Let's see. As I tell this story, relaxing with my head in my young Master's lap, kissing his stiffening cock now and then, I'm trying to catch you up to how I got here. Today is Friday, January 27. I believe I left you last time on Sunday night, happily licking and chewing my own cum off of a damp washcloth.
You see, my Master, a college student I call Jason (of course not his real name), had finally given me permission to jack myself off. This was only after almost a week of servicing his magnificent member, with my hands and mouth. I was about to burst. When Master Jason granted me this kindness, I almost did burst. I dashed into the bathroom for the washcloth and got right to work. Seven or eight strokes. It was laughable. But I was a fountain of cum, like I hadn't been for years and years. Even though I'm a 40-something man, you could have measured my cum in pints, not teaspoons. I lost two pounds (just kidding). I caught it all, on the cloth, and got busy eating my jizz. Tasty, but not as good as Master's. I offered him some, but he turned it down.
That was late Sunday night. My Master went home, to sleep the morning away, like all 19-year olds do after a night of drinking beer, necking and cumming, and I got a few hours of sleep before getting up to teach my math classes. I teach at a midwestern state university, over a hundred miles from anything you'd call a city. Jason is in my 10:00 calculus class. That's how I met him, or to be more accurate, how he met me, or to really tell the truth, how he took me over, body and mind, with a little hypnosis and a promise that I could suck his cock on a regular basis. I'm his property, period. He says so, and he's always right.
My dullest class, a remedial class of high-school algebra, meets at 9:00 on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday; Jason's calculus class follows, then at 1:00 another section of calculus. Of course, my algebra class no longer really "meets" on Monday morning -- they're all home in bed, sleeping off whatever excitement they enjoyed over the weekend. It's hard to blame them. They cut this class in high school, and didn't magically develop an interest in math over the summer. But, about a third of the class showed up on Monday (including, apropos of nothing, a gorgeous, well-endowed girl with a beautiful buttery cafe-au-lait complexion, who could easily be the next Miss November. Oh, for the days before Master Jason told me I was gay. . . ). I wade through the material, assigning homework problems with regret, because I'll have to grade them. But, as one of the critters on the Flinstones might say, it's a living.
I had my eye on the clock, watching the seconds tick slowly toward 10:00. I hadn't seen my Master since about 1:00 AM and that was 'way too long. At 9:50 I let the algebra class go, erase the chalkboard, put the algebra stuff away and got out the calculus stuff. Calculus-for-dummies isn't exactly fun and games, either, but at least it's a college-level class. Some students wandered in, as I watched for Master Jason. He's about six feet tall, muscular, and sort of handsome -- better than average, but not the tallest, strongest, or best-looking guy on campus. (I'd bet on him in a cock-size contest. But you have to remember, I'm biased.)
At last, he arrived. My face wanted to light up in greeting, but our affair is strictly secret, so I controlled myself. I can't control my prick, though. Even though I'd totally drained him just a few hours before, he was doing the iron bar routine again. I was wearing an extra restraint – a jock strap – that helped some, but I'm sure that some dirty-minded students noticed. "I've gotta solve this erection problem," I thought.
Jason didn't even glance at me. He just found a chair in his usual spot next to the window, sat, and got out his notebook. I was doing my best not just to gaze at him, but instead of gazing I was taking little quick, furtive glances in his direction. If any student saw me doing this, I don't know if he or she made the connection, or not. Deep down, I didn't care much.
Then it was 10:00, straight up. About half attendance. "Attention, please, class. It's time to start. Let's review a little from last time, to get a running start. We're working on the composite-function rules of differentiation – the product rule, the quotient rule, and the chain rule. If you remember, I said that the quotient rule is just a special case of the product rule – why?" I saw a couple of grudging hands, and the class was under way. Jason was paying attention, as usual – I'd of course promised him an "A" but I'd also persuaded him that as a corporate finance major, he'll need this stuff. No secret smile, no sly wink, nothing for me but the business-as-usual mask. He was really good at this secrecy game!
Ms. Decolletage was present, front row center, proudly displaying about 75% of her C- or D-cup tits. (Some professors actually resent sexy girls in sexy outfits in their classes, as if they're personally being prick-teased. I have news for them. Sure, they're being prick-teased. But all the boys are being prick-teased, equally. I've always been sure that they keep a count of how many heads (both kinds) turn, and that there's somebody, with an office in some sorority, keeping score. But it's not a problem. It's a perk.) She (Ms. Decolletage) is actually helpful, in my situation, because if anyone notices the bulge in my jeans, they'll assume that she's the cause, and won't think about me and Master Jason.
So, the math professor (me) droned on, and the 50 minutes dragged by. I hadn't caught Jason's eye all morning, and dropped my guard. Without warning he looked away from the window and raised his hand. By habit, I pointed to him. Usually I don't say anything. Pointing at the hand-raiser is sufficient. But before I could catch myself, I said, "Yes, Mast---," then, "Yes, Mr. D____?" To make matters worse, I turned beet red. Still worse, I let some of my adoration shines through my eyes. I felt my body language change, in an instant, from competent, in-charge professor to besotten, servile slave.
It didn't take two seconds to catch myself and get back into character, but two seconds is plenty of time for people to notice such things. I never found out if any students actually did notice – how would I? – but Master Jason did. Or, as I hoped at that moment, my lenient, understanding and forgiving Master Jason did.
His brow was slightly wrinkled, signaling his displeasure. "Professor, I think I understand the product rule, but did you make a mistake in that last example? Isn't the derivative of the logarithm of x equal to one over x?"
I can't tell you how many different, panicky thoughts raced through my brain in the time it took him to ask that simple question. Did my Master really mean to force me to explain things to him, or, worse, correct him, right in class? I was proud I'd gotten him to accept my private comments on his quizzes. Could I even make the words, "I'm sorry, but you're wrong," come out of my mouth? Then, when I realized that he was correct – the derivative of log-x is 1/ x – I had just as much relief as I'd had panic. He was right! I turned to the board and said, "You're absolutely right. My mistake. Maybe I should slow down and check my work, like I'm always telling students to do."
I gave him the patented sheepish-professor-to-bright-student grin, nothing personal about it, as my mind continued to race. How could I have thought he'd be wrong? What kind of treachery was that? My eyes tried to beam, "Imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry imsorry." I can't decide if what happened later makes me think he got the "I'm sorry" message or not.
"Thank you, Mr. D___." I'd already divulged that I knew his surname, so that was okay. Raising my voice to announcement mode, I said, "Everybody else! Are you following? If you wrote my error into your notes, correct it now. If you do it wrong on the quiz it's your error, not mine. Mine has been fixed."
I got through the rest of the class, but my confidence was shot. It wasn't that Master Jason, pleased or displeased, made me nervous or afraid. It was that the struggle not to drop to The Position and beg to lunch on his cum took too much of my energy. That was another problem I'd need to solve. I couldn't very well ask him not to come to his own class. In fact, I was his slave. I couldn't ask him anything.
As the class stood up to leave, I saw Jason tear off a piece of paper he had written on. A note! For me? What would he say? I moved to the classroom door, as I did sometimes, wishing the students a "good one" and other nice things. I did the same for Jason, and received a many-folded scrap of paper. It almost burned as I continued the airline stewardess routine until the last student had gone.
Trembling, I opened the note. "Your apartment. Tomorrow night, 7:00. Have plenty of Sam Adams ready, cold." At the bottom was an afterthought: "You are in trouble, dr. b. No honey for you today. Think about what you've done and what we should do about it."
I thought about cancelling my 1:00 class and going home, sick, but I struggled through. Then I went home, sick. Really. I was so nervous I puked, just after I got home. Luckily, I'd bought the beer right away. Then I just sat, my mind a blank. It was a long afternoon.
Tuesday snailed by. I spent the morning in my office, pretending to work, but really playing Sudoku on a web site. I suck at Sudoku. Me, a mathematician. I wish I could play Sudoku as well as I can suck cock. That's the kind of profound mathematical thoughts I had all Tuesday. Should I make dinner for him? Should I eat dinner myself? I had no way to tell. I didn't eat. Puking on my Master would not make things better.
Seven o'clock arrived. No Master Jason. Eight, eight-thirty. I had that part figured out. I was getting these extra minutes to really sit and worry. It worked. I sat and worried.
A little after 8:30 came a double tap on the little door knocker. I took a deep breath, slunk to the door and threw the bolt. Just as I turned the doorknob, the door crashed open, knocking me on my butt and knocking the wind out of me. There stood my Master Jason. He'd kicked the door open. I took in a lot of details. He had on ordinary clothes, except on his feet. Heavy boots. Their footprint was on the door.
He didn't exactly look angry. He just looked determined. And huge. I flashed on the idea that maybe I was shrinking, or he was growing, or both. But it wasn't supernatural. Somehow his determination and firmness of purpose made him look bigger.
Master slammed the door. "Assume The Position." I struggled up to my knees, gasping for breath. Not fast enough. He put his boot on my forehead and pushed me over, so I tumbled half-under the dining table. "I said, 'Assume The Position.'"
"Y- Yes, Master. Y- Y- Yes, Master Jason." Still gasping, I arranged myself on my knees, rigidly in The Position, without being shoved again, or even slapped. My breathing still wasn't right, but gasping was not part of assuming The Position. I forced myself to breathe regularly.
