Once Upon a Time…There Was My Favorite Student
Evan Greer is by all accounts one of my top performing students. He never misses a lecture, always arrives early to claim a seat in the front row, and he's at every study session I hold. He's the first to raise his hand when I pose a question to the class, he's never missed a single assignment—not even the optional ones—and he volunteers to tutor other students who are struggling with the material. By all intents and purposes, he's the model student.
And by all intents and purposes—I want to fuck his brains out.
Yup. There it is. The thought I've been trying to suppress for the better part of three months now. I want to bend him over my desk and pound his ass like there's no tomorrow, and I know for a fact he's got a nice ass because I check it out every chance I get. Every time he walks up to turn in an assignment. Every time he stands at the whiteboard working through a problem. Every time he leaves the lecture hall and I watch him go, telling myself I'm just making sure all my students exit safely.
It's a thought that's been growing more insistent with each passing week, each time he leans forward at his desk with that focused expression, each time he stays after class to discuss some finer point of economic theory. I know it's wrong. I know it's inappropriate. But knowing something intellectually and being able to control the way my body responds when he's near are two entirely different things.
In addition to being an Economics major, he's also in sports—basketball to be precise—where he plays point guard. Up until I learned that little fact, I had never once stepped foot in the University's gymnasium. I've always been more comfortable in libraries and lecture halls than in places that smell of sweat and rubber and teenage testosterone. But tonight's game is against a rival college, and the stands are packed with students, alumni, and apparently, faculty members who have far more school spirit than I've ever possessed.
They reserve a few rows near the center court for faculty and staff, and when my colleagues see me making my way to an empty seat, some of them give me looks like I might be lost or in the wrong place. Professor Brennan at a basketball game? The same Professor Brennan who once called mandatory pep rallies "a waste of valuable academic time"? I can practically hear their thoughts.
I don't know much about basketball—correction, didn't know much. In the hours between my last class and the start of tonight's game, I'd done some extensive Googling about the sport and what exactly a point guard does. Here are some things I learned.
First: the point guard is essentially the quarterback of basketball, the floor general who orchestrates the offense. They're responsible for bringing the ball up the court, reading the defense, and making split-second decisions about whether to pass, shoot, or penetrate. It requires high basketball IQ—a term I found delightfully academic for what is essentially athletic intelligence. The point guard needs to see the entire court, anticipate movements, and execute plays with precision. They control the tempo, dictate the rhythm. Leadership, they say, is paramount. The ability to take charge, to dominate.
Second: point guards are typically the best ball-handlers on the team, which means they have exceptional hand-eye coordination and dexterity. They need quick hands. Agile fingers. The ability to control a sphere with finesse while under pressure. To grip it firmly, manipulate it, make it do exactly what they want. Good ball-handling requires thousands of hours of practice—repetitive motion, muscle memory, the kind of intimate familiarity that comes only from constant physical engagement.
I'm aware of how that sounds. I'm aware of what I'm doing here.
Third: the position demands superior conditioning. Point guards run more than any other player, constantly in motion, directing traffic, defending, attacking. They need stamina, endurance, the ability to maintain peak performance for extended periods without flagging. Their bodies are instruments of sustained athletic output. They have to stay hard—defensively, I mean. Maintain their position. They're expected to go deep into the paint, to drive the lane repeatedly, to keep pushing even when they're exhausted and slick with sweat.
Fourth: they're usually shorter than other positions—though "shorter" in basketball terms still means tall by normal human standards. The average point guard is around six feet. Evan is six-one, I happen to know, because I've stood close enough to him during office hours to make that calculation. Close enough to notice other things too. The way his shoulders have broadened since freshman year. The definition in his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves. The length of his fingers. The size of his hands—which matters in basketball, apparently, for grip and control.
Fifth: point guards need explosive first-step quickness. They have to be able to blow past their defender, to accelerate from stillness to full speed in an instant. It's all about that initial burst, that sudden thrust forward. They practice their penetration skills constantly—finding gaps in the defense, exploiting openings, driving hard to the basket. And they need to finish strong, even when they're taking contact, even when larger bodies are pressing against them.
Sixth, and perhaps most relevant: point guards are comfortable with physical confrontation. They absorb contact, bodies colliding, the intimate violence of competitive sport. They're not afraid to get physical, to use their body to create space, to feel the heat and pressure of an opponent right up against them. Basketball is, after all, a contact sport. There's a lot of touching. A lot of heavy breathing. A lot of glistening skin.
So yes, I've done my research. I can now speak semi-intelligently about pick-and-rolls and assist-to-turnover ratios. I can pretend that I'm here out of some newfound appreciation for athletics, or perhaps a belated attempt at school spirit.
But we both know—you and I—that I'm here to watch Evan Greer's body in motion. To see what he looks like when he's sweating, when his muscles are engaged, when he's in his element rather than mine. To watch him handle balls. To watch him penetrate defenses. To watch him drive hard and finish. To see his stamina, his control, his rhythm. To observe the explosive power in his legs, the dexterity in his hands, the way his body moves with purpose and precision.
The lights dim. The announcer's voice booms through the speakers. The teams take the court.
And there he is.
He's running back and forth up the court, all fluid motion and controlled energy. But it's not just him I notice—it's half the guys on the team. Is no one else aware that half these players aren't wearing underwear? They're clearly free-balling it—no pun intended—and all I can think about is a bunch of naked men running up and down the court while their cocks flop up and down between their legs. The mental image is so vivid, so distracting, that I have to force myself to blink and refocus on the game itself.
My fantasy—I mean, my thought process—is interrupted by a voice I recognize all too well.
"Dr. Reinhardt, fancy seeing you here."
I turn my head, already knowing who I'll find.
"Dr. Turner," I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
Dr. Turner is the head of the Psychology Department and an avid fan of all sports—in fact, we're currently sitting in the Turner Recreational Center, which sits squarely in the middle of the Turner-Gold Athletic Complex. He was actually a little miffed they didn't name the whole damn thing after him, but apparently a multi-million dollar donation from the Gold family goes a long way around here. He and I have gotten into many a spat about the merit of recognizing psychology as a science. It marginalizes the importance of empirical data, and that's a hill I'm willing to die on.
"I like to come out and support the students from time to time," I say, which is technically true, if misleading about which particular student has drawn me here tonight.
"Of course," he says, and there's something in his tone I can't quite place. Amusement? Skepticism?
Dr. Turner is easily an octogenarian who should have retired twenty years ago, but here we are.
"So tell me, Reinhardt," he says, settling into the seat beside me with the air of someone preparing to spring a trap, "what do you make of Coach Henderson's decision to run a motion offense this season instead of the traditional pick-and-roll sets?"
He's testing me. The old bastard thinks he's caught me in a lie, that I'm here for some reason other than genuine interest in the game. He wants to expose me as a fraud.
Unfortunately for him, I've spent the last four hours becoming an expert on exactly this topic.
"The motion offense makes sense given our personnel," I say evenly. "Greer has the court vision and basketball IQ to read defenses in real-time rather than running predetermined plays. It maximizes his ability to exploit defensive rotations and create advantages through player movement rather than relying on screens."
Turner's eyebrows rise slightly. He recovers quickly.
"And what about the defensive scheme? Three-two zone or man-to-man?"
"We typically run man-to-man with occasional zone looks to disrupt offensive rhythm," I reply. "Though against teams with strong outside shooting, Henderson will switch to a two-three zone to protect the paint and force mid-range shots. Basic defensive theory—concede the lowest-percentage shots."
I can see the calculation happening behind Turner's eyes. He's recalibrating.
"Impressive," he says, though his tone suggests it pains him. "I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who understands the nuances of help-side rotation and weak-side defense."
"I find that thorough research yields comprehensive understanding," I say, allowing myself the smallest smile. "It's the foundation of good scholarship, wouldn't you say?"
The whistle blows. Turner turns his attention to the court, his trap having spectacularly backfired.
I permit myself a moment of grim satisfaction before returning my gaze to where it wants to be: on Evan, stretching at half-court, his jersey riding up to expose a strip of taut abdomen.
Research. Yes. That's what this is.
After the first half ends, the players jog toward the tunnel. I catch a glimpse of Evan near the sideline, and for a fleeting moment, we make eye contact. It's brief—maybe two seconds at most—but it's there, and there's something to it. Something in his eyes that doesn't quite register with me. A flicker of recognition? Acknowledgment? Before I can parse it, the most amazing and unexpected thing happens.
He reaches down and grabs the hem of his jersey with deliberate slowness, his fingers curling into the sweat-dampened fabric. Then, with a movement that feels impossibly intentional—too controlled, too aware—he pulls it upward, dragging the clinging material across the hard planes of his abdomen. The jersey peels away to expose the full expanse of his torso, glistening with sweat that catches the gymnasium lights like liquid gold. He holds it there for a moment—just long enough—before wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, his eyes scanning the crowd. And in that suspended second, I'm certain he's looking directly at me, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, as if he knows exactly what he's doing and exactly what it's doing to me.
My god.
I've only ever seen him in class. Dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up, sometimes a henley. Controlled. Contained. Not like this—not out in the wild, in his element, his body on display like some kind of torture designed specifically for me.
The sleeveless jersey clings to him, soaked through with sweat that makes the fabric translucent in places. I can see the definition of his shoulders, the sharp cut of his collarbones, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion. But it's his abdomen that steals my breath entirely.
His abs are carved with brutal precision—each ridge distinct and defined, catching the gymnasium lights in a way that makes them look almost three-dimensional. The muscles shift and flex as he moves, as if they're alive, as if they're taunting me. I can see the faint trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. The sweat glistens on his skin, pooling slightly in the hollow between his pectoral muscles before trickling down. I can barely—just barely—see the bottom curve of his pectorals before the fabric falls back into place, and that glimpse, that tantalizing hint of what lies beneath, is somehow worse than if he were completely exposed.
My breathing has become shallow. I'm acutely aware of every sensation in my body—the way my shirt suddenly feels too tight, the way my pulse is thundering in my ears, the way my cock is already beginning to stiffen in my slacks with a hunger I can't suppress.
This is torture. Pure, exquisite torture.
Holy fuck.
My cock hardens with brutal, immediate intensity. It swells against the confines of my slacks, straining against the fabric with an urgency that makes my breath catch. The pressure is entirely unbearable—the tip pressing insistently against my briefs, trapped and aching, desperate for release. I can feel every pulse of blood, every throb of arousal, the fabric growing damp as my body betrays every shred of professional composure I'm clinging to.
I shift in my seat, trying to find any position that might ease the ache, but there's no relief. The darkness of the bleachers is the only thing saving me from complete humiliation. My hands grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white, as I fight the urge to adjust myself, to give my cock even an inch of breathing room. The confinement is maddening—the way the seams dig into my flesh, the way I'm trapped in this state of half-hard desperation while surrounded by hundreds of people.
I can feel sweat beading on my upper lip. My heart is hammering so hard I'm certain everyone around me can hear it. The halftime show blurs into background noise. All I can focus on is the ache between my legs, the way my body is responding to him with a hunger I can't control, can't rationalize away, can't hide.
Then he lowers his shirt slowly—too slowly to be accidental—and this time, he looks directly at me. On purpose. The smile is barely perceptible, just the slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth, but it's there.
Damn, he's hot.
I know. I'm a thirty-three-year-old man. I should be chasing guys my own age, not ogling twenty-year-old college juniors who sit in the front row of my Microeconomics seminar. But here I am, and our section of the bleachers is situated directly over the exit tunnel, which means as he jogs off the court, he looks up at me. Deliberately. He grabs a water bottle from the bench, tilts his head back, and squirts water into his mouth, his throat working as he swallows.
Okay, yeah. That was definitely on purpose.
The second half is a blur. I try to focus on the game, on Turner's increasingly desperate attempts to engage me in conversation, on anything other than the way Evan moves on the court. But my eyes keep finding him—the flex of his shoulders when he shoots, the way his shorts ride low on his hips when he drives to the basket.
When the final buzzer sounds, the gymnasium erupts. We won, 94 to 93, with—you guessed it—Evan Greer sinking the game-winning shot with three seconds left on the clock. A few students storm the court in celebration, and I watch as Evan's teammates mob him, lifting him onto their shoulders.
Everyone gets up to leave. The energy in the building is electric, chaotic. None of the other faculty or staff go down to talk to the players, so I decide it's best if I don't either. It would look strange, wouldn't it? The economics professor congratulating the star point guard. People might talk.
So instead, I head back to the lecture hall to prepare for tomorrow's class.
The building is quiet when I arrive, most of the campus still at the game or celebrating at the bars downtown. I settle into my usual spot at the table behind the podium, my laptop open, trying to shave off twenty minutes from this presentation about economies of scale. The words blur together on the screen. I can't concentrate. My mind keeps replaying that moment—the eye contact, the smile, the deliberate display.
I'm being ridiculous. He's a student. My student. This is a line I cannot cross.
A few moments later, there's a knock at the door. Sharp, confident. I have the shade pulled over the small window, so I can't see who's on the other side. My head swivels to the left, toward the sound.
It's a courtesy knock, I realize, because the door opens before I can respond. And in walks none other than Evan Greer.
He's freshly showered, his hair still tousled from toweling off, damp at the ends. There's a flush to his cheeks that lingers from the game, and he's changed into gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, paired with a simple t-shirt. He looks at me, and that same unreadable expression from earlier crosses his face.
"Evan," I say tentatively, my voice catching slightly. Then, more normally: "Evan, what are you doing here?"
I hear the lock on the door click behind him.
"I left something," he says, his voice soft but steady. He walks past me, close enough that I can smell the clean scent of soap and shampoo mixed with something distinctly him. He moves in front of the podium to the other side of the lecture hall, where there's another door that leads to the storage room.
"What exactly?" I ask, genuinely confused. My heart is pounding now, a drumbeat in my ears.
He reaches the other door, shuts it firmly, and turns the deadbolt. The sound echoes in the empty lecture hall.
Then he turns to face me.
"You came to my game tonight," he says. It's not a question.
My throat goes dry. "I—yes. I thought it would be... educational. To understand—"
"You've never come to a game before." He takes a step toward me. Just one. But the distance between us feels like it's collapsing anyway. "Three years I've been here. Three years playing basketball. You've never once shown up."
I should say something. Deflect. Reassert the professional boundary that's supposed to exist between us. Instead, I'm cataloging the way his t-shirt clings to his chest, still slightly damp. The way those gray sweatpants—Christ, those sweatpants—leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"I saw you," he continues, his voice steady, controlled. "In the stands. You weren't watching the game, Professor Reinhardt."
The way he says my title—there's something in it. Not quite mockery, but close. An acknowledgment of the power dynamic that should exist between us, paired with the clear understanding that in this moment, in this locked room, that dynamic has inverted entirely.
"You were watching me."
My pulse is hammering in my throat. "Evan, I think you're misinterpreting—"
"Am I?" Another step. He's close enough now that I could reach out and touch him. Close enough that I can see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes have gone dark. "Because I've felt it. In class. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."
I should deny it. I should unlock those doors and end this before it goes any further. But my body has betrayed me—I can feel the heat spreading through my chest, the tightness in my pants that I can't hide, can't explain away.
"I'm your professor," I manage, but my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
"I know exactly what you are." He's so close now I can feel the warmth radiating off him. "The question is... what are you going to do about it?"
The room feels airless. Every rational thought I possess is screaming at me to stop this, but I'm frozen, caught between terror and a want so visceral it's making my hands shake.
"Evan—"
"Tell me I'm wrong," he says softly, and there's a challenge in his eyes. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll unlock those doors and leave. And we’ll pretend this never happened."
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
He smiles. It's not a kind smile.
"That's what I thought."
And in that moment, something comes over me—over both of us, apparently—because we dive into each other at practically the same time. Our mouths collide with a hunger that catches me off guard. The kiss is raw and all-consuming, built from something both old and new, this unbridled energy that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
His hand reaches down between us, and suddenly he's grabbing my cock through my pants. The pressure makes me gasp against his mouth.
"Fuck!" he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this!"
I pull away slightly, my hands still framing his face, needing to see his eyes, to make sure this is real.
"I've been dreaming about this moment since the first class I took with you," he says, his voice rough with desire.
I'm shocked. I'd always assumed he was straight—had never let myself even consider the possibility that he might want this too.
"I didn't care about your wife or kids," he continues, his fingers already working at the buttons of my shirt. "I was willing to be your dirty little secret."
"What made you think I was married?" I ask, genuinely confused.
"Dude, have you looked in a fucking mirror lately? You're hot as fuck!" He gets the last button undone and pushes my shirt backwards over my shoulders, down my arms.
"Well, I've never been more single in my life," I tell him.
His hands slide over my bare chest, and his eyes widen. "Holy hell, your arms," he murmurs appreciatively.
I reach for the hem of his t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth motion, exposing the defined abs I've tried not to stare at in class, getting a better look at his chest, his skin warm under my palms.
"Damn," I breathe.
And then we're kissing again, harder this time, more desperate. I lift him up and he wraps his legs around my waist without hesitation. I can feel his hard cock pressing against my stomach through our pants. I carry him the short distance to my desk and sit him on the edge of it.
"Fuckin' hell," I mutter against his mouth.
He turns around on the desk, kicking books aside and knocking a stack of freshly graded papers onto the floor—I can't bring myself to care. He swings his legs over to hang off the back side of the desk, then lays back so his head is hanging off the front edge, his throat exposed, his body stretched out before me like an offering.
He reaches up for my pants and unfastens my belt with practiced fingers.
As soon as my cock springs free, he grabs the back of my ass with both hands and pulls me toward him with surprising strength. My cock slides down his throat in one smooth motion, and the wet heat of his mouth makes me groan out loud. The sensation hits me all at once—tight, slick, perfect. I let him control the rhythm and pace at first, watching as he pulls me in and out, my cock sliding across his tongue and disappearing into the back of his throat.
The position he's put himself in—head hanging off the edge, throat opened up completely—tells me this isn't his first rodeo. He knows exactly what he's doing, and fuck if that doesn't make this even hotter.
He starts to pick up the pace, his hands gripping my ass harder, and I decide to help him out a little. I slowly rock my hips back and forth, matching his rhythm, and he moans around my cock. The vibration sends sparks up my spine and makes my knees weak.
"I guess you like getting face fucked, huh?" I manage to say, my voice rougher than I intended.
He pushes me off just long enough to gasp out, "Yes sir, now fuck my face like you mean it," before pulling me back in with those strong hands.
I happily oblige, thrusting my hips so that my cock hits the back of his throat each time. My cock is slick with spit and precum, and he's still trying to swallow me deeper, his throat working around me, constricting and releasing. I pick up my pace and he's taking it like a champ, his hands gripping my ass harder, urging me on, pulling me deeper.
"Shit! That feels so fucking good!" I groan, my head falling back.
He sucks as I thrust, and the combination of both actions nearly sends me over the edge. My balls tighten and I feel that familiar pressure building. But it's way too soon for that—who the hell knows if I'll ever get this chance again. I pull out of his mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting us for a moment before breaking.
He tries to catch his breath, his chest heaving, lips swollen and wet, as I spin him around on the desk. Papers crunch beneath him as he moves.
As soon as I pull his sweatpants off—and he's going commando, it seems—his cock flies up and slaps against his stomach, hard and leaking. I lift his legs up to expose his hole, smooth and pink and perfect.
"Fuck," I whisper, taking in the sight of him spread out on my desk.
"You wanna eat my pussy?" he asks, grabbing his legs and pulling his ass off the desk.
I don't need to respond verbally. I drop to my knees, spread his cheeks with both hands, and start to lick and suck at his hole. The first taste hits my tongue—the tang of salt, the faint memory of sweat and skin, something uniquely him. His hole puckers as I drag my tongue across it, and I feel him shudder beneath the contact.
His moans sound incredible—delicate, yet wanting, like he's trying to hold back but can't quite manage it.
I keep sucking, keep licking, working my tongue in circles around his rim, and my cock starts to ache with need. I reach down and stroke it a few times to alleviate the pressure, but not enough to go over the edge. Not yet, anyways.
"Oh fuck! Yeah, keep doing that," he pleads, his voice breathy and desperate.
He's talking about me tongue-fucking him. I press my tongue inside, feeling the tight ring of muscle give way just slightly. Every few minutes, I pull away and stick a digit in his hole instead, working him open slowly, methodically. His hands leave imprints on the back of his thighs from where he's been holding his legs up, the skin there turning pink under the pressure.
This time when I go back down, it's with my tongue and finger working in tandem. I use my finger to widen his hole while I suck and lick the inner ring, tasting him deeper now. His leg shakes from the pleasure and his moans grow deeper, more desperate, filling the quiet office.
"Fuck! Prof—I want you to fuck me! Fuck my pussy!" he cries out, his voice cracking on the last word.
I stand up, stroking my cock gently, watching the way his chest rises and falls. No need for lube—he's already taken care of that with all the spit and precum coating him. I step up between his legs, stroke a few more times, line up with his hole and slide inside, feeling the tight heat envelop me inch by inch.
As soon as I bottom out, his whole body jolts like he's been shocked.
"Uh! Fuck!" he cries out, his back arching off the desk.
I grab his legs and hook them over my shoulders, giving myself a better angle, deeper access.
"Shit—that feels so good!" I say as I snap my hips, driving into him harder this time, feeling him clench around me.
A nice bubble butt like his deserves to be fucked properly. His hands grip the edge of the desk so tight his knuckles are white, like he's holding on for dear life.
"Too much for ya?" I ask, slowing my pace just slightly.
"Not even close!" he says between thrusts, his voice defiant despite the way his body trembles.
I challenge him by fucking him harder. I pick up speed, my hips working like a piston, finding a rhythm that has him gasping with every thrust, my balls slapping against his ass. Knowing that my favorite student is lying across my desk, naked, cock hard and leaking onto his stomach, legs suspended over my shoulders while I drive my cock into him—it's a feeling all on its own. The wrongness of it, the taboo, only makes it hotter.
Everyone at one point or another has wanted to bang a teacher, but this is different. Both of our wildest dreams are coming true, right here in my office where anyone could walk by.
"Yeah, yeah—fuck!" he moans, his voice rising in pitch.
He knows I mean business—I can see it in his eyes, the way they're glazed over with pleasure. I'm not the boy from down the hall. He might have been around the block a few times, but he's never been fucked like this, not by a man who knows what he's doing. I can feel it in his body, in the way he responds to every movement. Every time I drive my cock into him, his body jolts like he's having an out-of-body experience, like he can't quite believe this is happening.
"Cum for me," I growl, thrusting again and again and again, each stroke deliberate and deep.
"Yessir!"
He grabs his cock and starts to stroke it, trying to time it with my thrusts. I keep fucking him, driving my cock into him, each time thrusting harder than the last. The desk creaks beneath us with the force of it.
"Ah—ah—ah—fuck—fuck!" he moans, his voice breaking.
He picks up speed, stroking his cock faster. I watch, mesmerized, as his balls ride up tight against his body and then drop with each stroke. The sight of him like this—completely undone, chasing his release—sends a surge of heat through me.
"Uggghhhh—fuuuccck!! I'm getting close!" he announces, his voice strained.
Now let's see if we can't time this just right.
"Clench around me!" I demand, and he does almost instantly, his body obeying without hesitation. "Fuck!"
It feels like he's compressed around the entire length of my cock, a vice grip that threatens to push me over the edge.
"Fuck! I'm about to cum!"
"Do it! Cum for me!" I say, thrusting again with everything I have. "Oh fuck!!"
"Aghhh! FuuccckkK!!" He's cumming, his whole body going rigid.
He shoots his load in four thick ropes that land across his stomach and chest, painting his skin white. And that's it—that's enough for me. The sight of him coming undone pushes me past the point of no return.
I pull my dick free and stroke it a few times until the wave crashes over me. "Fuck!"
Thick warm ropes of cum shoot across his stomach, his dick, his balls, his pubes—which are nice and thick by the way, especially considering how smooth his hole is. I mark him completely, mixing my release with his.
"Holy shit!" I say, trying to catch my breath, my chest heaving.
"Oh fuck, that was hot!" he says, still panting.
I lean over the desk and kiss him, our mouths filthy with lust. I take a finger and scoop up some of the cum from his stomach, being sure to mix mine with his, and stick it in my mouth. There's pure amazement on his face as he watches me. Then I kiss him with it, and we roll it across both our mouths, our tongues sliding together before we swallow.
We take a moment to catch our breath, the reality of what just happened settling over us. Eventually, I grab the container of wet wipes we use to clean the whiteboard—thank god for those—and we clean ourselves up, wiping away the evidence of our encounter before getting dressed.
"That was great—I mean fucking awesome," he says, pulling his shirt back on and grinning at me like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Depends—can you keep a secret?" I ask, my tone serious now as I button my pants.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he says, already slipping into character without missing a beat.
"Good." I nod approvingly.
"See ya later," he says, heading for the door with that confident swagger of his.
"Oh, one other thing," I say, adjusting my tie and smoothing down my shirt.
He turns around to look at me, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.
"Yeah?" His expression shifts to something hopeful, like he thinks I might ask him to go for round two right here and now.
"That paper on the role of central banks in economic growth is due by midnight."
His expression changes immediately, and he glances down at his watch with widening eyes.
"It's already after ten," he says, the realization hitting him.
"I teach economics, not time management," I say bluntly, unable to suppress a slight smirk.
"Fuck me," he says, grabbing the door handle.
"Didn't I just do that?" I laugh.
He rolls his eyes and shuts the door behind him, and I can hear his footsteps hurrying down the hallway.
I take my time cleaning up the rest of the mess from our little fuck session—straightening the papers on my desk, adjusting the chair, making sure everything looks normal. Then I sit at my desk, placing my hands behind my head and propping my feet up on the desk with a satisfied sigh.
"This is gonna be a great semester."
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