The Heat Professor (Nerds Who Knot Book 4) Read online

  The Heat Professor

  Amy Bellows

  Copyright © 2019 Amy Bellows

  All rights reserved.

  The Heat Professor is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published in the United States by Amy Bellows. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  Cover design by Charmaine Ross.

  Editing by M.A. Hinkle and Abbie Nicole.

  Sensitivity read by Sharita Lira.

  Beta read by Deb S., Nicole B., Tracey G., Amy D., Rachel T., and Kim P..

  The model on the cover is from a stock photo and used for illustrative purposes only.

  Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author acknowledges the trademarked and/or copyrighted status and trademark owners of the following items referenced in this work of fiction.

  The Golden Girls

  Seinfield

  “Nine to Five”

  “Jolene”

  Crocs

  Contents

  1. Tatum

  2. Tatum

  3. Damien

  4. Damien

  5. Tatum

  6. Damien

  7. Damien

  8. Tatum

  9. Damien

  10. Damien

  11. Tatum

  12. Damien

  13. Damien

  14. Tatum

  15. Damien

  16. Tatum

  17. Damien

  18. Tatum

  19. Damien

  20. Damien

  21. Tatum

  22. Damien

  23. Tatum

  24. Damien

  25. Tatum

  26. Damien

  27. Tatum

  28. Damien

  29. Tatum

  30. Damien

  31. Tatum

  32. Damien

  33. Tatum

  34. Tatum

  35. Damien

  36. Tatum

  37. Tatum

  38. Damien

  Coming Soon

  Chapter One

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Tatum

  I adjust my costume glasses, and give the camera a flirty grin—one that shows off the dimples on both cheeks. The guys love that.

  On Thursdays I’ve been doing themed shows. Lately, it’s been nerds.

  “Last week we played doctor, which was fun. Vibrating stethoscopes should definitely be a thing. Thanks, Greg28, for that lovely present in the mail. This week I was thinking I’d play professor for you.”

  I stand up and show them the very dapper suit I managed to score at Goodwill. Go me. Popping some tags. I’ve got a few pens hooked into my front pocket, and I poofed up my already curly blond hair into a wild maelstrom around my head.

  “What do you think? Are you ready to push me over my desk and take me from behind?”

  A steady stream of messages pop up on the computer screen. Greg28, a rabid fan of Thursdays, leaves several fire emojis. Dear, sweet Greg. He’s a single alpha dad in Arizona. I think the action he has with me and his right hand is as spicy as it gets for him.

  Better give him a good time.

  “I gotta show you something. I have a desk for tonight’s show. One of those proper wooden ones.” I tilt the camera to the right so they can see the desk I moved into the large shed where I film my shows. “And look. I stacked it with essays.” I pick up one of my old essays with the name blacked out and a red A+ at the top, flashing them another dimpled smile. “Realism. It’s what you pay me the big bucks for, huh?”

  A few laughing emojis, then a couple tips. Nothing big. Which is cool. I don’t even have my clothes off yet.

  “I have a confession.” I draw out the last word, sitting against the edge of the desk and tilting my head. “You guys know I go to school. This semester I’m taking history, and fuck. The professor…” I fan my face. “He could take this ass for a ride any time he wants.”

  More laughing emojis. One guy asks if I’ve ever fucked one of my professors. Some of my clients think I live a very exciting life.

  “Nah. I’ve never been so lucky. But we could certainly imagine, right?” I take off the glasses and bite one of the ends, looking directly at the camera. “I’d love to get out of this suit. I’ve got a surprise for you underneath. At 200 dollars, you can find out what it is.”

  The bell that sounds off every time I get a tip above five dollars finally chimes. I put the glasses back on and rest my hands behind me on the desk.

  “I bet you can imagine it. Me. Your history professor. Such a shy, nerdy omega.” I’ve never told them that, in reality, I am quite the nerd. I color code my class notes and everything. But I’m definitely not shy.

  I’m not sure how that stereotype became a thing.

  “Looks like we’ve reached one hundred. I think I should take off this tie, don’t you?” I grab the knot and ease it down slowly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. That last essay.” I tsk, pulling the tie over my head. “You may need to do some extra credit.”

  The suit jacket comes off next. We’re rounding up to 150. I roll up my sleeves to my elbows and stuff my hands in my pockets. “And that last test. I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not sure if you’re going to pass this class unless you’re willing to work very hard.”

  I start on the first button of my shirt, taking my time. “And if you want an A, well… you might have to get on your knees.”

  Chime, chime, chime. They love it when I get bossy.

  I unfasten the second button, then the third.

  “The question is this: while you’re down there, will I make you suck my dick or rim me?” I bite my lip, and that’s all it takes for the “dun dun na nah!” of the 200 dollar mark.

  I flash them another dimpled smile. “Well, you know what that means.” I finish unbuttoning the shirt slowly and methodically, exactly the way I imagine Professor Ringdal would if I ever got lucky enough to get fucked against his desk. I wasn’t lying when I said my history professor was hot. I open my shirt and let it slide down my shoulders. It’s too bad I didn’t have suspenders. When Professor Ringdal wears them, it’s very distracting.

  I slip my hand underneath the front of my pants and look coyly at the camera. “You’ll have to be quiet while you suck me off. My office doesn’t even have a lock. Someone might hear.”

  Of course, my fantasies with Professor Ringdal don’t follow the traditional Professor/Student script. I’m getting an A in his class. I don’t need extra credit. Besides, he’d never threaten a student with bad grades to get in their pants. No, my fantasies always center around late nights in his office. Whispered yearnings. Stolen kisses. Not with a man who wants to use me, but with a man who wants to be with me.

  At least those fantasies are on a desk. I have that going for me.

  Leaning back, I unzip my pants, revealing my black lace underwear. I laugh as bells go off in quick succession.

  “Thought you might like these.”

  I flip over and let them watch my pants inch slowly down. Every camboy worth his salt knows his best feature. Mine’s my ass. I always give my clients a good, long look. Gotta keep them coming back for more. To pay the rent and all my omega mother’s medical bills, I do two shows a week.

  I peek over my shoulder. Right on cue, Greg28 tips
me twenty dollars with the request for me to smack my own ass.

  “Just for you, Greg. Just for you.” I bring my hand down hard enough to create that jiggle they’re all waiting for.

  At that point come the standard requests for me to get out my dick. A few people ask me to fuck myself with a dildo, even though I only do that on Sundays. I slide the underwear down far enough to pull out my semi-hard cock. My shows always get me a little riled up. While this may not be a steady nine-to-five gig with benefits, I like it.

  There are worse ways to make money than jacking off in front of a camera.

  I push my foreskin down to thumb around the head of my cock. I’m uncut, which is good and bad in this business. Some guys love it, and others are weird about it. I’ll be honest—sometimes it’s strange that random people on the internet have outspoken opinions about my dick.

  I kick off my pants and lie down on top of the desk. At a certain point in every show, I do what I like to call a fade-out. If I look at the camera the entire time I jack off, something’s lost—something personal. While I stroke my cock, I roll my hips. It’s definitely a show, but it’s also what feels good to me. Whether my clients like to admit it or not, that’s what they want to see. There’s nothing sexier than a guy caught in the throes of lust. Nothing hotter than watching a man feel true pleasure. So that’s what I give my clients: a taste of something real.

  Do I moan a little more than I would without the camera? Of course. Do I exaggerate the way my body tenses when I’m about to come? Absolutely. I’m good at what I do. But the shaky breaths and the urgency of my hand while I pump myself over the edge is 100 percent authentic.

  Just like a lover, I sigh after it’s all over. I’m relaxed now. Through the course of the fade-out, I made it to 500. Not bad for a Thursday. I should bust out this desk more often.

  “Well, I hope it was as good for you as it was for me. I’ll see all of you on Sunday. I have a new toy I’m dying to try out.”

  Nipple clamps. Potentially painful, but I have to admit, I’m curious. Compliments of a client, of course. I have an airmail account that allows my clients to send me things without knowing my address.

  I give them a chipper goodbye and turn off the camera.

  It’s only eight o’clock, but I’m already tired. I clean up my hand with a tissue and put the suit back on. I’ll carry the desk back inside tomorrow. The shed where I film is sparsely decorated and as soundproof as I could make it. I don’t want my mom to figure out what I’m doing in here again.

  She caught me last year. Luckily, she doesn’t remember.

  I lock up the shed with a key I carry on my person at all times and head into the double-wide I’m barely making the payments on. My mom is wiping down the table—probably for the third time tonight. I guess there’s no harm in that.

  “Where have you been?” she asks. “Did your alpha take you somewhere fancy?”

  When my mother got in a car accident three years ago, I was still dating an alpha named Randy. In the beginning, he was the perfect boyfriend. He brought flowers and visited us in the hospital. But once he realized my mom wasn’t ever going to get her short-term memory back and someone would need to take care of her for the rest of her life, he stopped calling or texting. He didn’t even have the decency to break up with me. He simply disappeared from my life.

  “Sure thing, Mom. A steakhouse. You woulda loved it.”

  I told her we broke up years ago. Over and over again. Like the camboy thing, she doesn’t remember.

  “Ah, honey. I’m so glad you have a good man in your life.”

  I give her the best smile I can muster. She doesn’t know that I’ll never have a man in my life again. Not like that. No alpha is going to sign up for this.

  “Would you help me out? There’s something funny on our stove. I can’t heat up any of the burners to make some tea.”

  That something funny is a lock to prevent her from turning on a burner and forgetting about it. Sometimes she remembers why the locks are there, and sometimes she doesn’t. The days she doesn’t are usually happier.

  “Let me heat up some water for you, okay?” I say.

  She gets this pensive look in her eyes that makes me wonder if it’s coming back to her. If you didn’t know, you’d never guess my mother is completely dependent on me. She’s as lovely as ever in her tight jeans, with long, blonde curls cascading halfway down her back. Even on the days she forgets to put makeup on half of her face, she’s every bit the knockout who used to flirt her way out of evictions and into precarious living arrangements with her alpha girlfriends. She had me when she was sixteen and never got around to finishing high school.

  There are reasons why I’m busting my ass to get a college education.

  “It’s eight. The Golden Girls are on,” I say.

  She smiles. “That’s right. I’ll go turn on the TV.”

  I head into the kitchen and unlock the first burner. There’s already water in the kettle, so all I have to do is turn on the heat. Mom picks up the remote in the front room and sits down. Once I have a steaming cup of Earl Gray in my hands, I head over to the couch and sit next to her.

  “Thanks, sweetie. It’s the one where Blanche is a murder suspect.”

  That’s a good one. I sit back and relax. My mom lets out a low chuckle when Blanche accepts Keira’s room key. “Poor Blanche. She never gets laid without getting into trouble. I can relate with that a little too much.”

  Mom passes the tea back to me, and I take a sip. The thing Randy didn’t understand is that taking care of my mom isn’t all bad. Sure, it’s a lot of responsibility, but even with her short-term memory gone, my mom is still my favorite person in the world.

  “She’ll land on her feet,” I say.

  That’s the thing my mom and I have in common with The Golden Girls.

  We always land on our feet.

  2

  Tatum

  There are some professors you simply have to name one of your dildos after.

  Professor Ringdal is the quintessential professor wet dream, with thick-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose and a wrinkled dress shirt rolled halfway up his lean, brown arms. He even speaks Latin. Because of course he does.

  It’s Friday morning, so I’m sitting in his class on the history of sex work. That’s his schtick. At the beginning of the semester, he told us he hopes educating people about the history of sex workers will make things better for them. He even does research on heat sex work by performing it himself. Not for the money, of course. Not all of us do it for the money. But he’s still a sex worker, in his own way.

  In other words, fantasizing about falling in love with him is far too easy.

  This morning’s lecture is good—about brothels and dance halls in the Wild West around the time of the gold rush. His back is facing us while he writes on the chalkboard, and it’s painfully obvious how well his ass fills out his slacks. After watching that ass for an hour, an appointment with the appropriately named dildo will be necessary.

  “Omegas were rare in San Francisco during this time, which led a lot of alphas to resort to measures like mail-order mates.” Professor Ringdal turns and faces us. “Brothels boomed at this time as well. In some cases, omegas owned and ran these brothels, making them some of the most powerful people in the city. However, in many cases, sex workers in this area were exploited—sometimes even caged.”

  There are pictures of this in the textbook. I think they’ll always haunt me.

  “Despite the low number of omegas, heat sex work still existed in San Francisco. However, it looked very different than it does today. Most unmated omegas would have what they called a ‘fisting partner,’ meaning they would agree to help each other through their heats by fisting one another. Often, they would use a primitive version of an alpha pheromone smelling stick you could purchase at most brothels. But if an omega couldn’t find a fisting partner, they’d sometimes spend their heat with what was referred to as a ‘hired knot.�
� Did anyone read the chapter about hired knots? Who can tell me about them?”

  Half of our class is fighting to stay awake. For many of them, The History of Sex Work 2514 is just another elective to get them closer to a degree. To be honest, that’s why I took it too. My major is social work. I’d like to do something similar to Professor Ringdal, but from another angle.

  I raise my hand, and he nods to me. “Tatum?”

  “Most of the time hired knots were omegas with a leather dildo that had a bulbous shape at the end. But sometimes they were alphas who had various surgeries meant to prevent pregnancy. Those surgeries weren’t very reliable. If an omega hired an alpha, they’d usually end up pregnant. I liked the chapter about hired knots. It was interesting.”

  Professor Ringdal wrote the textbook, so I’m definitely brown-nosing. I can’t help myself. It’s some bizarre, unproductive version of flirting I seem to have no control over. Also, it’s true. At this point, I’ve tracked down most of Professor Ringdal’s publications, and they’re all fascinating.

  “Thank you. And you’re correct.” He turns away from me. Professor Ringdal has never so much as looked at me with more than polite professionalism. To him, I’m just one anonymous student among the hundreds he teaches.

  He moves on to talk about dance halls, where alphas could pay for a dance with an omega. The guy sitting next to me shamelessly lays his head on the desk and goes to sleep. Why did he bother to come at all?