Professor Russo's property
Luis pushed through the Caldwell building's side door into the amber glow of early evening. The air hit his face—cool, carrying the mineral scent of the lake and the distant hum of a groundskeeping mower making its last pass across the east lawn. His legs carried him forward on autopilot while his body catalogued its own condition with clinical detachment: throat tender, jaw aching pleasantly, the specific soreness in his ass that would make sitting through tomorrow's lectures an exercise in vivid memory.
He didn't need to look at his phone. His hand found it anyway.
"I'm out. Call me. Now."
Lauren picked up on the first ring. "I've been staring at my ceiling for forty minutes waiting for you to emerge. I've named all the cracks in the plaster. There are seventeen of them. Tell me everything."
"Everything is a lot."
"I have time. I have nothing but time. I'm lying on my bed in my combat boots because I was too anxious to take them off."
Luis walked toward the lake path, the one that curved around the eastern edge of campus and gave him the longest possible route home. He needed the walking. He needed the air. He needed to process what had just happened before his brain caught up with his body.
"Professor Aldridge was there when I arrived," he said. "Leaving. He gave me this look—like he knew something. Not what was actually happening, but that something was happening. Giuseppe said he notices things. Saw me leave on Monday. Mentioned I seemed 'energized.'"
"Energized. That's a word choice." Lauren's voice was sharp with amusement. "What did you do?"
"I acted normal. Giuseppe told him we were meeting about the regioselectivity problem. Aldridge left with this crooked little smile and I still don't know what it meant."
"And then?"
"And then Giuseppe told me to strip."
The pause on the line was electric. "Just like that?"
"Just like that. Sat behind his desk in that dark blue shirt, took out his cock, started stroking himself, and told me to take off my clothes." Luis reached the lake path. The ducks had retired for the evening. The water was glass-still, reflecting the deepening sky. "So I did. And then I was on my knees again. And then he had me put one leg on the desk while I was still sucking him, and he opened a drawer—he has lubricant in his desk drawer, Lauren, he keeps it there—and he fingered me open while I had his cock in my mouth."
"He prepared you while you were sucking him. Simultaneously. Multitasking."
"He's a very efficient man."
"I'm beginning to understand that." The sound of boots hitting floor came through the speaker—Lauren sitting up, probably, her attention fully engaged. "Then what?"
"Then he bent me over the desk. Face down. And he made me beg for it."
"Beg how?"
Luis stopped walking. The memory bloomed behind his eyes: the cool mahogany against his cheek, the heat of Giuseppe's body behind him, the head of that massive cock pressing—just pressing—against his entrance, demanding words before it would give him what he needed.
"He made me say I was his. Made me say my ass belonged to him. Made me promise I'd think of him every time I sat in his lecture. Made me promise I'd wear his cum inside me through the semester." He heard his own voice crack slightly on the last words. "I said all of it. I meant all of it."
"Jesus, Luis."
"I know."
"No—I'm not judging. I'm processing. Keep going."
"He fucked me. Slow at first. Then harder. He's enormous, Lauren. I've never felt anything like it. He hit my prostate with every stroke. I was crying. Actually crying of pleasure, I must admit." Luis stopped. Swallowed. He hesitated for a second to talk about the spit, which was a lot and was not sure Lauren needed to know about, even though she was very open-minded, invested and already knows a lot regarding his sexuality.
"Holy shit."
"And then he told me to hold still so he could use me, and he just—took me. Pounded me. I came on his desk without him even touching my cock. Just from being fucked. And when he came, it was—there was so much of it. I could feel it filling me. He stayed inside me after, let me feel it."
"And then?"
"He had me clean his cock with my mouth. While he straightened his shirt. Like it was just another item on his to-do list. And then he told me about Monday."
"Monday?"
"He wants me to come to his office at seven a.m. Before classes. He's going to fuck me then. And then come back at four in the afternoon so he will fuck me agai."
Luis avoid the details, not wanting to give all the information regarding his intimacy. A lot was already told. The phone was silent for a long moment.
"Lauren?"
"I'm here. I'm just—I'm formulating thoughts. Give me a second."
Luis walked. The path curved past the boathouse, dark and locked this time of evening. A few students were still out, jogging or walking in pairs, their conversations drifting across the grass in fragments. None of them looked at him. None of them knew.
"Okay," Lauren said finally. "Thoughts formulated. Question one: are you okay with this? Like, actually okay? Not horny-okay. Real-okay."
"I'm real-okay. He's direct about what he wants. He's not pretending this is anything other than what it is. He told me upfront he's married, open relationship, his husband knows. The clarity is actually—it's refreshing."
"Question two: you told me that his husband knows about the situation. But does he... Like, really know? Or is that something he tells people?"
Luis had considered this. He'd turned it over in his mind during the walk from Caldwell, the question floating alongside the physical memories. "I think he knows. Giuseppe brought it up on the first time. Said his husband wasn't entirely enthusiastic about the power dynamics but trusted his judgment. That's a weirdly specific thing to invent."
"Unless he's a very good liar who knows that weirdly specific details make lies more believable."
"That's... true. That's a possibility." Luis paused at the fork in the path. Left led to his apartment. Right led back toward the main campus. He went left. "But here's the thing. I'm not sure it's my problem."
"Explain."
"Giuseppe contacted me. Giuseppe set up the meetings. Giuseppe is the one who's married. Whatever arrangement he has with his husband—whether it's exactly what he told me or something more complicated—that's his responsibility to manage. Not mine. I'm not the one who made vows."
"You're the one who's sleeping with a married man."
"I'm the one who's sleeping with a man who told me he's in an open relationship. If he's lying, that's on him. I'm taking him at his word. Maybe that's naive, but I'd rather be naive and honest than suspicious and miserable."
Lauren made a sound that wasn't quite agreement and wasn't quite disagreement. "I see your logic. I'm not sure I entirely buy it. But I see it."
"I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I'm not trying to break up a marriage. I'm a twenty-one-year-old chemistry student who got messaged by a hot professor and decided to say yes. The rest of it—the husband, the power dynamics, the ethics of the situation—that's Giuseppe's to manage. He's the one with the wedding ring."
"The wedding ring he presumably takes off before office hours."
Luis laughed, surprising himself. "Probably. I haven't actually looked."
"You've been preoccupied."
"I've been extremely preoccupied."
They both laughed then, the tension breaking. The path led past the old observatory, its dome catching the last light of sunset. Luis had always liked this building—the way it seemed to belong to a different era, a time when astronomy was done with brass instruments and patient human eyes rather than digital sensors and computer algorithms.
"So Monday at seven," Lauren said. "That's... early."
"I'll set an alarm."
"You'll need to shower beforehand. Probably eat something. You don't want to get fucked on an empty stomach."
"Is that from personal experience?"
"It's from common sense. Also yes. Low blood sugar during sex is not ideal." The boots hit floor again—Lauren was definitely pacing now. "He really went all-in on this, didn't he? The Monday morning thing. The dirty talk. The teacher-student dynamic. The open relationship. This is not a man who's half-hearted about his kinks."
"Giuseppe Russo does not do anything half-heartedly. Have you seen him lecture?"
"I've seen him lecture. He lectures like he's personally offended by molecular instability." Lauren paused. "You really like him, don't you? Not just the sex. The whole package."
Luis considered this. "I like how clear he is. I like that he knows what he wants and says it directly. I like that he's smart and passionate about his subject and also completely unapologetic about wanting to dominate me. There's no confusion. No mixed signals. He wants to use me, and he tells me exactly how he's going to do it, and then he does it. I don't have to wonder or interpret or guess."
"That's... actually a really healthy way to look at it. In a weird way."
"It's the healthiest unhealthy relationship I've ever had."
"Which is a very low bar, given your dating history."
"The bar is subterranean. But he cleared it."
They talked for another fifteen minutes. Lauren asked more questions—about the logistics, about how Luis felt physically, about whether he was going to tell Marcus and Kiran anything. Luis answered as best he could. No, he wouldn't tell Marcus and Kiran. The physical feelings were intense but manageable. The logistics were going to be complicated but worth it. Yes, he was going to keep doing this. Yes, he understood the risks. Yes, he would be careful.
"Promise me something," Lauren said as Luis reached his apartment building. "If anything starts to feel wrong—if he pushes too hard, if the power dynamic gets weird, if you start feeling used in a bad way instead of a good way—you'll tell me. Immediately. No waiting to see if it gets better."
"I promise."
"I'm serious, Luis. I support you. I'm here for the updates and the drama and the vicarious excitement. But I reserve the right to be worried."
"You always reserve that right."
"It's one of my core personality traits. Along with wit and excellent fashion sense."
Luis smiled. "I'll text you Monday. After the morning session."
"You'll text me Monday after the morning session and after the afternoon session and possibly during the afternoon session if you can manage it."
"I will not be texting during sex."
"Then immediately after. I want timestamps. I want a full accounting."
"Goodnight, Lauren."
"Goodnight, Luis. Try to sleep. You've got a big weekend of anticipation ahead of you."
The weekend was exactly as Lauren had predicted: a long stretch of anticipation that made concentrating on anything else nearly impossible.
Luis went swimming Saturday morning, pushing himself through lap after lap in the campus pool, the repetitive rhythm of freestyle doing nothing to quiet his mind. The water was cool against his skin, the chlorine sharp in his nostrils, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the weight of Giuseppe's body pressing him into the mahogany desk, the stretch of that massive cock opening him, the voice in his ear demanding he beg for it. He got out of the pool harder than when he'd gotten in and had to wait in the locker room shower for his erection to subside.
Saturday afternoon, he tried to study. The library was quiet, the autumn light slanting through the tall windows, the smell of old books and floor polish filling the air. He opened his organic synthesis textbook to the chapter on pericyclic reactions and stared at the same paragraph for twenty minutes without absorbing a single word. The diagrams blurred. The mechanisms refused to cohere. All he could see was Giuseppe's hand fisting in his hair, yanking his head back, a thread of saliva dropping from the professor's mouth into his own.
He closed the textbook.
He went for a run instead.
Sunday was worse. He cleaned his apartment. He did laundry. He sketched in his notebook—a study of hands, fingers curled around an invisible shaft, the tension in the knuckles, the strain in the tendons. The drawing was more explicit than he'd intended, and he tore out the page and buried it at the bottom of his backpack before his roommates could see.
Sunday night, lying in bed, he let himself remember.
The head of Giuseppe's cock pressing against him. The stretch. The burn. The slow, inexorable slide as inch after inch pushed inside, filling him in ways he'd never been filled before. The way his body had opened—reluctantly at first, then eagerly, then desperately, his muscles yielding, his hole stretching, his entire nervous system reorganizing itself around the sensation of being so completely occupied. Giuseppe's voice: you're so tight. This peachy little ass. Giuseppe's hand on his neck, pinning him down. Giuseppe's cum flooding him, hot and thick and impossibly deep.
Luis's hand moved under the covers. His cock was already hard, already leaking. He stroked himself slowly, his mind replaying the scene in high definition—the scrape of the desk against the floor, the slap of skin against skin, the way he'd sobbed from the intensity of it, the way he'd begged, the way he'd meant every word. Yours. I'm yours. This ass belongs to you. I'll wear your cum inside me always.
He came with a muffled cry, his back arching off the mattress, his release splattering across his stomach.
He cleaned himself up and lay there in the darkness, breathing hard, already counting the hours until seven a.m.
Monday morning arrived cold and gray, the first real autumn chill settling over campus like a held breath. Luis woke before his alarm—four forty-five—and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his heart already beating faster than it should be at this hour. His roommates were both asleep, the apartment silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.
He showered. He ate a granola bar he didn't taste. He dressed in jeans and a simple gray sweater, nothing that would attract attention, nothing that would be difficult to remove. He checked his phone. Five forty-five. Still too early to leave. He sat on his bed and stared at the wall and tried not to think about what was coming.
He thought about it anyway.
At six-thirty he left the apartment. The campus was quiet, the paths empty, the grass wet with dew. The Caldwell building loomed against the pale morning sky, its windows dark except for a single light on the third floor. Room 312.
Luis climbed the stairs. His footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell. The corridor stretched ahead of him, lined with closed office doors. He reached room 312 and raised his hand to knock.
"Come in."
Giuseppe's voice, warm and calm, before Luis's knuckles had even touched the wood. He'd been heard approaching. Or expected. Or both.
Luis opened the door.
The office was exactly as he remembered it: the bookshelves, the window, the desk dominating the room. But the morning light changed everything—made it softer, more intimate, the shadows deeper in the corners, the lamplight warmer against the gray sky outside. Giuseppe was seated behind the desk in a deep burgundy shirt, the sleeves already rolled to his elbows, his forearms exposed. He was reading something—papers, a manuscript—and he didn't look up immediately when Luis entered.
"Close the door," he said.
Luis closed the door.
"Lock it."
The bolt clicked into place.
Giuseppe looked up then, his dark eyes meeting Luis's across the room. The same assessing gaze. The same slight curve at the corner of his mouth. He gestured to the chair facing the desk—the chair where Luis had sat on that first Monday, the chair where Professor Aldridge had been on Thursday.
"Sit."
Luis sat.
"How was your weekend?"
The question was so normal, so mundane, that it took Luis a moment to adjust. "Quiet. I swam. Ran. Tried to study."
"And did you succeed? The studying?"
"Not really. I was... distracted."
"I imagine you were." Giuseppe's smile widened slightly. "I was distracted as well. The anticipation of this morning made it difficult to focus on my research. I found myself reading the same paragraph of a journal article four times without comprehension." He leaned back in his chair, the movement drawing the burgundy fabric tight across his chest. "How did you feel on Thursday? After you left."
"I told my friend Lauren. She's the only one who knows. She was... supportive. Concerned but supportive."
"That's wise. Having someone you can trust. The secrecy of this arrangement can be isolating. It helps to have an outlet."
"She asked about your husband."
Giuseppe's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. "What did you tell her?"
"That you told me you're in an open relationship. That your husband knows about me. That whatever arrangement you have is your responsibility, not mine." Luis paused. "Was that the right thing to say?"
"It was the honest thing to say. And yes—it's accurate. My husband knows. He's not entirely comfortable, but he trusts me. We've been together for fifteen years. Our relationship has survived more complicated things than a discreet affair with a graduate student." Giuseppe stood, the chair rolling back from the desk. "But I don't think you came here at seven in the morning to discuss my marriage."
"No. I didn't."
Giuseppe walked around the desk. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, the same controlled energy he brought to his lectures. He stopped directly in front of Luis's chair—so close that Luis's knees were almost touching his legs. From this angle, looking up, the professor's physical presence was overwhelming. The breadth of his shoulders. The thickness of his chest. The way his trousers did nothing to hide the prominent bulge that was directly at Luis's eye level.
"You've been thinking about Thursday," Giuseppe said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"About what I did to you. How I used you."
"Yes, Professor."
"I want to hear it. Tell me what you've been thinking about."
Luis's mouth went dry. "I've been thinking about—about the way you stretched me. The feeling of being filled. The weight of you on top of me. The way you made me beg."
"What else?"
"The way you told me I was yours. The way you said I was nothing but a hole for you to use." The words came out barely above a whisper.
Giuseppe's hand came to rest on Luis's head. Gently. Almost tenderly. Then his fingers tightened, gripping Luis's hair, and he pressed Luis's face against the bulge in his trousers. The heat of it was immediate, the hardness unmistakable. Luis could feel the shape of him through the fabric, the length and thickness he'd already memorized with his mouth and his hole.
"You missed this," Giuseppe murmured. "You missed having my cock inside you. You spent the whole weekend thinking about it. Touching yourself. Imagining what I would do to you next."
"Yes," Luis breathed against the fabric. "Yes, I did."
"Then you should be more imploring." Giuseppe's grip tightened. "Tell me. Beg me. Convince me you deserve what I'm about to give you."
The command sent a spike of arousal through Luis's body. His cock was already hard, straining against his jeans. "Please, Professor. Please let me have your cock. I've been thinking about it all weekend. I couldn't study. I couldn't sleep. I kept remembering how it felt inside me. The stretch. The fullness. The way you took control of me completely."
"More."
"I need it. I need you to fill me. I need to feel you stretching me open again. I need to be yours again. Please. Please, Professor. I'll do anything. I'll be anything you want. Just—please—let me be yours to play"
Giuseppe looked down at him, his dark eyes unreadable. Then his free hand moved to his belt, unfastening it with practiced efficiency. The sound of the buckle was loud in the quiet office. The zipper followed. Then he was freeing himself—that massive cock, already fully hard, the broad head flushed and glistening with a bead of pre-cum.
"Open your mouth," Giuseppe commanded.
Luis opened his mouth. Giuseppe's hand tightened in his hair, tilting his head back. Their eyes met. Then Giuseppe pursed his lips and a thread of saliva dropped from his mouth into Luis's, landing warm on his tongue.
"Swallow."
Luis swallowed. Then Giuseppe spit again a second time.
"Now, keep it in your mouth and-" Giuseppe's grip shifted, pulling Luis's head forward "—take my cock. All of it. We need to work fast. I won't have you late to your first class."
Before Luis could respond, Giuseppe pushed forward. The cock filled his mouth in one motion, the head hitting the back of his throat, and Luis gagged—a reflexive spasm that he controlled through sheer will. Giuseppe didn't pause. He began fucking Luis's face with the same controlled intensity he'd used on the desk—not brutal, but relentless, each thrust pushing deeper, each withdrawal giving Luis just enough time to breathe before the next invasion.
"That's it," Giuseppe murmured. "Take it. Take your professor's cock. This is what you're for. This is what your mouth is made for."
Luis moaned around the shaft. Saliva was running down his chin, his eyes were watering, his throat was working to accommodate the relentless intrusion. But he didn't resist. He didn't want to resist. The submission felt like relief—the surrender of control, the simplicity of being used, the clarity of having only one purpose in this moment.
Giuseppe fucked his throat for long minutes, the rhythm steady and deep, the sounds wet and obscene. Then, without warning, he pulled out. Luis gasped for air, his chest heaving, his face wet with saliva and tears.
"On the desk," Giuseppe said. "Face down. Present yourself."
Luis scrambled to comply, positioning himself on the mahogany surface, his cheek against the cool wood, his ass raised, his hole exposed. The position was humiliating and arousing at once—the vulnerability of it, the presentation of his most intimate place to a man who would use it without mercy.
"Beg for it," Giuseppe said.
"Please fuck me, Professor. Please put your cock inside me. I need to be filled. I need to be claimed. I need to feel you stretching me open again." The words came out in a rush, desperate and shameless. "Please. Please. I've been waiting all weekend. My hole has been empty all weekend. I need you inside me. I need your cum inside me. Please—"
The slap of Giuseppe's cock against his ass cut him off. The weight of it was shocking—heavy and hot, the shaft slapping against his waiting hole with a wet sound. Then the lubricant was being applied, cool and slick, and fingers were pressing inside him—three at once, the stretch immediate and intense.
"Already looser than Thursday," Giuseppe observed, his voice clinical. "Your body is learning. Adapting. You're becoming what I need you to be."
The fingers withdrew. The head of the cock pressed against his entrance.
And then Giuseppe pushed forward.
The stretch was still immense—the width of him, the thickness, the fullness as inch after inch slid inside. But Luis's body accepted it more readily this time, opening around the shaft, drawing it deeper. By the time Giuseppe was fully seated, Luis was trembling, his hole clenching around the massive cock, his own member dripping onto the desk.
"Good boy," Giuseppe murmured. "Very good boy."
He began to move.
The rhythm was steady and controlled—not yet the wild pounding of Thursday, but something more measured. Giuseppe knew his own size. He knew what his cock could do to a body that wasn't ready for it. So he fucked Luis with deliberate precision, each thrust deep but not brutal, each withdrawal slow enough to let Luis feel every inch of him.
"You're taking me well," Giuseppe said, his voice calm and instructional. "Better than last time. Your body remembers. Your hole is stretching to accommodate me. This is what happens with practice—the body adapts, learns, becomes more efficient at taking what it's given."
Luis moaned into the desk. The lecture-style commentary should have been absurd—Giuseppe narrating the mechanics of their coupling as if he were explaining a reaction pathway—but somehow it made everything hotter. The clinical detachment. The sense that Luis was both his student and his experiment.
"You're my property now," Giuseppe continued, his hips maintaining their steady rhythm. "You come to my office at seven in the morning to be filled. Then you'll sit through my lecture with my cum inside you. You'll come back in the afternoon to be filled again. That's your function. That's your purpose. You're not a student anymore—you're my personal hole. My cum dump. My property."
"Yes," Luis gasped. "Yes, Professor. I'm your property. I'm your hole. I want to be your cum dump. I want to be filled by you every day."
"You want nothing else?"
"I want nothing else. Just this. Just you. Just your cock inside me."
Giuseppe's hand found Luis's throat. His fingers wrapped around it, not squeezing yet, just a presence. A reminder. "You've never done this before. The choking."
"No, Professor."
"Tell me if it's too much. I'll stop immediately."
"I trust you."
The fingers tightened.
The pressure was immediate—the restriction of air, the narrowing of his airway, the feeling of being completely controlled. Giuseppe's hips continued their rhythm, the cock sliding in and out of his hole, and Luis felt his consciousness narrow to two points of focus: the cock filling him and the hand around his throat. The rest of the world dissolved. There was no office, no desk, no campus outside the window. There was only Giuseppe Russo and the total surrender of his body.
The hand squeezed harder. Giuseppe's thrusts intensified, the controlled rhythm breaking into something more urgent. The cock was hitting his prostate with every stroke now, and Luis could feel his climax building—a pressure in his balls, a tightening in his core, a white heat at the edges of his vision that had nothing to do with the restricted air.
"Touch yourself," Giuseppe commanded, his voice strained. "Make yourself come. Come on my cock inside you while I choke you."
Luis's hand found his own shaft. He stroked frantically, the rhythm matching the thrusts, the dual sensation of being filled and restricted pushing him toward the edge with terrifying speed. His balls drew up. His hole clenched. His entire body tightened.
"Come for me," Giuseppe snarled. "Now."
Luis shattered.
The orgasm ripped through him with a violence that surprised him—his vision going white, his body convulsing, his cum pulsing onto the desk in thick ropes. His hole clamped around Giuseppe's cock with rhythmic contractions, milking the shaft, and behind him Giuseppe let out a roar as his own release hit.
The first pulse of cum was hot and deep, flooding Luis's insides. More pulses followed—six, seven, eight—an impossible volume that filled him until he could feel it pressing against his walls, dripping from where they were joined, running down the inside of his thigh. Giuseppe's hand stayed on his throat through all of it, the pressure gradually easing but never fully releasing.
Small thrusts. Milking. Giuseppe's hips moving in shallow movements, working the last drops of cum deeper into Luis's body, making sure every drop was deposited.
Then, abruptly, he pulled out.
The sudden emptiness was shocking. Before Luis could process it, Giuseppe's hand was in his hair again, pulling him off the desk, pushing him to his knees. The cock—still hard, still glistening with lubricant and cum—was pressed against his lips.
"Clean it," Giuseppe said. "Every inch."
Luis opened his mouth and took the shaft inside. The taste was overwhelming—his own body and Giuseppe's seed and the residual slickness of the lubricant. He sucked diligently, his tongue tracing every vein, cleaning every trace of their coupling from the massive cock. Giuseppe's hand rested on his head, not pushing, just a presence. A reminder.
Twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Then Giuseppe pulled his hips back, the cock sliding free with a wet pop. Luis looked up at him, his face flushed, his lips swollen, his chin wet.
Giuseppe smirked. The crooked grin, the crinkled eyes, the momentary softening of the stern facade. "I've found the biggest whore I've ever met," he said, his voice warm with amusement. "And he's one of my best students."
Luis couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up from his chest. "Thank you, Professor."
"Don't thank me. Just keep being exactly what you are." Giuseppe was already adjusting his clothing—tucking himself away, fastening his trousers, smoothing the burgundy shirt. The professionalism returned in layers, like armor being reassembled. "Now. You're going to get dressed. You're going to go to the bathroom and clean yourself up—but don't push out what I've left inside you. I want you to carry it through my lecture. Every time you shift in your seat, I want you to remember what's inside you. I want you to know that I know what's inside you."
"Yes, Professor."
"And at four o'clock this afternoon, you'll come back to this office. I'll check that you've kept your end of the bargain. And then I'll use it as lubrication to fuck you again. Understood?"
"Yes, Professor."
Giuseppe reached down and gripped Luis's chin, tilting his face up. The dark eyes studied him for a long moment. "You're doing very well," he said quietly. "Better than I expected. Better than I had any right to hope for."
Then he released him and stepped back.
"Get dressed. We both have a lecture to attend."
Luis dressed quickly, his hands still trembling slightly. He checked himself in the small mirror on the back of Giuseppe's door—face flushed, hair disheveled, but nothing that couldn't be explained by an early morning jog. His body felt different. Full. Claimed. The cum was already beginning to leak, and he clenched his muscles to hold it in.
He'd need to figure out how to manage that through a ninety-minute lecture.
Giuseppe was at his desk now, reviewing his notes for the morning class, his demeanor completely unchanged. If Luis hadn't just spent the last half hour being choked and filled and face-fucked by this man, he would never have guessed anything had happened. The compartmentalization was impressive. Almost unnerving.
"One more thing," Giuseppe said without looking up. "My husband wants to meet you."
Luis froze with his hand on the doorknob. "What?"
"He's curious. He wants to see the student who's been occupying so much of my attention. I told him it was your decision. If you'd rather not, he'll respect that." Giuseppe finally looked up, his dark eyes unreadable. "No pressure. But he asked. I'm passing along the request."
"I—" Luis's mind spun. Meeting the husband. Putting a face to the absent presence that had hovered at the edges of this arrangement from the beginning. "I'll think about it."
"Take your time. There's no rush."
Luis nodded, his throat tight with something he couldn't name. He unlocked the door, checked the corridor was empty, and slipped out of the office. The Caldwell building was still quiet, the early morning light still gray through the windows. He walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall and locked himself in a stall.
He sat down on the toilet, his jeans around his ankles, his body still buzzing with the aftermath of what had just happened. The cum was leaking now, a slow trickle that he tried to control by clenching. He pulled out his phone.
Four messages from Lauren, all from the past twenty minutes.
"Are you alive?"
"It's been an hour since you said you'd text."
"Luis."
"I swear to god if you're still in that office I'm going to march over there myself."
He typed back: "I'm alive. In the bathroom. It happened. All of it. He choked me. I came harder than I've ever come in my life. He told me I'm the biggest whore he's ever met and it was the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me. Also his husband wants to meet me. More later. We can talk at lunch."
The response came in under ten seconds.
"HIS HUSBAND WANTS TO MEET YOU???"
Luis pocketed his phone without answering. He'd explain later. For now, he needed to figure out how to sit through ninety minutes of stereochemistry with his professor's cum slowly leaking into his briefs.
The thought made him smile.
The smile stayed on his face all the way to the lecture hall.
