Chapter 11: The Temptation
The sterile hallway air felt thin after the phone call. Ahmed leaned his forehead against the cool cinderblock, the painted surface rough against his skin. His mother’s voice, full of familiar, grounding concern about grades and meals, echoed in his ears, a stark counterpoint to the electric charge still humming in his veins from Manny’s touch. Be ready. Friday felt like a cliff edge he was sprinting towards. He took a deep breath, the scent of industrial cleaner failing to clear the phantom scent of weed and Manny’s sandalwood deodorant from his memory. Pushing off the wall, he opened the door.
Inside, the movie credits rolled silently across the screen, bathing the room in shifting blue light. Manny hadn’t moved from the couch. He stared at the names scrolling by, the remote loose in his hand. The deliberate nonchalance was palpable, a little too stiff.
"Everything good?" Manny asked, not turning. His voice was carefully neutral.
"Yeah. Just Ammi checking in." Ahmed shut the door, the click loud in the sudden quiet. The space between them felt charged again, the easy rhythm of Sharknado shattered. The memory of Manny’s thumb behind his ear was a brand. "She worries."
"Parents," Manny mumbled, finally turning his head. His gaze flickered over Ahmed, sharp and assessing. "You heading to bed?"
Ahmed felt pinned. The thought of the dark room, their beds barely six feet apart, the silence. "Nah," he said, too quickly. "Davis wanted to see us about the project first thing. Gotta shower. Prep." He grabbed his towel and toiletries bag from the hook, the motions automatic, an escape route.
Manny just nodded, turning back to the screen. "Right. The project." A beat. "Wear something nice. Impress the prof." There was an undercurrent in his tone, a subtle challenge. Ahmed didn’t look back as he fled to the sanctuary of the communal bathroom down the hall.
Professor Davis’s office was an oasis of controlled chaos. Sunlight streamed through a large window, illuminating motes of dust dancing above towers of computer science textbooks, precariously stacked papers, and a sprawling jungle of potted plants that seemed to defy the dimness. Framed diplomas shared wall space with a vibrant, chaotic corkboard plastered with sticky notes in a rainbow of colors, annotated printouts, and candid photos of Davis hiking or grinning beside students at hackathons. The scent was a comforting mix of old paper, fresh coffee from the mug steaming on his desk, and the faint, damp-earth smell of the plants. Two worn but comfortable-looking armchairs faced his desk, and a faded floral couch nestled against a bookshelf overflowed with journals.
Ahmed perched on the edge of one armchair, freshly showered, wearing clean jeans and a dark hoodie over Manny’s band t-shirt. He’d tried to ignore the feel of the worn cotton against his skin, the subtle scent of Manny still clinging to it. Manny lounged beside him in the other chair, radiating an effortless cool in a fitted black t-shirt and dark chinos, one ankle resting casually on his knee. He smelled faintly of expensive soap and something sharper, more intentional – cologne? For the meeting? The thought sent a confusing jolt through Ahmed.
"…and really, the elegance of your solution to the resource allocation bottleneck is what impressed me most," Professor Davis was saying, leaning forward enthusiastically, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light. He gestured animatedly with a pen. "Most teams overcomplicate it, try to build an entire scheduling framework from scratch. But your approach, leveraging that existing library and modifying the scheduler flags? Brilliant. Pragmatic. Exactly the kind of real-world thinking I want to see."
Ahmed felt a flush of pride, trying to focus on Davis’s words, his genuine warmth. Davis, openly gay and disarmingly candid about the challenges of academia and identity, had become an unexpected beacon. Seeing him navigate his world with such easy confidence made the confusing knot of Ahmed’s own desires feel… less alien. Less terrifying. "Thanks, Professor," he managed, shifting slightly. "Manny had the initial idea for the library hook."
"Team effort," Manny said smoothly, flashing Davis the easy grin that usually disarmed everyone. His foot, resting casually on his knee, nudged Ahmed’s ankle under the low coffee table cluttered with journals.
Ahmed froze. It was just a nudge. Friendly. Normal.
Then Manny’s foot slid slowly, deliberately, up the inside of Ahmed’s calf. The rough denim of Manny’s chinos scraped against Ahmed’s jeans. Heat, immediate and intense, flooded Ahmed’s face. He snapped his gaze forward, staring fixedly at a framed photo on Davis’s desk – Davis holding a trophy, beaming beside students.
"Indeed it was," Davis continued, oblivious, tapping their printed report. "Manny’s instinct for spotting underutilized tools, Ahmed’s meticulous implementation. A fantastic synergy." He took a sip of coffee. "It’s submissions like this that make grading less of a chore, honestly. Shows genuine understanding, not just regurgitation."
Manny’s foot kept moving. Up, past Ahmed’s calf, the pressure insistent. It slid higher, the side of Manny’s shoe now pressing firmly against the sensitive inner seam of Ahmed’s jeans, right on his inner thigh. Ahmed’s breath hitched. He clamped his teeth together, fighting the urge to squirm or push the intrusive foot away. Sweat prickled under his arms, despite the office’s cool air. He could feel the warmth radiating from Manny’s leg, the subtle shift of muscle beneath the fabric. His own borrowed t-shirt felt suddenly tight under his hoodie.
Davis leaned back, gesturing towards the corkboard. "You know, it reminds me of a project I did back in grad school. Similar constraints. We spent weeks building a custom scheduler from the ground up, convinced we were geniuses. Debugging was a nightmare." He chuckled. "Then a postdoc walked by, took one look, and said, 'Why aren't you using the Kronos API?'"
Manny laughed, a warm, genuine sound that vibrated through the hand he’d rested casually on Ahmed’s chair back. His thumb brushed, almost imperceptibly, against the hoodie fabric covering Ahmed’s shoulder blade. Simultaneously, the pressure of his foot intensified, grinding slowly upward. Ahmed felt the denim pull taut, the friction against his skin now undeniable, intimate. His knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. He forced a strained laugh, nodding along with Davis’s story, his mind screaming. He can see. He knows. Stop. Please stop. Don’t stop.
"Pride before the fall, right Professor?" Manny said, his voice light, conversational. But his eyes, when Ahmed dared a sideways glance, held a dark, knowing amusement. He caught Ahmed’s gaze for a split second, a silent dare. The foot moved again, higher still. The toe of Manny’s shoe pressed deliberately against the juncture of Ahmed’s thigh and groin. Ahmed jerked, a tiny, involuntary movement.
Davis paused mid-sentence, his gaze shifting slightly from the corkboard to Ahmed. "Everything alright, Ahmed? You look a little flushed."
"Fine!" Ahmed blurted, his voice tight. He cleared his throat. "Just… warm. In here." He tugged nervously at the collar of his hoodie, feeling the trapped heat radiating from his own skin.
Davis raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something – concern? perception? – in his eyes, but he nodded. "Happens. Old building, temperamental heating." He turned his attention back to their report. "Anyway, the point is, you avoided that pitfall beautifully. Clean, efficient. This is easily A work."
Manny’s foot eased its pressure slightly, retreating just an inch down Ahmed’s thigh. The relief was physical, a gasp of air Ahmed hadn’t realized he was holding. But the contact remained, a possessive weight, a constant reminder. Manny shifted in his chair, leaning forward slightly as if engrossed in Davis’s feedback. His hand slid from the back of Ahmed’s chair to rest on his own knee, but his foot stayed anchored on Ahmed’s leg, a hot brand through the denim.
Davis finished his praise, outlining minor stylistic points for future projects. Ahmed nodded mechanically, catching words like "commenting" and "documentation," but his entire world had narrowed to the point of contact searing through his jeans. The scent of coffee and old paper, Davis’s animated voice, the sunlight on the diplomas – it all faded beneath the overwhelming awareness of Manny’s deliberate touch, the silent power play unfolding right under their professor’s nose.
"…so, any questions?" Davis concluded, giving them both an encouraging look.
"No, Professor," Manny said smoothly. "Crystal clear. Appreciate the feedback." He stood, the movement causing his foot to slide entirely off Ahmed’s leg. The sudden absence left Ahmed feeling cold, exposed. "Ready, Ahmed?"
Ahmed scrambled to his feet, legs slightly unsteady. "Yes. Thank you, Professor Davis." His voice sounded thin.
"Anytime," Davis smiled warmly. "Keep up the excellent work. Both of you."
They turned to leave. As Ahmed reached for the doorknob, Manny leaned in close, his breath warm against Ahmed’s ear. The scent of his cologne was suddenly overwhelming. His voice, barely audible, was a low murmur that vibrated down Ahmed’s spine.
"Good boy. No squirming." A pause, thick with promise. "Tonight’s extra credit session? You earned it." He pulled back, his expression perfectly neutral, friendly, as he held the office door open. "After you."
Ahmed stepped out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights harsh after the cozy office. The cool air hit his flushed skin. He didn’t look back at Manny, just started walking, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The imprint of Manny’s foot, the phantom pressure high on his thigh, burned as brightly as the promise in Manny’s words. Extra credit. Friday felt impossibly far away, and the hallway stretched before him, endless and charged with the terrifying, exhilarating echo of Manny’s command. His hand trembled slightly as he pushed open the heavy door leading back to the bustling main corridor, the noise a jarring intrusion into the silent storm raging inside him. He kept walking, Manny’s quiet footsteps a constant pressure at his back.
The fluorescent buzz of the hallway lights felt like a physical assault after the warm, contained chaos of Davis’s office. Ahmed walked fast, the echo of his own footsteps competing with the thudding pulse in his ears. Good boy. No squirming. Manny’s words, whispered against his skin, replayed on a loop, mixing with the phantom pressure of Manny’s foot high on his thigh. He practically shoved the heavy exterior door open, spilling out into the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the quad. The air, warm and smelling of cut grass and fried food from distant trucks, did nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck.
Manny caught up easily, falling into step beside him without a word. His silence was worse than commentary. Ahmed could feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken amusement, the promise of ‘extra credit’ hanging thick between them. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, fingers brushing the familiar worn cotton of the borrowed t-shirt underneath. It felt like wearing his own vulnerability. They walked past groups of students laughing, oblivious, their normalcy a stark contrast to the electric current crackling between the two roommates.
“Dispensary?” Manny finally asked, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. It wasn’t really a question. More like a statement of the next inevitable step.
Ahmed just nodded, avoiding eye contact, focusing on the cracked pavement beneath his worn sneakers. “Yeah. Need… supplies.” His voice came out hoarse. Supplies for tonight’s ‘session’. Supplies for the cliff edge of Friday. The walk to the discreet shop near campus passed in a blur of sunlight and shadow, Ahmed hyper-aware of Manny’s presence beside him, the occasional bump of their shoulders sending tiny jolts through him.
Inside the dispensary, the familiar scent hit them – earthy, skunky, layered with cleaner undertones and the faint sweetness of edibles. Brightly packaged products filled glass cases: gummies shaped like cartoon characters, sleek vape cartridges, jars of glistening green and purple buds under lights. Ahmed inhaled deeply, the pungent aroma a small comfort. The young, heavily tattooed budtender barely glanced up from his phone as they approached the counter. Manny leaned on the glass, exuding an easy confidence Ahmed envied.
“What’s good today, Jake?” Manny asked, tapping the countertop.
Jake looked up, recognition flashing. “Manny. Ahmed. Sup.” He slid a laminated menu towards them. “Got some fire Gelato 41 just in. Frosty as hell. Or that Tropical Runtz you liked last time?” He glanced at Ahmed. “Still hitting the sativas?”
Ahmed managed a small nod, his gaze fixed on the dense, frosty buds Jake pulled from a large jar labeled ‘Gelato 41’. The intense purple hues and thick coating of trichomes were mesmerizing. “Yeah. The Gelato.” His voice was steadier now, the ritual of buying grounding him slightly. He watched Jake weigh out the shimmering buds, the tiny scale clicking softly.
Manny added a pack of pre-rolls and a bag of sour gummies to the order. He pulled out his wallet as Jake bagged everything in childproof packaging. The transaction was quick, efficient. Ahmed took the bag, the weight familiar in his hand, the promise of temporary escape. They stepped back out onto the street, the late afternoon sun warmer now. Ahmed took another deep breath, the city air a welcome change from the concentrated herbal scent inside.
They started walking back towards the dorms, the silence returning, but different now. Lighter, edged with the shared anticipation of the weed. The bag rustled in Ahmed’s grip. He thought of Friday. Of kneeling. Of Manny’s low voice giving commands. Of the terrifying, thrilling loss of control. His pulse kicked up again. They passed a brightly lit storefront with mannequins in lace and leather in the window. ‘Velvet Vault: Adult Novelties & Lingerie’. Ahmed had walked past it a hundred times, usually averting his eyes. Today, he stopped.
Manny took a few steps before realizing Ahmed wasn’t beside him. He turned back, eyebrows raised. “What’s up?”
Ahmed’s heart hammered against his ribs. His mouth felt dry. The bag of weed felt suddenly heavy. He looked at Manny, then back at the store window, where a male mannequin wore nothing but sheer black mesh briefs. The need to push, to match Manny’s boldness, surged within him, a reckless counterpoint to his fear. He stepped close to Manny, so close he could smell the expensive soap and faint cologne again, mixed with the lingering herbal scent from the bag. Tilting his head, Ahmed’s lips almost brushed Manny’s ear. His voice was barely a whisper, a rush of warm air.
“We should stop in,” he murmured, the words tasting strange and daring. “Get something… special. For Friday.” He paused, feeling the heat radiating from Manny’s skin. “Kinky underwear.” He pulled back just enough to see Manny’s face.
A flush, deep and unexpected, bloomed across Manny’s cheeks and spread down his neck, visible even in the fading daylight. His usual easy confidence faltered for a split second. His eyes, wide with surprise, flickered towards the store window, then back to Ahmed’s intense gaze. He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed hard. The blush deepened.
Manny’s flush deepened, spreading crimson down his neck like spilled wine. He stared at Ahmed, his usual cool composure visibly cracking. "Special?" he echoed, his voice uncharacteristically tight. He cleared his throat, glancing quickly away from the mannequin in the window display, then back at Ahmed, looking trapped. "You mean... like...?"
"Exactly like," Ahmed said, the unexpected sight of Manny flustered sending a jolt of pure, reckless heat through him. He pushed open the heavy, opaque door of 'Velvet Vault', the scent of rubber, plastic, and faint artificial perfumes hitting them. "Come on." He didn’t wait, stepping into the dimly lit, crowded space. The air hummed with quiet pop music and the low murmur of other shoppers browsing racks of lace, leather, and sheer fabrics.
Manny hesitated only a second before following, the bell jingling softly behind him. His eyes darted around nervously, avoiding the anatomically explicit toys lining some shelves. "Fuck, Ahmed," he muttered under his breath, sticking close as they navigated the narrow aisles. "This is... bold." He looked profoundly uncomfortable, a stark contrast to the man commanding Ahmed under Professor Davis’s desk.
Ahmed felt a surge of power, fragile but exhilarating. He stopped before a wall display overflowing with men's underwear – an explosion of colors, fabrics, and daring cuts. His gaze scanned past the standard boxer briefs, landing on the more provocative offerings: harnesses, pouches, straps, and yes, jockstraps in every conceivable material. He reached out, fingers brushing against a pair in stark white mesh. It felt insubstantial, almost weightless. Next to it, a classic black jockstrap with thick elastic bands looked sturdy, purposeful. He picked up both, the mesh sheer enough to see his palm through it.
"See something you like?" Manny asked, trying for his usual smirk, but it faltered as his eyes fixed on the sheer fabric dangling from Ahmed’s fingers. His blush hadn’t faded. "That’s... transparent."
"Good observation," Ahmed replied, his voice low, holding Manny’s gaze. The hum of the shop faded. He grabbed a pair of the black jockstraps off the display, feeling the stretch of the elastic. "These two. For you." He deliberately held up the stark white mesh. "And this," he added, picking up a pair of deep red sheer briefs with a barely-there pouch, "for me." He watched Manny’s throat work as he swallowed hard. "Think you can handle it?" Ahmed asked, the question hanging heavy with double meaning.
Manny’s jaw tightened. He looked from the flimsy white mesh in Ahmed’s hand to Ahmed’s face, a flicker of challenge finally replacing some of the shock. "Try me," he said, his voice rough. "But let’s see if they fit before you get cocky, habibi." He snatched the white mesh and the black jockstrap from Ahmed’s grip, turning towards the back of the store where the fitting rooms were.
Ahmed followed, the red sheer briefs clutched in his hand like a secret weapon, his earlier anxiety replaced by a thrumming anticipation. They entered the cramped, mirrored cubicle together, the door clicking shut. The space felt intensely private, charged. Manny tossed the white mesh jock onto the small bench, avoiding looking in the mirror. He started pulling his fitted black tee over his head, revealing his lean torso. Ahmed watched, the air thick. He unzipped his hoodie, letting it fall, then slowly peeled off Manny’s band t-shirt, feeling suddenly exposed despite his own undershirt. He focused on unbuttoning his jeans.
Manny kicked off his sneakers, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his dark chinos and briefs, pushing them down in one swift motion. Ahmed’s breath caught. Seeing Manny naked, even briefly in the harsh fluorescent light of the fitting room, was still a jolt – the smooth skin, the confident lines, the undeniable proof of his earlier claim. Manny kept his gaze averted, a flush high on his cheekbones, as he picked up the stark white mesh jockstrap. He stepped into it awkwardly, pulling the thin straps up over his hips. The effect was immediate and arresting. The sheer fabric did nothing to hide, instead framing and emphasizing, turning vulnerability into something breathtakingly exposed. Ahmed stared, unable to look away. The contrast of the stark white against Manny’s warm skin, the sheer audacity of it... Manny finally looked up, meeting Ahmed’s eyes in the mirror. His blush was furious now, spreading down his neck and across his chest. He looked utterly disarmed, caught between defiance and raw self-consciousness.
Ahmed felt a smile, slow and sure, spread across his own face. He held up the red sheer briefs. "My turn." He dropped his jeans, then his own underwear, standing naked for a moment before stepping into the flimsy red mesh. It settled against his skin, cool and almost weightless, clinging obscenely. He smoothed the waistband, then looked at Manny’s reflection. He gestured towards the mirror, his voice dropping to a murmur thick with regained confidence. "See that?" He pointed at Manny’s reflection, specifically the deep flush staining his neck and chest. "You’re blushing everywhere, Manny." He let the observation hang, letting Manny see himself through Ahmed’s eyes: powerful, desired, and beautifully, helplessly flushed. "Looks good on you."
Manny stared at his own reflection, at Ahmed’s reflection beside him – Ahmed in the provocative red, looking back at him with a challenging, confident heat. He didn’t speak. He just stared, the blush deepening impossibly further. He ripped his gaze away, grabbing his discarded clothes with sudden, jerky movements. "We’re buying them," he muttered, his voice thick. "Let’s go." He practically tore the white mesh jockstrap off, his movements sharp, refusing to meet Ahmed’s eyes again. Ahmed slowly removed the red briefs, the plastic bag from the dispensary rustling as he bent to pick up his jeans. He watched Manny scramble back into his regular clothes, the silence in the cubicle heavy with everything unleashed. Ahmed dressed deliberately, the image of Manny flushed and exposed in the white mesh seared into his mind. He picked up the chosen underwear – the black jockstrap, the white mesh, the red sheer briefs. He held them out to Manny, a slight, knowing curve still on his lips. "Your bet, kuya. Friday night." He pushed open the fitting room door. The fluorescent lights of the store felt blinding after the intimate tension of the cubicle. Manny snatched the underwear from his hand, stuffing them into the plastic bag with the weed, refusing to look at him as he strode towards the cash register, shoulders tense. Ahmed followed, the air crackling with unspoken promises and the echo of Manny’s furious blush. Friday couldn’t come fast enough.