I'm so Sexy

I can feel the eyes on me as I follow the student guide along the catwalk skimming the tops of labs on one side and looking out into a campus quad through a massive glass window on the other. Nice little piece of ass, walking in a saucy way, knowing I'm behind him, watching his little butt twitch in the tight trousers as he walks along, pointing to this and that with little flourishes, batting his eyelashes at me when he turns to speak to me.

Eyes raise to us as we pass and then stop and stare—both women and men. More women than men, but it's the men I scrutinize for the tell-tale signs of interest—speculative interest in me. I am used to it; it isn't something I do; it's something I am. I don't deny it, and, at the same time, I don't deny I use it.

I like to fuck. I don't see it as my fault that I'm packaged to find it easy to do that—for men to readily accommodate me.

I can feel the student guide, Tim, tremble as I touch him on the arm to stop his progress so that he can explain to me what is going on in one of the labs below. He turns, sweeps strands of straight, golden-blond-dyed hair out of his face, and smiles a shy smile for me. I can tell from that and his trembling that I can have him. In fact, just from the way he made sure I knew he was twenty, a college senior, I knew he was available.

He wouldn't be my first choice, really. But I'm just visiting and he is obviously available and willing. I'm not sure I feel energetic enough to put the effort into acquiring better.

I've found I can have almost any man—and woman too, if I was so inclined—with them pursing me rather than the other way around. It's just the way it is. A science colleague and lover once told me that, in addition to the look of me, it was pheromones—something I exuded that made others want me. I scoffed, but he claimed to be serious, and it certainly worked with him.

Tim answers with surprise. "I understand you've devised the Tristan Variation, which uses. . . ." Rather than listen to him rattle off what I already knew so well, being the "Tristan" of that variation, I concentrate on his expression, which is as much one of admiration—almost worship—as surprise. He seems to realize that I'm not really listening to what he says but am concentrating on him—personally. I give him that special smile, and he melts into the walkway. This is going to be very easy. I hadn't wanted him at the start; he was a bit too effeminate for me. Now, feeling myself harden, I do.

"Yes, we experiment with that too at Arizona," I say. "I just wasn't familiar with that brand of equipment being used for the research here."

"I thought you—that Arizona—were far ahead of us on that process, Professor Tristan," he murmurs, still a bit breathless because I've left my fingers on his forearm, burning my brand into his flesh, testing on whether he will withdraw. He doesn't.

I know it's a question on why I'm interviewing for a post here. I'm king of the labs at Arizona—their current hope for a Nobel Prize. They give me everything. They even pimp for me, knowing that my needs are nearly insatiable. Why would I ever leave there? "One can stay in one place too long," I say. "Life can get too complicated, too much of a rut. I'm not much for long-term commitment."

Just the once, I'm signaling. There's no chance of something building from it. Take it or leave it, little boy. If you're good with a one-time fuck, I'm your man. This. This is at the center of why I am looking beyond Arizona. The increasing lack of understanding there that I really do want someone fresh each time—and preferably someone unused or only slightly so, someone innocent to how totally I will use him.

"Perhaps after the tour, we could go for coffee," he ventures. ". . . I'd like to hear more about the program at Arizona."

Home free. "Perhaps a drink at my hotel instead."

I feel him shudder as he nervously brushes down the front of his trousers, trying to hide the bulge we both know is there—the trousers I know I'm going to pull down those long, long legs of his along with his bikini briefs when I pull him up off his knees after he's sucked me ready.

That's after I've had my fill of fondling his curves and listening to his intake of breath while we're kissing. When I reach around with both hands, separate his bare butt cheeks, and penetrate and open him with fingers of both hands as I hold him close in a deep kiss, he sinks to the floor in front of me and takes my cock in his mouth. Who knew a young man so innocent and fresh looking could give such expert head? He can deep-throat it all, and that's saying a lot. It's not the first time I think he was assigned as my student guide as a recruitment ploy. It would be hard for my reputation not to precede me.

I presume the powers that be here—whoever was assigned to pimp for me—assumed I would be impressed with experience and mastering when, in fact, I would prefer innocence, albeit acquiescence, to what I do with the gift.

I lift him up and turn him toward the bed. Trembling and emitting little burbling sounds, he positions himself—one knee on the bed, the other foot on the floor, thighs spread, arms stiff arming the bedspread, the material bunched up in his fists, now emitting mewing sounds—as I roll on a Trojan Magnum.

I reach up and brush his hair to one side, exposing his neck, a throbbing vein. He's open to me in more ways than one. If I were a vampire, I believe he still would receive me.

He gasps, groans, and tightens up at the entry, but I hold there a few seconds to permit him to adjust before I reach around to take one pectoral in each hand, thrum his nipples with my thumbs, press my lips to the throbbing vein, and thrust with my hips.

"Oh, daddy, daddy. Yes, daddy, yes."

He doesn't have any idea yet what "daddy" has in store for him. We've already established he's not my guide for the next day, which is good, because he isn't going to be in any condition to be able to guide anyone tomorrow.

* * * *

I "get" it when Aaron mentions knowing Joseph Cleese, husband of one of the deans at Arizona, as Aaron is the husband of the dean I am scheduled to meet with informally over dinner at her house this evening. I should have gotten it when he met me at the door of his columned colonial house a block from the campus in some form of loose-fitting silk lounge suit and said, "I'm afraid Janet can't join us. Some sort of mishap at a lab at the college. She said we should go ahead with the dinner, though, and she'd be along when she could be. You do have to eat somewhere, and Cook has it prepared. Janet says she'll talk with you tomorrow if she doesn't make it back soon."

If he knows and talks with Joseph, I wonder if he volunteered to face the required "dinner with a faculty member" duty alone rather than just having Janet call and cancel. I would suppose so. He has dressed the part. A willowy, flowing movement, well-preserved academic type in ochre-colored silk, letting off a sensuous slithering sound with each tightly orchestrated movement. Brazilian? Argentine? Had I heard that he had married Janet to get into the country? It didn't matter. Not young by any means, but well preserved, both hard and soft bodied, each where it counted. Younger than Janet, though—and, for me, much more appealing on the eyes.

Candlelight on the table. Smoothing out any wrinkles. A sensual, knowing smile.

Referencing Joseph Cleese says it all. The young, boy toy husband of the dean of the college at Arizona, initially my tennis partner and subsequently much more than that to me. But not the best recruitment move in anticipation of my decision for a change. Under these circumstances, I would have fucked Aaron anyway, given the opportunity, without the reference to Joseph. I was in the mood for something more substantial than the student guide, something more Latin. The Latins are fiery and uninhibited. And Aaron obviously wants it; He's boldly feeling me up under the table and giving me the eyes of want before we've finished dessert.

But it reminds me that it's the students and the boy toy Josephs of Arizona—the possessiveness of and battles between them—that have me shopping for another post—less stress; fewer complications. Being reminded of that doesn't mean I'm not going to fuck Aaron, though.

As a one-time taking, he will do just fine.

Since I didn't hide knowing Joseph and, by extension, what Joseph would say about me and because I am calmly letting Aaron fondle me under the table, he becomes bolder in what he could offer in the way of recruitment incentive. It hasn't taken me long to understand that Janet not being here is no accident—and that the recruitment pitch is coming from Aaron, not her, by design.

Janet is putting her best case forward, and that's Aaron, not her.

"I know that Joseph makes what you like available for you in Phoenix," he says. "I'm the head of student housing here, and I'm in a position to broker privileges with fresh underclassmen wanting favorable housing and willing to be available for the first time to get a good room."

"That's interesting," I respond. It isn't interesting in the way Aaron probably thinks I mean, though. I had never gotten a man under me, and opening his legs, through bribery or the hint of privilege to be gained by him. And Joseph went out of bounds if he left the impression with Aaron that he procured any tail for me.

In a guest room, because he "just couldn't do it in the bed he shares with Janet," Aaron wants to ride me cowboy style, and I let him. Before this he gives me an expert blow job. I get that he's not faking what I can take from him. His BJ is as good, if not better, than the student guide's was. Does this college have a class in it? First time I've had a man fuck me in foreplay with his armpits, hiding my cock under his arm on either side while he's nibbling on my nipples and fucking me with the movement of his arm. Raising his dark eyes, with the long, curly eyelashes, and staring into my face with lustful eyes; murmuring what must be dirty words in Spanish. Or is that Portuguese? Who the shit cares? Either sounds sexy when my cock is being rubbed in his armpits—and then between his thighs before I manage to get around to holing it.

I let him think he's in charge. Rising over me, marveling at the size of me. Wondering out loud if he can take me in the ass, when both of us know he could sheath a Volkswagen bus. Making gasping sounds about size when I produce the Trojan Magnum, insisting on rolling it on my cock himself, making a big scene of wetting the sheathed shaft down with his mouth. Sucking me inside his ass. Milking me dry with shimmering channel muscles. Oh, yes, he's done this before. He's done this frequently. And, yes, he'd be a good ride if I signed on here. Hard to beat a South American for enthusiasm, openness, and inventiveness. Riding, riding, riding me. Sucking every bit of cum out of me.

A good fuck, of course, but not what's fully arousing to me.

Sitting afterward at his kitchen table, him just in sleeping shorts; me naked and sprawling off the seat of the chair, because "I want to see your beautiful body move, your lovely big cock rise again."

So, we're going to do it again. I'm game, but I look at my watch. Janet is taking her sweet time. I get it already—what I can have by transferring to here. It's not their fault that they've misjudged what I prefer.

Drinking coffee—black and strong—and a good cognac. His hand stroking me under the table.

Fucking him belly down from behind on the kitchen table, while he laughs and wiggles his ass, muttering guttural words in Spanish or Portuguese, until I've given it all to him, scaring him with what "all of it" means, settling down to a rhythm of long, deep slides, listening to him gasp and moan. His passage shimmering, grabbing and releasing. Me getting as much pleasure as he is. A slow build to a mutual explosion.

"Oh baby, baby. Yes, baby, yes."

Asserting that he's the daddy, having more than ten years on me. But he's playing the sub role expertly.

"You're so sexy," he continuously moans as I plow his ass. As if I didn't know that already.

Barely dressed again and leaving when his wife's car pulls into the driveway, with Janet giving a cheery wave with the driver's-side window down. Aaron standing at the door, barefoot and still only in his sleeping shorts.

OK, I get it about Janet's willingness to share. Preplanned. Has Aaron called Janet while I was showering and dressing and told her it was safe to come home? This is what I can have if I sign a contract?

Only it's what I already have at Arizona. It's why I'm leaving Arizona. Still, Aaron certainly has a talented mouth and ass. I must be on the lookout for South American tail.

* * * *

Paul Compton, my age, my handsome face, my perfect physique, and the chair of the department at his young age for reasons that go beyond academic smarts, closes and locks the door behind me when I arrive for my interview. The shade over the window in the door to the corridor comes down. No attempt whatsoever to hide the maneuver. Stays very close to me as I enter the office. A fiery redhead, with the mane of a lion. A pullover sweater as tight across his chest as it can be, just as are the faded jeans—both easily shucked, though, I learn.

To think a dean would dress like this, you have to know Paul. I'm not fooled, however. I know he has dressed like this just for me. I'm sure he has nothing on underneath the jeans, something that it would have been nice to have someone bet me on, as he doesn't—which would be clear to anyone following the line and curves of the bulge. No surprises here. This is vintage Paul Compton. We have history from graduate school. That history not being the success with me that Paul probably thinks it was, him having been aggressive and wanting to talk of "forevers," both of which rang "walk away" bells for me.

"We can talk later," he says in a husky voice. Couldn't be clearer. He's only gotten better with age.

But then, so have I.

I pull the sweater over his head and rub his quarter-sized aureoles with my perpetually five-o'clock-shadow cheeks. He groans, and the nipples stand at instant attention, filling out, and begging to be sucked. I suck them, one after the other. We're standing in the middle of the room, swaying against each other. Moaning, he reaches down and unzips me and moves a hand into the slit. "Oh, fuck, Mr. Sexy. You remember me, don't you? Drop dead sexy and ready for it. Don't make me wait, Mr. Sexy. I want you inside me." He begins to climb me with his legs but changes his mind and maneuvers me toward a chair.

He fucks himself on my staff in the desk chair, Paul naked, me fully clothed except for my shirt unbuttoned for his hands to roam and my fly unzipped for him to ride my cock, facing me, as I sit in the chair and he straddles me, I valiantly try to get all of his aureoles in my mouth, one after the other. Sucking and fucking, the nipples needing to be teethed and sucked.

On my back on the desk, leveraging off my heels on the floor. Paul saddled on my cock, riding me hard, as I palm his pecs, thrumming and pinching the nipples, and counterpunch in long, deep thrusts. Another power bottom; wanting the cock, wanting me working it inside him, but wanting to think he's the one in control.

I know that would be an unending battle if I came to work in his department, the struggle for control in the question of who is controlling the fuck.

"Yes, you stud, you stud. Fuck me, yes, fuck me. Work those nubs."

As if whatever I do is at his command. Can he ever get enough?

That's the interview. Of course he offers me the position—me knowing the position entails more than a teaching spot; he's making quite clear he wants a submissive top—as, dressed once more, he lifts the shade and unlocks and opens the door to the outer corridor.

I say, my eyes on the lines and curves of his bulge, that I'm certainly considering it. And I am, in fact, wondering what he's doing for dinner—and who's doing him afterward. I wouldn't mind showing him what I've learned since graduate school, what I can do on top. And in command.

He says, "I'll enjoy having you work under me. I think you'll enjoy it too."

We both laugh when I counter, "Don't you mean me working on top of you," but I can see that the smile on his face doesn't reach to the eyes.

Still, he's more of a challenge for control than I've encountered from anyone before. He's fucked me balls-aching dry. I'd almost forgotten that about him. Voracious.

* * * *

Dean Raffer, tall, elegant, impeccably groomed and dressed, flashes me a brilliant smile as I'm ushered into his office and sit in a chair facing his desk. He stands and comes around the desk, sitting almost sideways on the desk in front of me, the heel of one spit-polished tasseled loafer on the carpet, the other leg bent and dangling. Showing me a slim profile with a good chest—his studied "best side." His crotch is puffed out in the tailored slacks. He's hard—I could tell when he was watching me enter the room that he would be—and he wanted me to know it.

Reaching over and grasping my knee with his manicured hand, the fingers long and strong. "We would love to have you on the faculty here, Robert. We could have ever so much fun."

Talking to my basket, not to my eyes, lips parted and tongue darting out. So sure of himself; sure all of the other recruitment efforts have settled it and he's just in to establish that his needs are part of the deal.

As I rise from his grip, I tell him I'm strongly considering it—but I'm not. I'm already thinking about the next college where I can interview. This is just the sort of stress and complicated life that is prompting me to leave Arizona. I can't help it if I am the way I am—not that I really want to help it, mind you. I'm just too sexy for false humility.

"What do you have on for dinner tonight?" he asks. "We could—"

"Alas I have plans," I answer, trying to show regret in my eyes, but the plane schedules back to Arizona already going through my head. If I call ahead, I know Joseph will drop everything and meet my plane. But it will cost me. Such is the burden of the world's sexiest man.