Revised version copyright 2006 by the author.
It's five-thirty on Wednesday afternoon. The corridors of the main classroom building are deserted. Let's face it, this is no Harvard, it's a small state school. Around here students never hang around after hours if they can help it.
I've taught at this place longer than I care to remember and I'm way past griping about the quality of the students, well, at least their intellects. Besides, the fact that the campus is pretty much deserted in the evening makes this part of my job easier.
Bryan Ross is coming up for his third year review this fall. He first talked to me last spring, worried he wasn't going to be renewed. At his request I looked at his record. Just between you and me, he was right to be scared.
As senior member of the campus Tenure and Promotion Committee I could make or break his case and he knew it. When he found out exactly what I was going to require from him, though, he turned tail and ran.
Then he remembered that he had a wife and two small kids to support. Getting kicked out of here with a negative evaluation, and no one to write him a good reference, would be the end of his career in academia. His chances of landing another tenure-track position in a very crowded field would be practically nil.
He did some thinking and came back. We've been having regular sessions for several months now. He's making progress.
There's a knock on the door. Right on time.
"Come in."
The door opens and Bryan steps in, holding a briefcase, stiff and nervous as usual. Well, why shouldn't he be a little scared? He knows how much is at stake in these meetings. His future as a member of this university faculty is in my hands.
He's dressed in a striped, starched shirt with tie and dress slacks. I like a faculty member who looks neat for the students. That was one of the first suggestions I made to him when he came to me last year, very upset at what he had read on his teaching evaluations.
I'd never tell him this but he's a good-looking guy, trim body, chiseled features dusted with five-o'clock shadow, puppy-dog brown eyes. He could have the campus eating out of his hand, if he'd only take advantage of what he's got. Right now I'm the only one in on the secret.
"How are you?" I ask. He nods. Bryan never has been one to say much.
"Get any writing done this week?"
"Some," he says.
"Bring it with you?"
"Yes, of course."
Silently I crook my finger at him. He starts to move forward, but I stop him immediately by raising my palm.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
He ducks and scratches his head. "Can't it wait until after you look at my stuff?"
I shake my head. "You know the rules."
He hesitates, but he knows it's useless to argue. He raises his hands and begins to undo his tie. I watch as he strips. My breathing quickens and my heart beats faster as his body, tight and toned from regular workouts at the college gym, comes into view. His pecs and six-pack are lightly dusted with hair, but there's no hair sticking out behind the pouch of his jockstrap. I made him trim his pubes into a neat patch. Wonder what his wife thinks of that, to say nothing of the men he runs into in the gym locker room.
He folds his clothes and puts them on a chair by the door, then straightens and looks at me. I let him leave his strap and socks on. I love a hot man in a jock.
"Looking good," I say. He shrugs.
"Let's see what you've done."
He turns away, bends and reaches into his case of papers. At the sight of those tight butt cheeks framed by the wide straps above his sinewy runner's legs, my cock stiffens and pushes against the front of my pants. I debate whether to save looking at his work for later, but some sense of duty makes me push the thought away.
He hands me the pages. I sit at my desk and begin to read, taking a pen and making a few notations as he waits, standing. I sneak a peek at his well-filled pouch. I'd love to access its contents, though I haven't let him know that. Eventually I'll show him on my own terms how skilled I am at that particular activity.
After a few minutes I look up. Anxiety is in his eyes, sharp and bright. When I nod, giving him my approval, relief floods into his face and he lets out an audible sigh.
"Good work," I tell him.
"Thank you. Your suggestions last week were really helpful."
"I knew they would be. Now I'd like you to spend the next few hours working on this in your office. Remember, you need to have at least one article placed in a top-tier journal by the end of your third year. From what I've read I'd say there's a good chance this could be the one. But only if you keep at it."
He nods. "I told my wife I'd be working late this evening."
I smile. "Good. You're learning." A silence falls. "We need to move on."
His shoulders sag. "Okay." He never has quite gotten used to this part, I think because he has to work. If you ask me, that's Bryan's basic problem. He's just a bit lazy.
"Get the mat."
He goes to the door and locks it before he picks up the mat in front of it. Smart man, he's learning. I've turned my chair to one side behind my desk in the meantime. He places the mat in front of my feet and kneels on it. I keep my face impassive as I spread my knees apart.
His face is an expressionless mask as he concentrates on the task at hand. He grasps the zipper of my fly and draws it downward. When it's open he reaches in and fumbles inside. Finally he manages to unbutton the front of my boxers and pull my cock out, half hard and dripping, moist purple head peeking out from the foreskin. I draw in my breath. Awkward and unwilling as his touch is, it's turning me on. I've been at this for a lot of years, long enough so that the bodies and faces are starting to run together. That won't happen with this one.
"Suck it, Professor."
I can't help sighing with pleasure as my cock is surrounded by the moist heat of his mouth. Bryan's gotten to be quite a good little cocksucker. He slides up and down my shaft, keeping it lubricated with lots of spit, keeping his lips pressed in a tight seal, making sure he peels the foreskin off my throbbing glans on each downstroke. I grab his head, mussing his hair, using his mouth like a fuck toy. I moan with delight as he takes me down to the root, burying his nose in my dense, graying pubic hair, squeezing my dickhead with his throat muscles. After a moment he tries to rise but, just to be mean, I push down on the back of his head, keeping my tool jammed down his gullet until he gags. Finally I let go and he pops up gasping, tears starting from his eyes.
"Nice," I tell him.
He knows better than to say anything, but goes back to work. I could sit here all night watching Bryan do me, but he's too good. A few more minutes and I feel the sperm start to boil up in my balls.
"Fuck, I'm going to shoot," I whisper. He speeds his pace, trying to get it over with. It's exactly what I want. "That's it, that's it, just like that," I hiss at him through gritted teeth. "Oh yeah...here it comes...Take it, fucker!"
I grab his head and jam it into my crotch, not caring whether he chokes on the spunk that's pouring in hot blasts down his throat. He utters muffled cries of protest between gulping noises and gurgles. The sounds he makes mingle with my gasps and moans, my eyes screwed shut as the orgasm rips through my body and explodes inside my head. Oh God, I needed this bad.
