it.” He held out his palm expectantly.
If Deena could have died, this would be the moment. Her phone was in her back pocket. There wasn’t anything in the backpack other than her books, her calculator, her notebooks, and pens. And the paddle of course. “No, Sir. It wasn’t my phone.” She saw that he wasn’t going to let it go. Sighing, she bent to open up the backpack, painfully aware that her top dipped too low and he was staring at her cleavage. A hot flush went through her, and her nipples hardened.
She brought out the paddle and handed it to him. “It was this.”