The First Glance
The São Paulo heat was killing me that March afternoon, humidity clinging to my skin as I navigated the crowded corridors. At 27, I was older than most students here, having spent years working before I could afford to finish my literature degree. The late start gave me perspective the younger ones lacked, but it also made me restless, hungry for more than just academic success.
I pushed open the door to Literatura Brasileira Contemporânea, my final elective. The classroom was small and intimate, with barely twenty seats in a semicircle. I chose a spot near the window, dropping my worn leather bag beside the chair.
That's when he walked in, and my world narrowed to a single point of focus.
Professor Demi Castelli was thirty-nine years of devastating masculinity, dark hair with silver threading at the temples, olive skin that made my fingers itch to touch, and eyes so deep brown they were almost black. He moved like a predator; confident, unhurried, dangerous. The linen pants hung perfectly on narrow hips, and his white shirt was rolled to reveal muscular forearms dusted with dark hair, unbuttoned just enough to hint at his chest.
My cock stirred, and I had to adjust myself discreetly. Fuck. This was going to be a problem.
"Boa tarde," his voice was pure sexy, rich, and accented with something European that made me want to hear him speak Italian in my ear while he fucked me. "Welcome to Contemporary Brazilian Literature. I'm Professor Demi Castelli, and for the next semester, you're mine."
Heat shot straight to my groin. I shifted again, grateful for the desk hiding my lap.
He began discussing the syllabus, pacing like a caged panther. I tried to focus on his words, Clarice Lispector, João Guimarães Rosa but kept getting distracted by the way his throat moved when he spoke, how his fingers traced the desk's edge, the curve of his ass in those pants.
"Literature," Demi said, turning to face us, "is about desire. What we want, what we're afraid to want, what makes us hard—" he paused, lips curving slightly, "—what makes our hearts race. The things we hide even from ourselves."
His eyes swept the room and landed directly on me. The eye contact held for three seconds too long, and I felt it like a physical touch. My pulse raced and my palms went damp.
His gaze dropped slowly down my body, appreciative and deliberate, before moving on, but the damage was done. I was half-hard in my jeans, and we both knew it, I guess?.
The rest of the class passed in a fog of sexual tension. I couldn't stop watching his hands, imagining them on my body, couldn't stop staring at his mouth and wondering how it would feel wrapped around my cock. When he bent over to pick up a dropped paper, I nearly groaned aloud at the flex of muscle, the perfect curve of his ass.
When class finally ended, students clustered around his desk. I gathered my things slowly, trying to get my erection down. I was almost to the door when—
"Jonas Ferreira?"
I froze and turned. He was reading from the roster, but his eyes were already on me, dark and knowing.
"Yes, professor?"
"You're the mature student." His gaze traveled slowly down my body again, lingering. "You've got experience that the others don't."
The double meaning was unmistakable. I moved closer, emboldened. "I've learned a lot outside the classroom. Hands-on education."
His pupils dilated slightly. "That kind of practical knowledge is invaluable." He set down the roster, leaning back against his desk in a way that made his pants pull tight across his thighs. "You'll need extra readings to catch up. Come to my office. Thursday, 15th. We'll discuss what you need."
"I need a lot of things, professor." I let my eyes drop to his mouth, then lower.
"I'm sure you do." His voice had dropped an octave. "Thursday. Don't be late."
"I'm always eager to learn."
Something flashed in his eyes like heat, promise or danger, can’t quite tell. "We'll see about that."
I left before I did something stupid like kiss my professor in an empty classroom. Outside, I had to stop in the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, hand working my aching cock as I replayed every moment, his voice, those eyes, the way he'd looked at me like he wanted to devour me.
I came hard and fast, biting my lip to stay quiet, his name was a silent prayer on my lips. This was going to destroy me. I couldn't fucking wait.
Thursday took an eternity to arrive. I jerked off twice Wednesday night thinking about Professor Demi, imagining those strong hands pinning me down, that commanding voice telling me exactly how to touch myself and what a good boy I was being.
I showed up to office hours exactly on time, palms sweating, cock already interested. The hallway was quiet, most students having fled campus for the weekend. His door was cracked open.
I knocked softly.
"Enter."
The office was small and intimate, books everywhere, a desk piled with papers, and one window overlooking the courtyard. Demi, standing by that window, backlit and looking like every fantasy I'd ever had.
"Jonas." He gestured to a chair positioned close to his desk. "Sit. I made coffee."
He prepared two small cups of espresso, and when he handed one to me, our fingers brushed and held. His thumb stroked once across my knuckles before releasing.
My cock throbbed.
"So," he settled into his chair, legs spread in a way that drew my eyes straight to his crotch. "Tell me what you want from this class."
You, I thought. On your knees, in my bed. Inside me.
"I want to understand desire," I said instead. "How writers capture it. Make it real on the page."
"Desire is easy to write badly," he said, leaning forward. "Most people mistake physical description for eroticism. But real desire? That's about tension and anticipation. The moment before you get what you want, when you're aching for it so badly you can barely breathe."
"Like now," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes went dark. "Exactly like now."
The air between us sizzled. I set down my coffee with a shaking hand. "Professor—"
"Demi. When we're alone, call me Demi."
"Demi." I tasted his name. "This is—we shouldn't—"
"No, we shouldn't." He stood, moving around the desk. "You should leave. Forget this. Transfer to another section." He stopped directly in front of my chair, close enough that I could feel his body heat. "Is that what you want?"
"Fuck no."
"Then tell me what you do want, explicitly."
I stood, bringing us chest to chest. "I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want you to fuck me on this desk and make me forget my own name."
His hand shot out, gripping my jaw. "Careful what you wish for."
Then he kissed me, hard, possessive and claiming. His tongue swept into my mouth, exploring and taking, and I moaned into it, my hands fisting in his shirt. His other hand grabbed my ass, pulling our hips flush, and I could feel how hard he was, thick and ready against my own erection.
We broke apart, both panting.
"Not here," he said roughly. "Not for what I want to do to you. My place. Saturday night by 8pm." He pulled out his phone. "Give me your number."
I rattled it off. A moment later my phone vibrated with an address.
"Come hungry," he said, his hand sliding down to palm me through my jeans, making me gasp. "Because I'm going to prepare a feast for you and also feast on you."
He squeezed once, firmly, then released. I stood there, hard and aching, watching him return to his desk like nothing had happened.
"You should go," he said, his voice perfectly controlled even though I could see the bulge straining his pants. "Before I bend you over this desk and fuck you raw."
I fled, cock leaking, mind spinning. Saturday couldn't come fast enough.
