The Cambridge Don And His Appreciation of Classic White Briefs

I was sitting in the Eagle, enjoying a well-earned pint, having just submitted my recent assignment as part of my PhD, when my professor, Professor William Nevis, walked in and saw me sitting in the snug to his left.

He smiled warmly and gestured towards the seat opposite me as if asking permission to sit down. I nodded enthusiastically as he walked over and sat down. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a blue shirt underneath. His grey hair was neatly combed, and he had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked exactly like what you'd expect a Cambridge Don to look like.

He ordered a pint of bitter and then turned to me. "So, Mr Wilson," he said, "I was hoping to bump into you to discuss how you found the assignment?" His voice was calm and measured, with just a hint of a Scottish accent that had softened over decades in England.

“Please, Professor, call me Steve when we are not in college. It all sounds too formal calling me, Mr Wilson”.

“Very well, Steve, he responded, smiling, as he immediately relaxed.

There was no pretension about him, just genuine academic curiosity as we talked about my research methodology for the recent assignment. We spoke for at least a good ten minutes before the conversation drifted to more personal matters. He asked about my background, my reasons for pursuing this PhD, and even my thoughts on the pub's notoriously uneven wooden tables.

When he inquired about my living situation, I hesitated. "To be honest," I confessed, tracing a finger through the condensation on my glass, "money's been tighter than I expected. Between lab fees and college accommodation costs..." I trailed off, embarrassed. "I've been stacking shelves at Sainsbury's three nights a week just to cover rent." The admission felt like a failure. Here I was, studying at one of the world's great universities, yet worrying whether I could afford heating this winter.

"I do understand the challenges you face, Steve. I just wish I could come up with a practical solution to your problem." Professor Nevis declared. "By the way," Steve, here's a random question you might be able to answer. Can you tell what type of underwear guys are wearing from just looking at them when they come in?"

I paused mid-sip, lowering his pint glass slowly. The question seemed utterly out of character for the reserved academic. "Professor?"

“Call it an observational question, if you prefer," he suggested.

"Yep, that's pretty random, I have to say. I guess, yes, it is often possible to tell if someone is wearing boxers or briefs based on the outline of their trousers, but it can depend on several factors."

"Such as?" Professor Nevis prompted.

"Well, the fit of the trousers. Tighter-fitting ones, such as skinny jeans, may reveal more detail about the type of underwear being worn compared to looser trousers or shorts. Then, you have to consider the material, its thickness and material and how much detail is visible. Thinner fabrics may show more outline than thicker materials.

"Oh, I guess so," Professor Nevis responded. "And what else?"

"Well," pausing to take a sip of my real ale. "The design of underwear. Briefs tend to have a more defined, compact shape, while boxers are looser and can create a different outline. This can sometimes be noticeable, especially in fitted clothing, and then of course, the person's movement can also influence how much of the underwear outline is visible. Certain movements may accentuate the shape of the underwear, like when they bend over.

"Oh," he declared again.

"The key consideration is, while it can be possible to make an educated guess, it is not always definitive. For example, age and physical attributes play an important part in the decision-making process for men."

"You really have pondered this question, haven't you?" he asked.

I shrugged, swirling the dregs of real ale in my glass. "You asked. Besides, it’s observational science. Like noticing someone’s wearing mismatched socks when they cross their legs. Or spotting a nervous tic when they order," gesturing subtly towards a man near the bar, adjusting his waistband with a quick, self-conscious tug. "See that? Classic sign of boxer shorts riding up. Briefs don’t bunch like that."

"What about that guy over there in the corner. What do you think?" he demanded.

I followed his gaze to a man hunched over a crossword puzzle, his corduroy trousers baggy around the thighs but pulled taut across the seat as he leaned forward. "Tricky," I murmured. "The fabric's thick, but look how the waistband digs in when he shifts. That's a brief line, no extra fabric to smooth it out. Boxers would create a softer ridge," as the man scratched his jaw, oblivious to our dissection of his sartorial secrets. "Why do you ask, anyway. It's not like you to ask such silly questions?"

Professor Nevis chuckled softly, a dry rasp escaping his lips. "Not silly at all. Observational deduction, as you said. It’s rather… pertinent," as he leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "I needed to hear how you approached an unexpected question requiring visual analysis. See, I have a proposition, and it doesn't involve shelf-stacking." His eyes held a sudden, sharp intensity. "You are my best student, and I don't want to see you struggling, and I might have an answer to your problem. It might shock you, but I want to be honest with you, Steve. Can I be honest with you?"

I set my glass down carefully, the pub chatter fading into background noise. "Always, Professor," I my intrigue growing with each second I listened to him.

Professor Nevis steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering. "What I'm about to propose falls outside conventional academia. It involves… private, paid work for me." He paused, letting the words hang between us.

"I’m taking a leap of faith here, Steve, because I want to share with you some secrets that very few people know," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I have certain kinks whereby I have developed… a specific appreciation for….I find myself drawn to men who wear classic white cotton underwear. The plain, functional kind. There’s an… aesthetic purity to them which excites me."

He cleared his throat and continued as a faint flush crept up his neck. "I know you wear them, Steve. That Tuesday seminar when you bent to retrieve your dropped pen? Your shirt rode up just enough for me to spy the white ribbed cotton waistband of your briefs."

He met my stunned silence head-on as he resumed talking. "The truth is, I've been rather infatuated with you since that day, and I immediately identified your briefs as being Amazon Essentials, and all I wanted was to request you hand them over so I could inspect and smell them."

I sat there quite shocked until I managed to respond. "Gosh, I hadn't expected that confession, Professor. That was most unexpected, but thank you for the compliment. But let me get this right, you inspect and smell men’s underwear?

“When I have the chance, yes, but for obvious reasons, my fetish remains a closely guarded secret,” Nevis responded, “Until just now that is. Now, only two people know my unusual kink, you and I.”

I remained shocked but captivated by what I had just heard. “Don’t forget your victims. They know,” I declared whilst attempting to manage the confession from my Cambridge Don. “Do you want to confess anything more whilst you're about it? Perhaps something more personal since you appear to trust me with your revelations."

The pub's warmth suddenly felt stifling. Professor Nevis's confession hung between us like smoke from a fire, thick, disorienting, impossible to brush away. My pint glass slipped slightly in my damp palm as I processed the startling intimacy of his remark. That Tuesday seminar flashed through my mind, the dropped pen, the awkward scramble, the brief exposure of the waistband. He had catalogued it. Remembered it and, from his admission, desired it.

He leaned closer, the scent of old paper and bitter ale sharpening. "You want something more personal?"

His voice was barely audible above the pub's din. "Very well. It's not merely the underwear, Steve. It's the... contradiction. The crisp, almost clinical practicality of white cotton against skin. Against your skin, specifically and since that incident, I have felt conflicted, terribly conflicted, fantasising about the briefs you might be wearing and in what condition they are, when you throw them in the laundry basket."

His gaze dropped briefly to my waistline before snapping back up. "It speaks of something hidden, yet defiantly functional. Unadorned. Honest and for me, unknown. I have even wondered if you wash your whites separately."

“Well, that’s quite a confession, Professor,” I acknowledged. “And in answer to your question, yes, I do wash my whites separately. It’s the only way to keep them white, as I’m now sure you appreciate.”

He paused, his knuckles tightening again. "I do appreciate washing whites separately, and looking back, I find myself remembering when I used to spank young men like you when they started failing their degrees. In those days, they all used to wear classic underwear, and it used to provide my boring academic life with some excitement as I got to inspect their underwear as I handed them back to the unfortunate student who had been spanked."

I sat bemused, looking at his face, trying to gauge if he was trying to wind me up for some unknown reason. "That was also unexpected, Professor, you spanking young men when they were failing. What do you do now? Get frustrated, I assume.”

He gave a wry smile, tapping a finger against his glass. "The university and society frown on corporal punishment these days, and unfortunately, frustration grows. Constant frustration. It’s been a long time since I saw a student’s briefs, and I miss inspecting them for care and cleanliness. Some would be clean, but some young men would….well, let’s just say, disrespectful of the underwear they wear."

His gaze drifted to my hands resting on the table. "You have strong, capable hands, and I suspect you are used to hard work. On the other hand, you are academically brilliant, and while I need help around the house, I can see your academic future responding to my additional  involvement."

"I sort of get that, Professor, but what's your proposal to help me?"

Professor Nevis leaned back, the leather patches on his elbows creaking softly. "You are probably going to call me a pervert and weirdo as the younger generation does these days to anyone that might have a kink or two."

"I'm not sure I would use those words, Professor, but I must confess, I'm intrigued because we have never had a chat like this before. What exactly are you proposing?"

Professor Nevis traced a circle in the condensation on his untouched pint. "The practical solution," he began, his voice regaining its academic cadence despite the flush still high on his cheeks.

“My house on Grange Road has rather extensive gardens. They've become... unruly since Mr Higgins retired. And the interior cleaning requires more attention than I can manage." He met my eyes squarely. "I want to employ you as my live-in gardener and cleaner. Rent-free, with all your food included. I'll pay minimum wage for twenty hours of weekly labour on top, which will mean you still retain freedom to meet your friends and enjoy university life for two more years of research."

My breath caught as I thought about what he had just said and offered. Grange Road? The expensive part of Cambridge. Just around the corner from college. Rent-free alone solved everything. "That sounds..." I hesitated, the professor's earlier confession echoing in my ears. "...great, Professor. But I suspect there's a catch."

Professor Nevis didn't flinch. He simply nodded, a strange mix of scholarly detachment and raw hunger flickering in his eyes. "Indeed. There is a catch. The arrangement requires... specific attire, or shall we say, a uniform for when you are in the house."

He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that prickled the hairs on my neck. "When you are in the house, regardless of activities being performed, I expect you to wear only white cotton briefs with a matching vest tucked into your briefs. I even have a collection of brands that I’m sure you will appreciate."

"Nothing else, Professor? Just briefs and a vest."

“I know, it sounds weird and pervy, but, yes, nothing else. I want to enjoy watching you and sharing in my… interest,” Nevis responded.

“What happens when it gets cold?” I asked him, my imagination running riot.

“You will find my house beautifully warm during winter, especially the open hearth fire in the lounge and study,” Nevis stated in the hope of reassuring me. “If you get really cold, you can wear a hoodie if that makes you feel better.

I assumed he was worried he was losing the sale, for want of a phrase, because he continued.

"This isn't merely about voyeurism and exhibitionism, Steve. It’s about discipline and structure and making an old man happy and able to enjoy his fetish or kink, if that’s a better word to describe my desires. The crisp lines of cotton against skin mirror the precision I demand in academic work. Your struggle with finances stems from distraction; stacking shelves drains focus from your thesis. Under my roof, your mind would sharpen. Your body... disciplined."

"Anything else, Professor? This is quite a confession and offer. I’m intrigued."

Nevis traced the rim of his glass. "When not working around the house or garden, you will work on your brilliant thesis. I say brilliant, but it needs work and constant reviews with me because it could be the difference between being published or not.”

His gaze sharpened. "And the second condition in the proposed arrangement is, if I suspect you are lacking the focus I know you have, I will spank you if you agree to being punished."

The word spank landed like a physical blow, permitting academic detachment to evaporate, replaced by visceral imagery of bare skin, stinging palm, the crack echoing in a book-lined room.

Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck and pooling low in my stomach. My usual white cotton briefs suddenly felt unbearably tight, constricting against a surge of unexpected, unwelcome arousal. Professor Nevis had no idea about my own buried desires, the secret thrill I got from being controlled, from submission. These were fantasies I’d never voiced to anyone.

His proposition wasn’t just solving my rent crisis; it was unlocking a door I’d kept firmly bolted. The thought of standing or kneeling before him in just my briefs, explaining my research while he watched, the threat of discipline hanging thick in the air… it turned me on something rotten as a tremor ran through my hands beneath the table.

“What about sex, Professor? I am wondering if you plan to fuck me regularly.

Nevis got quite embarrassed at my question, coughing loudly. “My dear boy, I…. I hadn’t even thought about that, but worry not, Steve, I am asexual and always have been. I have no sexual interest in you. I just desire your sharing in my voyeurism and exhibitionism.”

I sat there pondering his offer, realising the risk he had taken in confessing his desires. But Grange Road? Rent-free? Food covered? It was daylight robbery, in my favour. Still, doubt slithered in. What if he got bored? What if I screwed up? Or worse, what if he decided I wasn’t… stimulating enough? I’d be homeless overnight. Worse than stacking shelves. I pictured my textbooks dumped on the kerb, my guitar case leaning against them. Humiliation tasted sour on my tongue.

"Professor Nevis, that's not an offer guys like me get every day?"

The words came out hoarse, strained as I gripped the edge of the sticky pub table. My skin prickled, hot and cold at once. "What happens if the Dean or Master comes to visit. You are, after all, the Vice-Master of the college?"

Professor Nevis waved a dismissive hand. "They call ahead. You'll have ample time to dress or scarper." His gaze dropped pointedly to my lap.

“What happens if I get aroused, which I will almost certainly do?”

Professor Nevis thought about the question before responding.

“Extra enjoyment for me, seeing you hard beneath your briefs and the effects on the underwear, the lines and contours as a direct result of an erection can be really interesting. Any erection also leaves a deposit which I also get to inspect and note in my journal, and if you feel the need for release, all I ask is that you remain transparent and provide evidence for me to appreciate.”

“Like, cumming in my briefs, Professor?”

“Exactly, my boy.” Professor Nevis confirmed.

I took a slow breath, the pub's chatter fading into a distant hum. My palms were slick against the cool glass. "Professor," I began, my voice lower than I intended, roughened by nerves and something darker, hotter. "Thank you for being honest with me and explaining everything. I accept your offer, and…"

I met his gaze directly, letting him see the flicker of surrender there. "And... there's something I need to confess." The words tasted thick, dangerous. "I'm submissive. Deeply."

I swallowed hard, the admission scraping my throat raw. "The discipline... the control you spoke of? It’s not just tolerable for me. It’s... a desire, even craved. I need structure enforced, rigorously, but it's been eluding me since I started my postgraduate course with you…. until now."

“And… the last time someone showed so much interest in my underwear was the RE Master at school, but that’s another story for the winter nights gather in front of the roaring fire.”

Professor Nevis froze. Not a muscle moved except his eyes, which widened fractionally, the detached academic facade cracking like thin ice. A slow, deep inhale filled his chest. When he exhaled, it carried the faintest tremor. Relief washed over his features, profound and startling. "Steve," he murmured, his Scottish burr thickening, roughening. "That... simplifies matters considerably." He leaned forward, elbows digging into the worn wood.

His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over me, not just my face now, but my posture, my hands still clenched on the table. "Your honesty," he stated, his voice regaining its measured calm, though laced with a new, predatory warmth, "is precisely the foundation this arrangement requires. Rigor. Structure. Absolute compliance. These will be your pillars." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. "And mine will be ensuring you adhere to them. Meticulously."

He leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Do we have an accord, Steve?"

“I think so, Professor, I definitely think so.”

He glanced towards the pub door, then back at me, a decisive energy replacing the earlier intensity. "No sense in delay. We can collect your things today, if you wish. I can help you move."

He gestured dismissively towards the rain-streaked window. "That damp shoebox you call accommodation, leave it behind. Grange Road awaits when you decide the time is right."

“I have paid rent to the end of the month,” I declared, not that I thought it an obstacle to accepting the arrangement earlier.

“A minor obstacle, Steve,” he suggested as we finished our beers in near silence, the clink of glasses and murmur of other patrons suddenly distant. My pulse hammered against my ribs.

Moving in felt abrupt, unreal. “I guess it's a small issue, and I guess, today is as good as any other day. I accept. Let’s do this before we change our minds.”

Professor Nevis was genuinely delighted as he settled the tab with a crisp note, his movements efficient, already shifting into the role of provider. “The only person who might change their mind is you, so if you are certain, let's make this arrangement happen.”

I smiled at him as we walked outside. The Cambridge drizzle had intensified, slicking the cobblestones as he jumped into his car with a focus I hadn’t seen in him before. With no last-minute nerves, I joined him in the car and we departed on our shared journey into the unknown.

Within two hours, my entire existence was loaded into the boot of Nevis’s sensible but old car, and after another ten minutes, I stood on his driveway, ready to embrace my new student life.

Professor Nevis's home was a large detached Victorian villa, imposing but elegant, nestled behind a high hedge. Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old paper, thick carpets muffling our footsteps. He led me upstairs, stopping at the end of a long corridor. "This will be yours," he stated, opening a door to a spacious room flooded with soft grey light from a bay window overlooking a tangled, rain-slicked garden.

It was easily triple the size of my old room: a proper bed with crisp white linen, a sturdy desk beneath bookshelves, and an armchair by the cold fireplace. "The en-suite is through there," he added, nodding towards another door. "Get settled in as much as you can. I'll be downstairs in my study if you need me."

Alone, I dumped my duffel bag onto the bed. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant. I unpacked mechanically, jeans folded into a drawer, shirts hung in the wardrobe, and textbooks stacked neatly on the desk. My guitar leaned against the wall, looking strangely out of place amidst the quiet elegance.

As I left my room to join the Professor downstairs, my fingers brushed the familiar ribbed cotton vest under my pullover, and I instantly remembered, the uniform requirements as he’d called it and so, I returned to my room and undressed to my briefs and vest, making sure I tucked the vest into my cotton briefs as he had asked me to do.

I stood in front of the mirror admiring my looks and my new uniform. My Amazon Essentials looked good on me, I decided. Then I remembered to check them, and I slipped them down so I could look. With an element of relief, I verified there were no skid marks or other unwanted stains. The only exception was the odd pubic hair that had become detached from the bush that I had grown untrimmed for years, and so I restored my personal comforts and decided I was ready to present myself for inspection and direction in my new life.

I walked downstairs, the house warm, as promised, and within a short time, I stood by the study door. Checking again that I looked presentable, I knocked and entered to find Professor Nevis behind his desk, reading a research paper.

He looked up, his gaze instantly sharpening as it swept over me. The detached academic vanished, replaced by an intensity that pinned me to the spot. His eyes lingered on the stark white cotton vest tucked neatly into the waistband of my briefs, the clean lines stark against my skin.

A slow, appreciative smile touched his lips. "Perfect," he murmured, the word thick with approval. “You look perfect, but please, come closer, let me have a look at you.”

I moved closer until I was within arm's length.

“Your uniform really suits you, Steve. Functional and honest," as he leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "Turn around so I can see your back, please," he instructed, his hand sliding across my buttocks. "It clarifies things immediately, doesn't it? Sets the necessary boundaries in our arrangement."

He then turned me around to face him, his fingers sliding under the fabric on my thighs and then pulling the waistband up a little to stretch the material. The elastic snapped back against my skin with a soft thwack, making me flinch.

His knuckles brushed against my hip bone as he adjusted the fit, smoothing the cotton taut over my lower abdomen. "Amazon Essentials," he murmured approvingly, tracing the waistband's ribbing. "Solid construction. No nonsense." His touch lingered, clinical yet possessive, mapping the precise boundaries where fabric met flesh.

His touch moved lower, tracing the taut line of my abdomen. Slow, deliberate strokes that followed the dip of muscle towards my hips. Then his fingers paused, hovering just above the straining fabric of my briefs. My erection was undeniable now, a rigid outline pressing against the white cotton.

Nevis was in heaven as he made a soft, satisfied sound in his throat. "Wonderfully responsive, Steve", he murmured, his voice thick with approval. His fingers brushed the heated bulge, the contact electric. "At twenty-six, your body reacts with admirable... immediacy," as his hand settled fully over me, palm cupping the hard length through the cotton.

The pressure was firm, possessive. His thumb rubbed slowly along the shaft’s outline, tracing its swollen shape. "Good," he breathed, his own gaze locked on the visible proof of my arousal trapped beneath his hand. "Very good, and I can already smell that suitable leakage is emanating from your body."

"Thank you, Professor," was all I said as I took in the dynamics of our new relationship.

"So, Steve. Over there on the round table, you will see a large delivery bag, which I mentioned in the pub earlier. Go and open it and tell me what you find.”

I walked over to the table and opened the bag, pulling out pairs of cotton briefs with matching vests.

Professor Nevis watched me intently. "Seven brands," he stated, his voice calm but authoritative. "One for each day. Monday is Jockey. Tuesday, M&S. Wednesday belongs to Hanes. Thursday is Fruit of the Loom, and Friday is supplied by The White Briefs Company. Saturday, Schiesser and Sunday, Chums."

He paused, letting the schedule sink in. "There are also matching vests by the same brand. Fresh cotton vests maintain the integrity of your uniform, and I will also inspect your underwear at the end of every day or when I instruct you to provide earlier evidence."

“I assume, Professor, that I should adopt the new regime immediately?”

He rose from his desk, circling me slowly. "I expect you to wear the designated brand correctly each day. Failure to comply," his voice hardened slightly, "will necessitate focused correction."

My gaze flicked from the neat stacks of briefs back to his face. "Professor," I began, my voice tighter than intended, "Focus correction? The intimacy of it prickled my skin, a confusing mix of dread and anticipation tightening my stomach.

“Yes, correction in the form of a spanking using a suitable paddle,” the Professor advised.

"I will, of course, do as scheduled."

Professor Nevis gestured towards the bag. "Which brings us to Thursday, which is Fruit of the Loom Day. The schedule began when you moved in, which means you are in a technical breach of our agreement requiring a technical-focused correction while you wear your current briefs."

I blinked, the implications sinking in. "A focused correction? Already? I’ve only been here for half an hour or so and already, you want to spank me for a minor non-conformity."

"Well, Steve, it is a technical breach of the agreement, and I guess you should understand that any breach or lack of attention to detail should be managed properly. On this occasion, I suggest six strokes of my paddle."

“If it provides me with focus, Professor, yes,” I replied, feeling excited and aroused that I was going to be spanked for the first time since starting my academic career in Cambridge.

Professor Nevis moved to an antique cabinet beside his desk. Inside, nestled beside leather-bound ledgers, lay a polished wooden paddle. He lifted it with reverence, testing its weight in his hand. The air thickened, charged with anticipation as he showed it to me.

Just the sight of the paddle excited me more than it should have. My breath hitched, a flush spreading across my chest beneath the thin vest. "Where do you wish me to assume the position, Professor?" My voice sounded rough but confident in anticipation.

"I suggest you bend over my desk, Steve," Professor Nevis commanded, his voice low and resonant, brooking no hesitation. "I will do the rest," as he gestured towards the heavy oak surface, its polished expanse clear of papers.

The cool wood pressed against my bare thighs as I leaned down, resting my weight on my forearms. My tucked vest rode up slightly, exposing the small of my back above the waistband of my Amazon Essentials briefs.

The scent of beeswax and old paper filled my nostrils, sharpening my senses as I felt him insert his fingers into the waistband of my briefs, gently pull the waistband down to eventually allow the pair of briefs to slide down my legs to pool at my ankles.

"Step out of them, Steven," he ordered.

Taking note that I was being called Steven changed the dynamic immediately. I was only called Steven when I was in trouble, and I guess I was in trouble as he lifted my vest towards my shoulders.

Professor Nevis’s breath hitched audibly behind me, a sharp intake that betrayed his own flustered excitement. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the polished wooden paddle, its weight suddenly immense in the charged silence of the study. For a man who prized control above all, the prospect of a regular, compliant bottom laid bare before him, mine, seemed to unravel something tightly coiled within him.

He didn’t hesitate long until the paddle whistled through the air, a brief, terrifying sound before it landed. CRACK! The impact exploded across my bare skin with shocking power and force, far sharper and deeper than I’d braced for.

"One," Professor Nevis announced, his voice strained but regaining its composure. The cool wood of the desk beneath my forearms was the only anchor as the second stroke descended. CRACK! It landed lower, overlapping the first welt, igniting fresh fire. My hips jerked involuntarily, as a choking sound escaped me.

"Two," he stated, firmer now, as the paddle landed across both buttocks.

The third stroke landed squarely in the centre. CRACK! It drove the breath from my lungs, leaving me trembling, suspended between agony and a perverse, dizzying thrill.

"Three," Professor Nevis breathed, his voice thick with exertion and something darker, hotter. The paddle lifted again, trembling slightly in his grip. The sight of my bare skin, already flushing a deep, angry red beneath the stark lamplight, seemed to unravel him further.

The fourth stroke cracked down with brutal precision, lower still, biting into the crease where buttock met thigh. A choked cry tore from my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, blurring the grain of the oak desk beneath my clenched fists. The sting was immense, radiating waves of heat that pulsed in time with my hammering heart. Yet, beneath the pain, a treacherous current of arousal surged, undeniable and humiliating.

"Four," he rasped, the word ragged. He paused, the silence heavy with the sound of our mingled, ragged breathing. His hand settled briefly on the scorched skin, fingers tracing the rising welts. The touch was searing, possessive. "Almost there, Steven. Maintain your position."

The fifth stroke descended like a hammer blow. CRACK! It landed high, overlapping the already blazing landscape of welts on my bottom. A strangled gasp ripped from my throat. My entire body convulsed against the desk, muscles locking tight. The pain was blinding, white-hot, radiating deep into muscle and bone. Tears streamed freely down my face now, dripping onto the polished wood. Beneath the agony, the humiliating arousal surged higher, a traitorous pulse throbbing insistently against the cool desk edge. One more. Only one more, I reminded myself.

"Five," Professor Nevis declared, his voice thick and steady.

The sixth stroke fell. CRACK! Lower, biting savagely into the tender crease where buttock met thigh. A raw cry tore loose, echoing in the quiet study. My legs buckled, but I forced myself to stay bent, trembling violently. The pain was immense, an all-consuming fire. Yet, beneath it, a profound, dizzying relief washed over me. It was done. The correction was administered, and I’d taken it without humiliating myself.

For a long moment, only our harsh breathing filled the room. Then, Professor Nevis gently laid the paddle aside on the desk beside my clenched fist. His hands, surprisingly gentle now, smoothed over the ravaged skin. The contrast between the brutal sting and his careful touch was jarring. "Well taken, Steven," he murmured, his voice rough with spent intensity. "Very well taken." His fingers lingered, tracing the contours of the fresh welts, a possessiveness in the touch that made my skin prickle anew.

"Your new Fruit of the Loom briefs are on the table. Why don’t you put them on?"

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself upright. The movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from my throbbing backside as I stood, but the pain was also providing focus as I walked over to the table. A focus I appreciated and understood.

Professor Nevis’s gaze didn’t linger on the angry red welts he’d painted across my skin or my erection demanding attention. Instead, his sharp eyes dropped lower, locking onto the Amazon Essentials that lay discarded on the floor as I slipped the Thursday underwear on.

He bent down, retrieving them with deliberate care. Holding the crumpled white cotton aloft, he brought it slowly towards his face. For a long, unsettling moment, he simply inhaled, nostrils flaring as he buried his nose deep into the pouch where my body had pressed against the fabric all day. His eyes closed, a flicker of concentration tightening his features. Then, a low hum of approval vibrated in his throat. "Acceptable and no skid marks," he murmured, the word thick with implication as he held them. It appears you keep yourself clean. An admirable approach if you ask me.”

I watched him as he inspected the briefs, taking in his appreciation of the simple garment that provided him with such pleasure, and I was slightly amused by his comment about skid marks.

Professor Nevis held up my worn Amazon Essentials briefs with meticulous care. "It's all about the smell and odour of the wearer, Steve," he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. "The strong odours on worn briefs come from sweat, body oils, and the bacteria that thrive in the warm, moist groin area, which creates a unique and personal scent that I find highly appealing."

His finger traced the damp patch on the front where pre-cum had dried earlier. "I can detect your essence here, that sharp, musk." His gaze dropped lower, looking inside the briefs. "Ah, and see? Some discarded pubic hair is clinging to the fabric. Perfectly natural." A slow smile spread across his face. "I think we are going to have a truly exceptional relationship,” as he folded them, placing them on his desk.

Forgetting myself for a moment as I watched the Professor, I tucked the vest in meticulously to match my briefs, smoothing the cotton over my hips. Professor Nevis approached silently. His fingers, cool and precise, hooked into the waistband on either side of my hips. He tugged upwards, firmly, aligning the waistband perfectly horizontal, just below my navel. The elastic dug into the sensitive swell of the welts, a sharp reminder. Then, his thumbs pressed flat against the front panel, smoothing the fabric taut over my lower abdomen, ensuring every contour was defined, every seam visible. He adjusted the leg bands next, pulling them snugly into the crease between thigh and groin, maximising the exposure of the thigh while framing the erection beneath the white cotton.

"Much better, Steve. Perfect in fact," as he looked over me, inspecting his efforts. "You can now start cleaning my study, and then we can go from there."

As I started to walk out to get the duster and polish from the utility cupboard, the question bubbled up, raw and unguarded. "Professor? You suggested that if I wish to relieve myself, I should be transparent and provide you with evidence" I paused in the doorway, half-turned, the welts throbbing beneath the crisp Fruit of the Loom cotton. “Do you wish to watch me relieve myself, or would you prefer to supervise?”

Professor Nevis paused, his hand resting on my hidden erection, his eyes fixed on the damp patch spreading across the front of my Fruit of the Loom briefs. Suddenly, his expression shifted. A flicker of realisation crossed his face. "I'm so sorry, my dear boy," he murmured, his voice softening unnervingly. "I get your point and…. depositing leakage and ejaculate inside the cotton fabric is always better, for inspection purposes. I might be asexual, but that doesn’t prevent me from supervising if the need arises," as he slid his hand fully over the tented fabric, fingers curling possessively around the outline. "Come and sit on my desk while I supervise your needs."

I felt immediately satisfied that there would be an element of personal touch, and I was about to find out, another level in Professor Nevis’s kink as he guided me backwards, lifting me gently until my throbbing backside pressed against the wood of his desk.

As I sat there, my erection throbbed behind the cotton wall, the fabric provided with the double padding of the groin already feeling damp, as he began to move his hand. Slow, rhythmic strokes up and down through the material. The friction was exquisite torture, the rough weave rasping against oversensitive skin. Pre-cum soaked instantly through, creating a dark, slick patch.

"Professor..." I gasped, hips jerking involuntarily into his touch.

"Shhh," he breathed, his own breathing quickening. His thumb and finger pressed hard on either side of the crown through the damp fabric. "Let it build. This frustration... this ache... It's natural to demand release as the pressure becomes intolerable."

His strokes intensified, relentless, focused solely on the trapped heat beneath the cotton. "Feel it? That pressure? You are beautifully responsive," he whispered, almost to himself. "Exactly as expected."

Every deliberate rub sent sparks through my nerves. The Fruit of the Loom fabric scraped against my swollen head, the damp patch spreading wider as cooler air hit the wetness, only intensifying the friction. My hips bucked helplessly against his palm. The throbbing ache in my punished backside faded into a distant echo beneath the overwhelming surge building low in my belly. Professor Nevis watched my face intently, his own expression rapt, analytical, yet burning with a fierce, possessive satisfaction.

"I... I can't..." The warning gasp tore from me, ragged and desperate.

"Let it happen, Steve," he commanded, his voice thick, hypnotic. "cum for me."

The command shattered the last shred of control. A raw cry ripped from my throat as my body convulsed violently against the desk edge. Thick pulses of release surged hotly into the already soaked briefs, trapped against my skin. Wave after wave crashed through me, leaving me shuddering, gasping, my vision blurring at the edges as my semen flooded my briefs.

Professor Nevis maintained his grip, his hand still moving in slow, possessive circles, milking the last tremors from me until I sagged, trembling and spent, against the desk as he squeezed semen through the cotton fabric while the last dribbles cascaded down my shaft to settle in my pubic hair.

His gaze dropped to the front of my briefs, now thoroughly soaked and clinging obscenely. "A significant emission. Excellent volume. Now..." he stated, "Don't change and please don't clean yourself. The integrity of your uniform in its current state is paramount for my enjoyment later," as he gestured towards the door. "Proceed with your duties while I study the...research paper I started to read."

My semen-soaked briefs remained snugly in place, a damp, sticky prison adhering to my thighs and groin with each movement. Fetching the duster and polish felt surreal, my focus fractured between the throbbing ache in my backside and the peculiar, clinging wetness trapped beneath the white cotton. The scent, musky and intimate, seemed to intensify as I busied myself cleaning his study as the Professor worked, and I started to enjoy my new role and the weird companionship that also provided a new focus through correction, as the Professor called it.

Professor Nevis watched my every motion from his leather armchair, his gaze tracing the damp patch spreading across the Fruit of the Loom fabric as I busied myself around his study. "You've done a great job, Steve," he remarked, his voice low and approving as I finished polishing his mahogany desk to a high shine.

I had finished his study and stood waiting for his attention, unsure what to do next. “Professor?” I asked, “What next?”

Lifting his face from the research paper, he looked at me with a smile. "Enough for today, and you can now change your underwear. It’s been a couple of hours since your release, and I need to inspect them."

Knowing he wanted to inspect the cum-soaked Fruit of the Loom briefs, I slipped them down in front of him, my erection growing with expectation. The damp fabric peeled away from my skin with a soft, sticky sound, releasing the intimate scent of exertion and release into the study's quiet air.

I held them out, the white cotton heavy and translucent where my emission had saturated the pouch. Professor Nevis leaned forward, taking the briefs directly to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply. "Magnificent saturation," he murmured, taking them gently. His fingers traced the wet outline where my cock had strained against the fabric. "The scent profile is... complex. Musky, with undertones of salt and exertion. Exactly as it should be."

With another smile, he folded them meticulously, placing the bundle atop my discarded Amazon Essentials briefs like treasured artefacts.

"Professor?" I asked, standing naked from the waist down, the cool study air prickling my skin. My erection refused to subside, bobbing slightly with my pulse. "What happens if I want to have sex in our new arrangement?"

In response, he steepled his fingers, observing me clinically. "I could watch you masturbate, if that will help. Documenting your responsiveness would be... instructive and personally satisfying, but I suspect that might not satisfy those sexual urges and needs. Alternatively, I can arrange for a suitable partner to visit. Someone discreet, hygienic, and aligned with our arrangement. They would service you under my supervision, ensuring your needs are met without compromising our arrangement."

The options hung in the air, stark and surreal. Masturbating under his analytical gaze felt like another layer of exposure, raw and vulnerable. Yet the thought of a stranger summoned here, performing under Nevis's watchful eyes... left me uncertain, although my erection pulsed traitorously at both possibilities.

"I don't know, Professor, what I would like. What would you like?"

The Professor rose, his fingers brushing the paddle's handle before turning to face me fully. "What I like," he murmured, stepping closer, "is precision." His thumb traced the welted ridge where my hip met thigh. "And honesty." His gaze lifted to mine. "You're aroused. Undeniable. The solution must be satisfying, efficient, and preserve the integrity of our arrangement, and I wouldn’t mind watching. That's what I would like."

Feeling exasperated and in some senses, desperate, I asked, "Can I choose a friend, Professor? Someone I could rely upon to provide both of us with what we both want?"

Professor Nevis considered this, his fingers tapping the paddle handle. "A trusted acquaintance? Acceptable. Provided they understand discretion and adhere strictly to my protocols. Hygiene is paramount, but they must not shower before coitus, and they must support my expectations."

"Fair enough," I responded, thinking of Frank at the college. "I will talk to someone I have in mind as a suitable friend for our arrangement."

"Do so, you have my permission," he replied as I walked out of his study naked below the waist.

Straight to my room I went, taking all the briefs that had been in the delivery bag and having selected another Thursday pair, I pulled on my jeans and a hoodie over the white cotton briefs and vest, and located my mobile phone.

Finding Frank’s number, I hesitated only a moment before typing, “Hey Frank. Fancy a pint at the Eagle? I need to talk about something personal.” The message felt like dropping a stone into still water as I pressed the SEND button.

Frank’s reply buzzed back almost instantly. “Steve? Blimey, mate. Haven’t heard from you in ages. Everything alright?” A pause, then: “Yeah, alright. Eagle in an hour if that works for you.”

“Yep, that works, Frank. See you in an hour.”

The Eagle was crowded, thick with the smell of stale beer and fried food. Frank was already there, nursing a pint at a corner booth. His easy grin faltered when he saw me. "Christ, Steve," he muttered, eyes flicking over my stiff posture. "You look like you’ve been run over or something. Sit down."

I slid into the booth, wincing as the wooden seat pressed against the welts beneath my jeans. Frank pushed a pint towards me. "Spill the beans. What’s up?"

“My arse is hurting at the moment. Professor Nevis gave me a spanking.”

“He what? You fucking serious?”

“Yep, I’m serious, but let me explain before you judge.”

And so I did explain. Haltingly at first, then in a rush. The job, the briefs, the paddling, Nevis’s fixation on scent and order, his asexuality. Frank listened, pint forgotten, his fingers wrapped around his glass. When I mentioned the hand job, the arrangement, Frank’s jaw tightened. "He wanked you through your briefs? And you’re... okay with that?"

"It’s complicated, and they were briefs supplied by him," I admitted, leaning forward. “Somehow, he knew I was gay, and he trusted me enough to reveal himself and his sexuality to me and, in all the excitement, I realised something, something I should have confessed sooner.”

My voice dropped. "Frank... I’ve fancied you since the second year. When you’d laugh in tutorials, that stupid bloody scarf always slipping off..." I swallowed. "Nevis offered to find someone to satisfy my needs, but then I realised, it's you I want, and so, I asked for you."

Frank stared. Utterly still. The pub noise faded, glasses clinking, laughter, the jukebox, all distant static. His gaze drilled into mine, searching for a joke, a lie. Finding neither, he exhaled sharply. "You’re serious, aren’t you?"

"Yeah."

"Sex. With you. While your underwear-fetish professor watches." He said it flatly, testing the absurdity. "And you... want, this?"

“Yes,” as my face flushed uncontrollably. "I want you. I have always wanted you, but I was never brave enough to act on my feelings. Sexually, I'm shy and not your regular gay man if you get my meaning. The rest... It’s part of the job now, but my feelings for you are mine and not related to the professor or anyone else."

Frank drained his pint in one long pull. Slammed the glass down. Ran a hand through his messy hair. "Right." He looked away, then back, eyes dark and unreadable. "This conversation is so random, mate. And your declaration of wanting me is a huge surprise."

I nodded slowly as he comprehended what I had said. "Okay," he said as he signalled the barman for two more pints. His hand, when it brushed mine, was trembling. "You've actually made my day with your confession. I also confess that I've always found you attractive, but I wasn't sure if you liked men."

"I thought you might have feelings for me, but I wasn't sure either. What about now? Do you want to be friends with someone like me?

Frank thought for a moment and then responded. “I hadn’t expected this, I have to say, but I’m also sort of pleased that our feelings are out in the open, even though it’s a weird ASK, you are asking.

“I get that, Frank, but is it too much for you to handle?”

“Too much, mate? Nah. In fact, I sort of like the pervy arrangement, and you get paid, which is more than I do for wanking. Having listened to you, I'm feeling horny as fuck and need a release, and I want to share it with you, as so to speak."

"You're on," I declared as I picked up my pint, demanding we clink our glasses together.

"Cheers mate," Frank said.

"Cheers, Frank and thank you for listening to me. It means a lot, and considering our confessions, our union is long overdue."

We finished our beers in a charged silence, the air thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what we'd agreed to. Frank’s gaze kept flicking to my face, searching, then darting away. When the glasses were empty, he stood abruptly. "Right then. Let's see this professor of yours." His voice was steady, but his nerves were heightened when he gripped the edge of the booth.

The walk back to Professor Nevis’s imposing Victorian house felt surreal under the streetlights. Frank kept pace beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine. "So," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead, "he just... watches? Doesn't touch?"

I nodded, the Fruit of the Loom cotton rasping against the welts with every step. "And you’re... You’re really okay with that?" Frank’s question held genuine concern beneath the disbelief.

"It’s not about being okay," I admitted, my voice low. "It’s... necessary. For the arrangement."

Frank’s sharp intake of breath beside me was loud in the quiet street. "But with me... It feels right?"

I didn’t reply, but his hand brushed mine briefly, as a fleeting anchor in an insane situation of my making.

We reached the heavy oak front door. Before I could lift the brass knocker, it swung inward. Professor Nevis stood framed in the doorway, bathed in the warm hall light. His sharp gaze swept over Frank, assessing him with clinical precision, the messy dark hair, the sturdy build beneath his worn leather jacket, the faint scent of beer and chips clinging to him. "Mr Davis," the professor stated, not a question. He stepped aside, gesturing us in with a curt nod. "Come through to the study and please remove your shoes."

Frank hesitated only a second before toeing off his trainers. He followed me down the dimly lit hallway, his socked feet silent on the polished wood. The study door stood ajar. Inside, the mahogany desk gleamed under the desk lamp, the paddle resting prominently on its surface beside a neatly stacked pile of folded white cotton briefs. Nevis moved behind the desk, settling into his high-backed leather chair with an air of absolute authority. Frank and I stood before him, side by side, like supplicants awaiting judgment. The air felt thick with anticipation.

Professor Nevis steepled his fingers, his gaze shifting between us. "Mr Davis," he began, his voice low and precise, cutting through the silence. "This arrangement exists outside conventional boundaries. Absolute confidentiality is paramount. What transpires within these walls remains here." His eyes locked onto Frank’s. "No whispers in corridors. No drunken confessions. This is a covenant of silence. Breach it," he paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air, his gaze flicking momentarily to the paddle, "and the consequences will be severe. For both of you. Do you understand?"

"I do, Professor," Frank responded.

"I likewise get it, Professor, but you know that already," I stated.

"Very well, boys. We can begin by stripping down to your underwear," Professor Nevis instructed. “Especially you, Mr Davis. I want to see what you look like and whether you are a suitable candidate to participate in the study.”

Frank and I did as told, neatly folding our clothes and placing them on the armchair. We stood before Nevis's desk in just our underwear - me in Fruit of the Loom briefs and Frank in faded grey boxer shorts that had seen better times. Both of us, sexually aroused with anticipation and, I guess, excitement.

The Professor made meticulous notes in a leather-bound journal, his fountain pen scratching across the page. His gaze moved clinically between us, comparing, assessing the bodies before him.

"Mr Davis," Nevis stated without looking up, his pen pausing, as he viewed Frank's boxer shorts. "Those loose, shapeless boxer shorts are unacceptable. They lack structure, fail to contain properly, and obscure anatomical detail. I am also disappointed with their age and the overall condition and quality. Don’t you look after your underwear? They even have holes in them, and clearly, you have never ironed them either."

Frank blushed as he stood there. “Sorry, Professor, I don’t look at underwear in the same way you do.”

Nevis finally lifted his eyes, “Clearly,” his voice sounding disapproving. "From this moment, you will wear suitable underwear when in this house. Defined pouch, reinforced waistband, snug leg bands. White cotton briefs, like Mr Wilson is wearing."

"Yes, Professor, but I don't actually own anything like Steve's briefs," Frank declared.

Professor Nevis rose, opening a drawer beneath the leather-bound journal. He withdrew a sealed pack of Fruit of the Loom white cotton briefs, identical to mine. "These are yours now, Mr Davis. Put them on immediately. I require visual confirmation of compliance."

Frank didn't hesitate. He pushed his faded grey boxer shorts down his thighs in one swift motion, his erection springing free, thick and flushed. The cool air of the study seemed to ripple across his skin as he tore open the plastic pack with trembling fingers. He stepped into the crisp new briefs, tugging them up over his hips, the stark white cotton a shocking contrast against his skin.

I watched closely, having never seen Frank naked, and I took in the view of his erect cock, enjoying the slight curve and length, knowing soon I would hold it and use it to satisfy both our needs.

Professor Nevis watched the entire process, rapt, his pen momentarily forgotten, a flicker of intense satisfaction crossing his features as the waistband snapped into place. "Pass those here," he commanded, pointing to the discarded boxer shorts pooled at Frank's ankles. Frank bent stiffly, picked them up, and handed them over.

A faint grimace twisted the professor's lips. "Synthetic blend," he declared with disdain. "Traps odours poorly. Creates an artificial, chemical scent profile beneath the sweat," as he folded them with sharp, precise movements, only to drop them into the wastepaper basket next to his desk. "Unacceptable, so they must be discarded."

He turned his attention fully to us, his gaze sharpening. "Now, boys, let's get started." His eyes were fixed on me. "Steve, Mr Wilson, you first. Pass me your underwear so I can inspect them."

I slipped my Fruit of the Loom briefs off and handed them over to the professor, the cotton front slightly damp, knowing that some urine leakage had occurred during our beers in the Eagle.

Professor Nevis took them with meticulous care, spreading the stained fabric flat on his desk under the lamplight. His fountain pen scratched across his leather-bound journal as he leaned close, inspecting every detail, including the odour and then scoring his findings in a sliding scale.

"You obviously had to attend the toilet a few times. I can see and smell the dribbles," he declared.

"Sorry, Professor, I couldn't help the odd dribble as I tucked back in."

"Perhaps, Mr Wilson, you should shake more before tucking back in. You do use the fly hole, or do you slip your briefs down from the top and pee that way?"

"I slip my briefs down from the top, Professor," I admitted, shifting my weight. "It's... easier."

"I see. Perhaps you should use the fly hole as it's designed from now on," was all he said.

Professor Nevis turned his attention to Frank. "Mr Davis, there's no point in inspecting yours," he stated dismissively, gesturing towards Frank's discarded boxer shorts lying in the rubbish bin. "Synthetic blends are inherently flawed. They lack the cotton's breathability and absorbency, trapping odours poorly." He tapped his fountain pen impatiently against the leather journal. "Remove them anyway. I wish to compare you both."

Frank hesitated, glancing at me, my face flushed crimson. Slowly, Frank peeled off the new white briefs, standing naked beside me. Professor Nevis rose, circling them with the detached scrutiny of a biologist examining specimens.

His gaze lingered on our groins. "Both circumcised," he noted clinically. "A clean aesthetic and efficient, while more hygienic. Mr Wilson, your length is marginally superior, though Mr Davis possesses a thicker girth. Interesting variations in vascularity."

Nevis paused, leaning closer to me. "Note the pronounced dorsal vein on Mr Wilson, Mr Davis. A sign of robust functionality."

The professor then moved behind us, his voice cool and precise. "Arms extended, gentlemen, please. Parallel to the floor."

We complied as Nevis ran a fingertip along my biceps, then Frank's. "Mr Davis exhibits greater muscle definition in the upper arm, likely from manual labour. Mr Wilson, your forearms show more development, consistent with gardening tasks, gripping tools."

Nevis’ finger trailed down my flank. "Observe the subtle difference in torso musculature, Mr Davis. Mr Wilson has a leaner taper, while your build is more compact, powerful."

Nevis crouched, his focus shifting downwards. "Thighs. Quadriceps development. Mr Davis, yours are bulkier, indicative of weight-bearing work. Mr Wilson, yours are longer, more sinewy." He tapped my inner thigh lightly. "Fascinating how the adductor muscles tense identically under scrutiny. A shared nervous response." He stood, returning to his desk. "You may both replace your briefs. Mr Davis. Ensure the leg bands sit flush against the skin. No bunching."

“Yes, Professor, I will make sure,” as Frank held his cotton briefs.

We pulled the white cotton back on, as Nevis scribbled furiously. "The physical comparison is complete. Your bodies are serviceable, responsive. Now, gentlemen," he said, looking up, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles, "we must now address the primary purpose of Mr Davis's presence. The arrangement requires execution."

“Gentlemen,” he said, his finger gesturing towards the thick Persian rug in front of the imposing fireplace. "Position yourselves there while I summarise the arrangement.

“Mr Wilson, Steve, requested sexual satisfaction, and because I’m asexual for a multitude of reasons, I cannot satisfy his needs. You, Mr Davis, have responded to his request to become his sexual friend and hopefully, his regular lover.”

The professor paused for a moment, “I expect to observe the natural interaction, driven by the established mutual attraction between the two of you.” He said before pausing again, as Frank and I stood on the rug, fully aroused and feeling like lab rats in a grand experiment.

“It's not the sex I’m interested in,” the professor continued.  “It's your body language and how you perform that interests me the most. Therefore, you can begin when ready, and I shall observe and take notes," as he settled back into his high-backed chair, steepling his fingers, his gaze fixed and expectant.

The room felt suddenly very small, the crackle of the fire the only sound besides our quickening breaths. I looked at Frank, the professor's clinical comparisons still echoing, the directive hanging heavy in the air.

Frank turned to me, his fingers pinching my nipples gently as he moved in to kiss me. "I've wanted to do this for ages, but I didn’t expect an audience," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. His other hand slid down my stomach, rough and urgent, bypassing my erection to grip my hip. The kiss was deep, hungry, tasting of cheap beer and pent-up longing. His thumbs dug into the sensitive peaks of my nipples, sending jolts of heat straight to my cock. I gasped into his mouth, arching against him.

"Neither did I expect an audience, but it's sort of cool being watched,” I told my lover. “Take me, Frank. Make love to me. I want to feel you inside me," I whispered against his lips.

Frank groaned, pulling me closer. "God, Steve... I have wanted this forever," as his hands slid down my back, fingers tracing the welts the spanking had left, making me shiver. He kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring my mouth with a reverence that felt like worship. Then he sank to his knees before me, his eyes dark with devotion as he invited me to join him on the rug in front of the fire.

I lay on the rug looking at Frank as his lips brushed against my pubic hair. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his breath hot against my skin, before he leaned forward and took me into his mouth.

I cried out, tangling my fingers in his hair as he sucked me deep, his tongue swirling around the head with tender precision. He worshipped every inch, licking, kissing, nuzzling my balls with a fervour that left me trembling. "Frank..." I gasped as he released my cock.

I was putty in his hands as he helped me change position, lying himself on the rug, inviting me to straddle him. His hands roamed my body. His palms were smoothing over my chest, thumbs circling my nipples, fingers tracing the lines of my hips, as if committing me to memory.

Professor Nevis watched silently from his armchair, journal open, fountain pen poised. His gaze was clinical, detached, but intensely focused as Frank prepared me with spit-slicked fingers, stretching me slowly. "Ready?" Frank breathed, positioning himself between my thighs.

I nodded, heart pounding. "Please, Frank. Now, and don't forget to smother that cock of yours in lube. More the merrier."

I found it so erotic watching him lube himself. His cock was magnificent, and I couldn’t resist anymore as I moved forward from his thighs, sitting as he guided me until he was sheathed inside me in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt as I pushed down.

I arched off his hips with a choked cry, the stretch burning sweetly. Frank stilled, forehead pressed to mine. "Alright?" he whispered.

"Perfect," I breathed. "Fuck me..."

He began to rock into me, each thrust deep and worshipful. His hands cradled my face, his eyes locked on mine as he moved. "So good, Stevie... so fucking perfect."

Frank kissed me more, swallowing my moans, his hips driving into me with relentless tenderness. The slap of skin, our ragged breaths and the sound of the Professor's pen scratching all faded into the rhythm of Frank loving me, claiming me, as if I were sacred.

"You feel incredible, Stevie," he breathed, pulling back just enough to watch my face. "I always imagined this but never thought it would happen."

His eyes, dark and earnest, held mine. No performance. Just Frank, utterly present, giving himself to me as completely as I was giving myself to him.

The pace built gradually. Not frantic, but purposeful. Every roll of his hips drew a gasp from me, every withdrawal a whimper. He shifted, reaching deeper. The new angle stole my breath; each stroke now brushed that spot inside me, raw and electric. "Frank", I choked out, fingers digging into his shoulders. He answered with a groan, low and ragged, his forehead meeting mine. Sweat slicked our skin where we pressed together, the smell of us, musky, urgent, alive, filling the air. Beneath us, the rug gave us comfort as Professor Nevis remained silent, but I felt his gaze like a physical touch. Clinical and absorbing.

"Look at you," Frank murmured, voice thick with awe. "So beautiful like this."

His thumb brushed a tear I hadn’t realised had escaped. Worship wasn’t just in his touch; it was in the reverence in his eyes, in the way he cherished every sound, every shudder I gave him. Our rhythm intensified. Frank braced himself below me, arms trembling, driving deeper with each thrust I made.

"So close," I choked out, fingers clawing at his chest.

The coil inside me tightened, white-hot and inevitable. Frank’s rhythm fractured, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate. A guttural groan tore from him as he buried himself to the hilt, body locking rigid. Warmth flooded me, pulsing deep within as he came, his release shuddering through us both. The sensation tipped me over the edge. My back arched off his hips, a raw cry ripped from my throat as I spilt my seed, untouched between us, streaks painting his stomach, chest and face.

I collapsed atop Frank, chest heaving, forehead pressed onto his shoulder. We lay tangled, slick with sweat and release, the air thick with the musk of sex and Nevis’s silent scrutiny. Frank’s breath warmed my skin. "Okay?" he whispered, hoarse.

"Better than okay," I breathed.

A sharp click pierced the haze. The professor had capped his fountain pen. He stood, leather journal tucked under his arm, his expression unreadable. "More than satisfactory," he stated, his voice cutting through the charged silence.

"I have to inspect my own underwear now, after watching that display. Well done, boys, and you are free to continue anytime you wish," as his gaze lingered on Frank, still sheathed inside me. "Don’t disengage prematurely, young man. Enjoy the moment."

Frank froze, a flush creeping up his neck as the Professor turned toward the door. "Good night, boys and don't forget, if you are in the house, I expect you both to wear the agreed uniform, and Frank, Mr Davis, you are very welcome to move in if you wish. At that, see you in the morning.”

Once the professor had left his study, Frank looked at me. "Uniform? Move in?"

"Yeah, uniform, Frank,” I answered. “Pristine white vest tucked into your pristine white Fruit of the Loon briefs. And I guess the professor has enjoyed himself so much that he might fancy watching again if you move in."

"Oh, but I don't wear vests, Stevie. I don’t even own a vest."

"Well, you'd better buy some and start doing so; otherwise, he might spank you."

Frank groaned softly, shifting his weight slightly, still buried deep inside me. "He might spank me if I fuck up. So, pristine white vest tucked into pristine white briefs. Got it." His thumb brushed my hipbone. "And... just to be clear... this," he gestured vaguely between our still-connected bodies, "is allowed? Anytime?"

"Yep, anytime you want me, just say the word. I'm yours now, and we might have to make up for lost time."

"Last question, Stevie, does it hurt being spanked by him?"

"You have seen me and the aftereffects, but yes, it does, but it also turns me on something rotten. Maybe you might like to spank me occasionally?"

“Maybe,” Frank replied, “although I’ve never spanked anyone before and I’ve never been spanked either.”

At that, Frank dropped out of me with a soft, wet sound that made us both flush. I remained seated on him, his cock semi-flaccid underneath me as the cool air hit my sweat-slicked skin and the welts throbbed anew.

Frank’s hands settling gently on my hips, then moved down my buttocks, feeling the latticework of red stripes, the professor's paddle had left across my backside. His breath hitched. "Wow, Stevie," he murmured, fingers hovering on the raised marks. "That’s sick."

I shivered, the pain flaring bright and hot before melting into something else entirely, a deep, aching want that pooled low in my belly. "Take me to bed, Frank."

He didn't hesitate. One strong arm hooked under my knees, the other around my back, and he lifted me effortlessly. My arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, clinging as he carried me down the dim hallway and up the stairs towards my room. The scent of him, sweat, sex, and cheap beer, was intoxicating.

Frank woke me with a kiss pressed softly to my temple. Morning light filtered through the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. "Morning, Stevie," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He was already awake, propped on an elbow beside me, tracing idle patterns on my bare shoulder. "Lectures not 'til two. Fancy breakfast?"

I stretched, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at the tender welts on my backside. "Starved," I admitted, rolling towards him. He kissed me properly then, deep and slow, tasting of sleep and promise. "Don't forget the uniform, Frank. Vest and briefs."

A groan escaped him. "Right. The Professor's pristine whites." He swung his legs out of bed, gloriously naked. "Still haven't got a vest, but I have the briefs from yesterday."

Those are Thursday briefs. Today is Friday, so borrow mine," I offered, rummaging in my drawer. I pulled out two identical packs from the White Brief's Company. Friday's fresh supply. "Here," I tossed him a pack. "Vests too. Fresh ones."

“I can’t believe I have to wear this shit, Steve,” Frank declared. “It’s weird if you ask me, but if that’s what the professor wants, I guess he gets it.

“But, Frank, you actually look great in your Fruit of the Loom from yesterday. Perhaps today’s will look equally good on you,” I tried to reassure Frank.

“Thanks, lover boy, it's nice to know I look good,” as we both dressed quickly in the cool morning air. Frank pulled the crisp white vest over his head, tucking the hem neatly into the waistband of the stark white cotton briefs I'd given him.

Now dressed correctly, we left the bedroom heading towards the kitchen, and the smell of strong coffee hit us first. Professor Nevis sat at the head of the scrubbed pine table, impeccably dressed in his usual tweed waistcoat and crisp shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. The Times newspaper was spread before him, held taut in his long fingers. He didn't look up immediately as we padded in barefoot.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he stated, his voice clipped, eyes still scanning the editorial pages. He took a deliberate sip from a delicate china cup. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping over us with clinical precision.

His gaze lingered on Frank, taking in the borrowed vest, the fresh white briefs, the way they clung. A faint, approving nod. "Adequate presentation, Mr Davis. The fit is satisfactory." His eyes flicked to me. "Mr Wilson, Steve. Coffee is brewed. There are eggs and bacon in the pantry."

He returned his attention to the newspaper, the rustle of the pages the only sound beyond the ticking clock. "And ensure you both consume sufficient protein this morning. You expended considerable energy last night, from what I could hear and talking about that, you were way too noisy for such a conservative area. It kept me awake, and I'm sure the neighbours, which brings me to another point."

"Which is, Professor?" Frank asked.

Nevis lowered his newspaper, folding it with surgical precision. "Noise," he stated, his gaze icy. "Specifically, the... vocalisations emanating from your room last night. Decibels are unacceptable for a scholarly residence." He paused, letting the accusation hang. "Normally, such an infringement warrants six of the best. Immediately."

My stomach clenched as Frank shifted beside me.

"However," Nevis continued, his voice softening almost imperceptibly, "Tempus Fugit. My morning seminar commences in precisely one hour and forty-seven minutes."

Frank swallowed hard. "Yes, Professor.....but, how long does it take to deliver six of the best?"

Professor Nevis's gaze snapped up, sharp and assessing. I stared at Frank, utterly flabbergasted. Did he want to be spanked? Was he volunteering? My mind raced. Why would he ask that? Before I could stop myself, I leaned close to Frank, my lips brushing his ear. My whisper was a harsh, urgent rasp. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Frank didn't flinch. He kept his eyes locked on Nevis, his jaw set. "Just curious, Professor," he pressed, his voice steady. "How long? Minutes? Hours?"

Nevis set his cup down with a soft clink. "Administration requires approximately ninety seconds. Preparation and recovery..." His gaze drifted pointedly to Frank's backside. "...variable. Are you that keen to find out how long?"

Frank stood straighter, the white cotton briefs straining slightly. "Yes, Professor, especially when I have never been spanked before and..." He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

The professor's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable behind the clinical detachment. He rose slowly, the chair scraping against the stone floor. "Very well, Mr Davis. Curiosity warrants demonstration and experience," as he uttered, "I have time. Follow me," as he walked out of the kitchen towards his study.

We followed him down the dim hallway, the air thick with the scent of coffee and impending discipline. I gripped Frank’s arm, pulling him back half a step. My whisper was raw, urgent against his ear. "It bloody hurts, Frank. Are you seriously prepared to go through with this?" My fingers dug into the crisp cotton of his borrowed vest.

"Yes," he whispered back, "It will bring us closer if I do," Frank declared.

Professor Nevis paused at the study door, turning with chilling calm. "Mr Davis. On this occasion, remove your vest and fold it neatly. Then assume the position over my desk."

"What about my underwear, Professor?"

"Don't worry about them, young man. That's my job, and on this occasion, I will allow you to retain them as you are new to being spanked."

Frank obeyed swiftly, pulling the vest over his head and folding it with trembling hands before placing it on the edge of the heavy oak desk. He bent forward, resting his weight on the woods with his arms stretched beyond his head.

Professor Nevis unlocked a drawer, retrieving the familiar, smooth maple paddle. Its polished surface gleamed dully in the morning light filtering through the study window.

The first stroke landed with a sharp, echoing CRACK. Frank gasped, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the desk edge. The second followed swiftly, landing lower, a brutal punctuation mark that drew a choked grunt from him. By the third, his breathing hitched raggedly, a fine tremor running through his legs.

The Professor paused, adjusting his grip, his expression impassive. The fourth stroke descended with devastating precision. A wet, sharp gasp tore from Frank’s throat, while simultaneously, a dark, spreading stain bloomed across the front of his briefs, a distinct yellow patch darkening the pristine white cotton. The sharp, acrid scent of urine cut through the dusty study air. Frank froze, mortification flooding his face crimson. "Professor, I... I'm sorry..." he stammered, voice thick with shame.

"A not uncommon physiological response to intense sensory overload, particularly in the untrained," the Professor explained as he stepped closer, his eyes scrutinising the wet fabric clinging to Frank’s trembling thighs. "The involuntary release demonstrates the efficiency of the stimulus, and perhaps next time, you will relieve yourself beforehand."

Frank kept his head down, shoulders hunched, humiliation radiating from him in waves as the professor delivered the final two strokes.

"Stand up, Mr Davis," he commanded.

Frank obeyed shakily, unable to meet the professor’s eyes, his damp briefs clinging obscenely. "I hope you found the experience worthwhile? And, Mr Davis, give me those. I wish to examine the saturation pattern."

Frank didn't argue, as he slipped his Friday briefs down with the damp patch stark against the white cotton. Handing them over, the professor picked up his journal, pen poised. "Curiosity sometimes provides unexpected results, Mr Wilson," as he smelled the soiled briefs. "On this occasion, I can smell dehydration in your urine, and I suggest you drink some water before breakfast. Now, I have to go before I'm late, and you can stay if you like. In the interim, put these back on."

Professor Nevis left us in the study. Frank was once again wearing his Friday briefs, albeit soiled and damp, covering his bottom, which was extremely red and hot when I touched his bottom. "Well, Frank, have we become closer now?" I felt compelled to ask.

"Oh yes, Stevie, we have and....."

I approached Frank, placing my hands on his hips, ready to kiss him. Instead, I did the second-best thing. I pulled my vest over my head and slipped the Friday briefs down my legs, allowing them to pool at my ankles as I pushed Frank backwards onto the professor's desk.

I pulled Frank's briefs down as he lay on the desk, his flaccid cock on full view as I lowered my head, my tongue now licking his urine-coated cock as his body responded.

Frank gasped, his hands flying to my shoulders as I knelt before him. "Stevie, what....?" The protest died in his throat, replaced by a choked groan as my lips closed over him. The faint, sharp tang of urine mingled with the musk of his skin was a visceral, intimate scent that only sharpened my hunger. I didn't hesitate. I wanted him, this closeness, this raw proof of what he’d endured for us. My tongue swept along his shaft, tasting salt and heat and the lingering humiliation that had soaked into his skin. He trembled, fingers tightening in my hair as I took him deeper, swallowing him whole.

Above me, Frank arched against the desk edge, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Christ... Stevie..." His hips jerked involuntarily, pushing deeper into my throat.

I pulled back just enough to swirl my tongue around the head, lapping at the bead of pre-cum forming there. "Fuck... don’t stop..." he pleaded, his voice raw. I didn’t. I devoured him, my own arousal a throbbing ache between my legs as I worshipped him. Every ridge, every vein, the heavy weight of his balls against my chin.

Above me, Frank’s breath hitched into sharp gasps. His fingers tightened painfully in my hair, his hips lifting off the desk in desperate little thrusts. "Stevie... gonna..." The warning was ragged, torn from him. I doubled down, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing him deeper until the head nudged the back of my throat. His cry shattered the quiet study air – a raw, broken sound that echoed off the oak-panelled walls as he spilt hot and thick down my throat. I drank him down, swallowing every pulse, my own cock straining against the cool wood beneath me.

When I finally pulled away, Frank collapsed back onto the desk, chest heaving, spent and trembling. A sheen of sweat coated his skin. I rose, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting him still. His eyes, dark and dazed, met mine. Without a word, I climbed onto the desk beside him, straddling his hips. My leaking cock pressed against his stomach, leaving sticky trails.

He reached for me, his hand rough and urgent. "Need you," he gasped, wrapping his fingers around my shaft. His strokes were clumsy, frantic, fuelled by the aftershocks of his own release and the sting in his welts. I braced my hands on the desk beside his head, thrusting into his hand, the friction almost too much. The scent of our mingled sweat, his urine, my saliva, and the lingering musk of sex filled the air.

It didn’t take me long. My hips jerked erratically, chasing the peak Frank’s hand promised. "Frank..." My climax ripped through me, a silent, convulsive wave that arched my back as I spilt hot stripes of cum across his stomach and chest, painting the flushed skin.

We lay tangled on the desk, breathing hard, sticky and spent. Frank traced a finger through the mess on his stomach and chest, bringing it to his lips. He tasted me, eyes locked on mine. "You taste lovely," he murmured, the word thick with promise and exhaustion, but perhaps we should get ready to go to college."

"I guess you are right, Frank, but... if you are coming back here afterwards, you should probably remember the rules."

"What, the uniform thing?" he asked.

"Yes, the uniform thing," I responded while reaching out to grab Frank's Friday briefs that still lay on the desk.

They were damp from Frank's accident earlier, the faint yellow stain visible against the white cotton. Without hesitation, I picked them up and pressed the damp fabric against Frank's stomach, using them to wipe away the streaks of my cum. The cool, urine-soaked cotton slid over his skin, soaking up the mess efficiently. I worked methodically, moving across his chest and down to his groin, wiping his softening cock clean with brisk strokes. The scent, sharp ammonia mixed with our musk, rose between us.

"Here," I said, tossing the now thoroughly soiled briefs onto Frank's lap. "You have to wear these today. All day."

Frank stared at the crumpled cotton, his nose wrinkling. "Stevie, they're... wet. And they smell."

"Exactly," I replied, hopping off the desk. "Rules are rules. You accepted Nevis's offer to stay. That means uniform compliance. And if you come back here after lectures..." I leaned in close, lowering my voice. "He will inspect them. He'll unfold them right on that desk, note every stain, and smell them deeply. He'll know exactly what happened in here." I paused, letting the image sink in. "Think of it as... proof."

Frank groaned, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. But he didn't argue. He stood up gingerly, wincing as the movement pulled at the fresh welts across his backside. He stepped into the damp briefs, pulling them up slowly. The fabric clung cold and heavy against his skin, the wet patch darkening the front. He tucked the borrowed white vest back in, the hem now dampening against the waistband.

"All day," I reminded him softly, watching the discomfort flicker across his face. "Until you return. And Nevis... he'll notice. He notices everything, and he will probably smell you before we undress from our day clothes," laughing a little as I pulled my own fresh briefs and vest on quickly, the clean cotton a stark contrast. "Ready for college?"

Frank adjusted the clinging fabric with a grimace. "Sorted as I'll ever be," he muttered, the dampness already seeping through the vest. We walked out of the study, the scent of urine, sweat, and sex trailing faintly behind us. In the hallway, the grandfather clock ticked loudly, marking the minutes until Nevis would return and Frank’s soiled proof would be waiting for inspection.

"We might want to wear some trousers and a pullover instead of looking like this," Frank said as he took in the view of us standing in the hallway. I admit we looked funny in our underwear with the vests tucked into them, and we both laughed again. The last 24 hours had been a journey of discovery, and there was no looking back from finding each other in a very weird and unusual arrangement.

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