Our professor-student love story played out a little differently than these things usually do. Normally, the young college guy—the demographic I belong to—being way more impressionable, impulsive, and horny as hell, falls hard for the older professor. He drops hints and pushes boundaries until the whole thing ends either in a total disaster or a massive climax, with zero middle ground. In our case, it was Armando, my Social Sciences professor, who fell for me like a fucking teenager. And neither of us could ever really wrap our heads around how we ended up together, considering neither of us was even into guys. But it happened. Life's a mystery like that.
It all started when Armando had to go out of town for two weeks and needed someone to cover his classes. Since I was his star student, he talked me into teaching them. He went through the massive hassle of prepping the PowerPoints for the six lectures I had to give, leaving everything meticulously planned out. He saved me a ton of headaches by anticipating every possible hiccup down to the smallest detail.
"If they ask you a question you don't know or aren't comfortable answering, rephrase it and throw it back so another student tries to find the answer," he advised me.
"Is that what you do?"
"It's what I used to do. After twenty years in this job, there aren't any questions left that I don't know how to answer. Besides, students question things less and less these days. It's getting harder to find someone who breaks the mold. You're the only one who's done it this year. It's actually a bit concerning."
He told me that during the conference panels, his phone would be on silent, but he'd reply to any questions I WhatsApped him as soon as he could. That became our only line of communication for almost two weeks, except for the night of the big fight. And you have no idea how far WhatsApp can go. But what am I saying? I'm sure you know exactly how it goes.
The first few days, we stuck to the script. I'd shoot him a text to let him know everything was going smoothly and that I wasn't having any trouble teaching his classes, and he'd reply with short messages thanking me. But one day, without really knowing how or why, a shift happened, and the conversation crossed over into personal territory. Ah, now I remember. He sent me a picture of the breakfast they'd served him at the hotel. And I sent him a picture of the pastry and hot cocoa I was stuffing my face with. And we started talking about food, I think. And sending each other pictures of anything we found funny. Or anything we didn't find funny. Once he opened the door to sending pictures, it was impossible to go back to strictly academic talk. Especially because he took like forty selfies trying on different combinations of jackets, shirts, and ties so I could tell him which one looked best for some dinner he had with important people.
"How many fucking clothes did you pack, you psycho?"
"Everything my wife packed for me."
By the end of that day, we were friends. He didn't feel like my professor anymore. He felt like a buddy who was just as messed up in the head as I was. It didn't feel like he had twenty-five years on me, either. The things we were both interested in seemed to be on the exact same wavelength. Even though he was a father and I still lived with my parents, we had a ton in common. Above all... we were both absolute savages.
At three in the morning, I was woken up by about seven WhatsApps coming in at one-minute intervals. They were from him.
"Dinner's over. I'm really drunk. Heading back to the hotel."
"I don't remember how to get to the hotel. I think I'll grab a cab."
"There isn't a single fucking cab at this hour in this goddamn city."
"Hotel located. It was right around the corner. Guess I got turned around."
"I pissed in the planters by the entrance and the receptionist saw my dick. How embarrassing."
A picture of the inside of the elevator.
A picture of the inside of the hotel room.
"I'm horny. I think I'll jerk off before going to sleep. Good night."
I'm going off memory here, but it was something like that.
The next day, he sent me about seven more WhatsApps, apologizing profusely and completely mortified. I sent him a "hahaha" and told him I hoped he'd enjoyed his lonely hotel jerk-off session. He sent me a picture of his ear.
"What's that about?" I asked.
"You made me blush. When I blush, my ears turn bright red."
From then on, I made it my mission to make him blush by saying the most out-of-pocket shit all day long on WhatsApp, and he'd send me pictures of the different stages of his ears turning red. It was a lot of fun.
The night of the big fight, he sent me a text at eleven PM.
"You're very quiet. I miss you. Did something happen?"
"Sorry. I didn't want to ruin your night."
"What's wrong? What happened?"
"I got into a fight with my girlfriend."
"I'm sorry. Can it be fixed?"
"I don't know. We said some horrible things to each other. I feel like shit."
"Call her."
"Her phone's off."
"I'm sure you guys will work it out. You'll see things with more perspective tomorrow. Try to get some sleep."
"I don't think I can."
By two in the morning, I still hadn't managed to close my eyes. I got a text from Armando.
"You told me you lived behind the Outlet Park, right?"
"Yeah, more or less. Why?"
"What street?"
"Why?" I asked again, completely confused.
"Because I came to see you. I brought junk food from the gas station. I hope you like those Doritos where some are spicy and some aren't, like Padrón peppers."
The crazy bastard had driven almost three hours just to keep me company and give me some moral support. When I went down to the street and got into his car, I was practically in tears.
"Man. No one has ever done anything like this for me."
"Well, that just means you haven't had any real friends yet."
We spent the entire night talking our asses off, drinking beer, and eating all kinds of junk food. By the time the sun came up, I didn't even remember that I had gotten into a fight with my girlfriend. All I knew was that I had spent a fucking awesome night with a professor who had suddenly become my best friend.
"Well, this has been fantastic, but it's time to get back to reality. I'm supposed to give a talk today. And you have to teach one of my classes."
"I'm sorry you had to make the drive."
"I'm not. Not at all. It was something we had to do."
"Why?" I asked, surprised.
He just stared at me, not knowing what to say. Later on, he told me that a good answer to that question—which, of course, came to him after the fact—would have been that our escalation of personal WhatsApps logically had to lead to a face-to-face meeting. But he didn't think of that at the time. Or maybe he just didn't know how to put what he was feeling into words yet. So he ended up saying:
"We had to see what color my ears turn when I eat one of the spicy Doritos."
I was in a great mood that day, despite the massive fight with my girlfriend, and I didn't even feel the exhaustion of having stayed up all night. Armando's talk (which wasn't just a talk, but a full-blown seminar) was also a success. The night we had shared had done us both a lot of good, and we spent a big chunk of the next day on WhatsApp, finishing a lot of the conversations we had started and left hanging when we suddenly changed the subject—something we're both prone to doing.
I know from what we talked about after everything happened (even though I suspected it at the time because of his weird behavior afterward) the exact moment Armando realized he was falling in love with me. It was while we were texting the following night. I thanked him again for what he had done, for driving back from the conference just to be with me, especially having to give a seminar the next day.
"I'd love to have you here so I could thank you in person," I texted him.
"How would you do it?" he replied.
To me, the answer was obvious and completely natural.
"With a hug. A long, comforting hug that I should have given you last night, one that would leave us both completely relaxed."
To me, the text I wrote didn't have any subliminal messages; there was no sexual component, though it was definitely affectionate. In my family, hugs are the main way we show affection. My sister and I were lucky enough to have parents who understood the importance of a hug in the most detached era in history. My natural way of telling Armando how much his gesture had meant to me was a good, solid hug.
But for him, that exact same message meant something much deeper. So much so that he didn't text me again for two days.
Since my messages were going unanswered and he wasn't picking up his phone when I called, I started getting worried that something had happened to him, and I ended up calling the hotel where he was staying. I asked the girl who answered to please pass a message along to him. She agreed.
"What should I tell him?"
"To answer my fucking texts. But please, say it exactly like that."
My girlfriend still wasn't talking to me, and my new best friend was following right in her footsteps. I was starting to feel betrayed.
That night, he finally texted me.
"The day receptionist passed your message along. I'm sorry you had to call the hotel. I've been really busy with the conference. I'm so sorry."
"You didn't have time to tell me that in two fucking days? I tell you I want to hug you and you just disappear. That's not normal."
He replied to that message the next day. It was infuriating.
"I wasn't checking my phone. I'm sorry. It's not a big deal."
The same guy who had driven three hours to my house when he saw I was hurting was now incapable of talking to me. Now that I was hurting because of him.
"You seem bipolar, man," I texted him, really pissed off. I added a sad face so he'd know he was hurting me.
He replied to this message about five hours later.
"Have you made up with your girlfriend yet?"
"No."
"Then try harder."
"Right now, I'd much rather make up with you," I told him honestly.
"Fuck, no."
Fuck, no? What kind of response was that? What the fuck was wrong with this guy?
You, reading this, might see it crystal clear because I told you from the beginning what this was all about, but I swear to God, to me, it was an absolute mystery. I didn't know what the fuck I had done to piss Armando off, and I was genuinely starting to think the guy wasn't right in the head.
The days kept passing, and his texts were getting vaguer and vaguer. My sister told me that maybe the professor thought I was into him because of what I'd said about the hug, and he had reacted by putting some distance between us. That was the first thing I'd heard that actually made sense of what had happened. I texted Armando immediately.
"I'm not gay. Fuck. You misunderstood what I said about the hug. I wasn't hitting on you. I don't like you like that. Seriously. I want to be your friend, not sleep with you. You know I have a girlfriend. I'm not gay."
Maybe I laid it on a bit thick, but I wanted to make it crystal clear, if that was what had pushed him away.
He replied almost immediately this time.
"I know you're not gay. That's not what's going on."
That's not what's going on. He was finally admitting that something was going on.
"Then what is it? You've got me overthinking this all fucking day, you bastard. Did I say something that pissed you off?"
The next message took a little longer, and it finally made the whole story make sense:
"On the contrary. You said something that made me feel VERY GOOD."
I could have interpreted it as an ironic message. Thought that what he really meant was that I'd said something that hurt him deeply. But this time, I finally understood it correctly. My professor was into me. That's why he had become so distant. He had freaked the fuck out. I didn't blame him. He was married. He had three kids and seemed like a straight man who was very satisfied with his emotional and sex life, based on what we had talked about. He had started feeling something for me, and it had completely derailed him.
"I think I finally understand you now," I texted him.
He didn't reply. I didn't expect him to, either.
I waited until Thursday, when I didn't have to teach any of his classes, caught a bus, and showed up at his hotel right around lunchtime. The fucking bus took four hours. I don't even know how many podcasts I listened to.
Armando was at the conference. I wanted to wait for him in his room, but they wouldn't let me, obviously, so I had to sit in an armchair in the lobby.
When he walked in, he didn't even see me. He headed straight for the elevators. I managed to slip into the same one as him by a miracle.
"What are you doing here?"
He couldn't have been more shocked if Michael Jackson had just walked out of his grave and stood in front of him.
"Returning the favor. You came to see me when I was down, so I'm coming to see you when you are."
"You shouldn't have bothered."
"It's what friends do."
"But we're not friends. We can't be friends."
"Why?"
"Why? Because we just can't."
"Give me a logical reason."
"Because I love you."
The elevator doors opened, and Armando bolted toward his room. I followed him, trying to wrap my head around it. The distance he had forced between us had made him convince himself over the last few days that he loved me. But how could he love me? He barely knew me. No matter how many WhatsApps, pictures, and other stupid shit we had sent each other over those few days, we were still basically strangers. No one could fall in love with me that fast. I'm really not much of a catch.
"What do you mean you love me? Because those are some heavy words."
"It means exactly what it means. I can't be your friend because I love you. If I have you around, I'll want more than a friendship. A lot more. I'll hold out for a while, but eventually, it'll become completely unbearable, and I'll say or do something unacceptable to you. Then your dad will come and break my fucking face. And my wife will find out I'm going around trying to make moves on my male students, and she'll leave me."
"Fuck. You went straight for the most apocalyptic ending."
"I don't see any other ending."
"We could sit down, grab a coffee, and talk about it."
Armando was undressing while we talked. I only realized it when he was already down to his boxers.
"Are you hot or something?" I asked him, nervous.
"No, fuck. Sorry. I didn't tell you. I have to go back to the conference. I just came up to change."
He opened the closet and started pulling out shirts and ties.
"Help me pick. You proved you have a really good eye for this."
I pointed to a blue shirt and an orange tie.
"You sure?"
"Put it on, let's see how it looks."
While he got dressed, I sat on the bed and caught myself staring at his crotch a couple of times. His briefs were a little too small, and you could see his balls spilling out the sides. He caught me looking, and I tried to sound casual.
"Man, your balls are hanging out."
"I think they're growing."
"Do they grow with age?"
"I have no idea. But they didn't use to hang out before. Either the briefs shrank or my balls grew. How does it look?"
"Your balls?"
"No. The shirt and tie."
"Oh. Good. I think. Once you put some pants on, I'll be able to focus. Sorry. I don't know why I said that. I meant that with pants on, I'll be able to tell if the shirt and tie match."
"Because my balls won't be interfering. Don't worry about it. You don't have to be a fag to get distracted by someone else's nakedness. We've been conditioned to be unsettled by nudity."
Even though the comment seemed meant to downplay the situation, Armando put a special emphasis on the word balls, like he was savoring the word in his mouth. I wondered if he was instinctively trying to seduce me. I told myself that if I were in a room with a girl I liked, I'd be hitting on her too. It was natural. If I shut Armando down for that, I'd be making him uncomfortable for no reason.
He put on a pair of pants that clashed completely with the colors of the shirt and tie. I told him to try another pair. The guy took off the ones he was wearing and put on another pair practically right in front of my face. That wasn't instinctive seduction. That was conscious seduction. Or unconscious, because he sure as hell wasn't going to seduce me with a bulge.
He tried on a third pair of pants, moving slower and getting unbelievably closer to my face.
"Armando."
"Yeah?"
"If you get any closer, you're going to take my eye out when you zip up."
I hoped my comment would bring him back down to Earth, but instead, he pointed at his crotch with both index fingers and said:
"Are you sure you don't want to bury your nose in here?"
I sprang to my feet like a coiled spring, grabbed my bag, and bolted out of the room. Armando followed me, full of regret.
"I'm sorry! Come back! I'll behave. I swear."
I looked back at him from halfway down the hall to the elevator, not entirely convinced.
"Get dressed. I'll wait for you out here."
"No. Come inside. Let's fix this right now. If we don't, it's going to grow until we can't even breathe."
That comment instantly brought up the image of a cock shoving down my throat, sealing off my airway with solid meat.
"Fine. But no more indecent proposals."
"Don't worry. Not a single one."
Armando finished getting dressed without making any more sexual remarks, keeping a safe distance from my face. Once I had half-relaxed, he said:
"See? That's what I meant when I said having you close would make me say or do something inappropriate to you."
"Well, you have to control it. It should be easy enough if you know that the second you do it again, I'm walking out."
"Right. The problem is, it's hard for me to think clearly when you're standing right in front of me."
"Why?" I know. What a naive fucking question on my part. Maybe I actually wanted to hear the answer.
"Because it makes me so happy that you're here. And that happiness brings out the horny Armando who isn't afraid of some apocalyptic future full of punches from pissed-off dads or divorces, the one who only wants to possess you. An Armando who thinks it's actually possible, who's looking for some undeniable sign from you that it isn't, but can't find one."
"I'm leaving, Armando!"
"If you were going to leave, you wouldn't announce it. You'd just leave."
"I left before."
"But you're not leaving now."
"I'm not a faggot!"
"Neither am I. Those are just labels. Right now, I'm just a man who wants you."
Armando let his pants drop. His bulge had grown massively. His balls weren't the only thing spilling out the sides of his briefs anymore.
He brought his crotch close to my face, just like before. But this time, he was way more confident. He pointed at his crotch again with both index fingers and said:
"I'm not giving you another chance after this. Are you sure you don't want to bury your nose in here?"
Yes, fuck. Yes, I do.
I buried my nose in his balls, exactly like he asked, and inhaled his scent deeply, thinking that, strangely enough, I couldn't imagine anything more erotic than smelling my professor's balls. Balls, pronounced just like that, like they filled your entire mouth.
Who would have fucking thought.
🔥 Did this taste leave you wanting more? This story is just one of the 6 dark, explicit, and unapologetic M/M thrillers inside my complete anthology, STAINED. No safe words. No good men. Just raw psychological tension and absolute ruin. Support my work as an indie author: Search for "STAINED by Marcos Sanz" on Amazon or Everand to get the full collection. Grab the paperback to stain the pages, or download the digital edition for a private, one-handed reading session.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
