Chapter 1: Extra Credit and Hands-On Learning
The library was supposed to close at ten, but the main doors were already locked when Minalan got there at nine forty-five. A piece of printer paper was taped to the heavy oak, the word ‘SORRY’ written in hasty Sharpie. He swore under his breath, his backpack slipping off one shoulder. The essay wasn’t due for a week, but he’d wanted a head start, and now the one book he needed was trapped inside.
Then he remembered. Professor Davies had mentioned his office was in the old faculty annex, the one connected to the library’s east wing. “A veritable cave of wonders,” he’d called it, with a wink that made a few students laugh. Minalan had just blushed. The professor was… intense. In a way that made the classroom feel both exciting and slightly dangerous.
He walked around the side of the Gothic stone building, the autumn wind biting through his thin jacket. A single, amber-hued window glowed on the second floor of the annex. Davies was probably still in.
The back entrance was unlocked, a heavy door swinging inward on silent hinges. Inside, it was warmer, and quiet in a way that felt thick. The hallway was lined with dark wainscoting and portraits of grim-faced men from previous centuries. Their eyes seemed to track him as he found the narrow staircase.
At the top, only one door showed light from the gap at its base. Minalan raised his hand, hesitated, then knocked softly.
“It’s open.” The voice was muffled but unmistakable.
Minalan pushed the door inward and the smell hit him first—old paper, beeswax, and beneath it, the sharp, peaty scent of whiskey. It was a room swallowed by books. Leather-bound volumes climbed every wall to the ceiling, and a large, worn oriental rug covered groaning floorboards. A massive desk was heaped with papers, but Professor Davies sat in a high-backed leather armchair near a low-burning fireplace, a book open in his lap.
He looked up, and a slow, surprised smile spread across his face. He looked different out of his usual tweed jacket. He wore a dark green sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Minalan. This is a welcome deviation from my evening. What brings you to my lair?”
“The library’s closed. I, um, needed a book for the Medieval Lit essay. The one about the Pearl poet?” Minalan’s voice sounded too high in the quiet room.
“Ah. The Gawain manuscript.” Davies closed his book with a soft thump. He didn’t get up. “You’re keen. Most of your classmates won’t start thinking about it until Sunday night. Come in. Shut the door. The draft is atrocious.”
Minalan did as he was told, the click of the latch sounding final. He stood awkwardly just inside the room.
“Don’t hover. Sit.” Davies gestured to a smaller chair opposite him. “The book you want is… here somewhere.” His gaze swept the shelves, not with frustration, but with fondness. “The joy of a private collection is the chaos. A public library must have order. Here, things live where they want to live. It makes finding them a conversation.”
Minalan sat on the edge of the chair, his backpack at his feet. He’d never been in a room that felt so separate from the world. The only sounds were the gentle crackle of the fire and the occasional groan of the old building settling.
“So,” Davies said, leaning forward and reaching for a decanter on a small table beside him. He swirled the amber liquid. “You’re parsing the moral tension in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. The chivalric code versus… baser instincts.” He poured a finger into a crystal glass. “Would you like one? It’s a single malt. It tastes like a campfire in a damp forest. It’s awful, really. But in a good way.”
“I… I shouldn’t,” Minalan stammered.
“You’re not in class. You’re a guest in my study. The rules are different here.” Davies’s eyes held his. They were a warm brown in the firelight. “It’s just a drink.”
Minalan nodded, a tight, quick motion. “Okay. Thanks.”
Davies poured another glass and held it out. Minalan stood to take it, their fingers brushing. He took a small sip. It burned, spreading a smoky warmth down his throat. He coughed.
Davies grinned. “Told you.”
“It’s strong.”
“The best things are.” Davies watched him over the rim of his own glass. “You have an interesting mind, Minalan. Your last paper on Chaucer… there was a observation about the Wife of Bath’s autonomy that was surprisingly… visceral. Not the usual undergraduate prattle about feminism. It was about hunger. You wrote that she wasn’t arguing for power, but for the right to her own appetite.”
Minalan felt his face grow hot. He’d spent hours on that sentence, trying to articulate a feeling he couldn’t quite name. “I just meant she was honest.”
“Honesty is the most radical thing of all.” Davies set his glass down. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Minalan. “You know, the texts we study… they’re just maps. Diagrams of experiences. The real learning happens in the territory itself.”
The professor stood up slowly. He didn’t move toward the bookshelves. He took a step closer to Minalan’s chair. The fire cast his shadow, large and shifting, across the rug.
“For instance,” Davies said, his voice lower now, almost conversational. “The text can describe the tension between desire and propriety. But it can’t replicate the feeling.” Another step. “The heat in the blood. The weight of a choice.” He was standing right in front of Minalan now, looking down at him. “The physics of touch.”
Minalan’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He didn’t understand what was happening, but his body did. A nervous, thrilling energy crackled in the space between them. He couldn’t move.
Davies’s smile was soft, knowing. “You’re very still.”
“I don’t…” Minalan’s voice failed.
“You don’t have to do anything.” Davies reached out, not for Minalan’s face, but for the leather belt at his waist. His fingers hooked through the loop. “The theory is dry, isn’t it? All those essays.” He gave a gentle, firm tug forward. Minalan, off-balance, stumbled a step out of the chair, ending up standing flush against the older man.
Davies’s other hand came up to steady him, palm flat against Minalan’s lower back. “The practice,” Davies whispered, his breath warm against Minalan’s temple, “is so much sweeter.”
Before Minalan’s brain could form a protest, a question, anything, Davies guided him backwards. He sat down in his own deep armchair and, with that same effortless motion, pulled Minalan down onto his lap. The position was shockingly intimate, Minalan’s legs straddling the professor’s thighs, their bodies aligned.
Minalan gasped, his hands flying out to brace himself on the arms of the chair. The world narrowed to the points of contact: the solid muscle of Davies’s legs beneath him, the firm hand still splayed on his back, the terrifying, thrilling proximity.
Davies looked up at him, his expression full of a dark, amused warmth. “See?” he murmured. “No book needed for this lesson.”
Minalan was drowning in sensation—the smell of the whiskey, the leather, the professor’s soap; the feel of the wool sweater under his gripping fingers; the dizzying reversal of power. He was pinned by gaze and gravity.
“You’re curious,” Davies stated, his free hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from Minalan’s forehead. The touch was electric. “I can see it. It’s the most beautiful thing about you. That open, waiting look.” His thumb traced the line of Minalan’s jaw. “Shall we explore?”
A loud thump from the hallway outside the study door—a book dropped, or a door slammed—jolted through the quiet room.
The spell shattered.
Davies’s eyes flicked toward the sound, his body tensing. Minalan seized the fragment of a second. He scrambled off the professor’s lap, his movements clumsy, his face burning with a confusion that was now part shock, part shame, part something else he couldn’t identify.
“I should go,” he blurted, his voice raw.
Davies didn’t try to stop him. He just watched, his face settling back into a polite, unreadable mask. “Of course. The book. Another time.”
Minalan didn’t look back. He grabbed his backpack, wrenched the study door open, and fled into the dark hall, the taste of smoke and confusion thick on his tongue. The last thing he heard before the heavy outer door closed behind him was the sound of Professor Davies pouring another drink.
Minalan ran until the cold night air burned his lungs. He stopped behind the science building, hands on his knees, gulping down breaths that fogged in the air. His whole body was shaking, but not from the cold. The memory of the professor’s hands on him—the possessive tug on his belt, the solid warmth beneath him—played on a frantic loop. He felt thrilled. He felt sick.
A week passed in a blur of avoidance. He skipped Davies’s Friday lecture, claiming a migraine to his roommate. He buried himself in the sterile buzz of the gym, pushing his body until his muscles screamed, trying to outrun the confusing heat that lingered in his veins.
The email arrived on Tuesday evening.
Subject: Regarding Your Absence & The Gawain Text
Minalan,
I noted your absence on Friday. I hope you’re well. I’ve been thinking about our conversation, and about the unique perspective you bring to the text. It would be a shame to let such potential go underdeveloped due to… a moment of perhaps misplaced intensity on my part.
I have the manuscript you were seeking. More importantly, I propose a solution.Independent study. A true delving into the material, away from the constraints of the classroom and its predictable rhythms. One-on-one guidance can unlock things lecture halls cannot.
If you’re interested in serious work, meet me Thursday at 8 PM.My study. This is for students who are unafraid of complexity, in literature and in themselves.
The choice, of course, is yours.
Best,
Professor Alistair Davies
Minalan read it five times. The wording was perfectly professional, yet every line felt like a code.Misplaced intensity. Unafraid of complexity. The choice is yours. It was an apology, a challenge, and an invitation, all wrapped in academic parchment.
He didn’t reply. But on Thursday, after a dinner he didn’t taste, he found himself standing in the shower, the water scalding his skin. He dressed slowly, choosing a plain t-shirt and jeans, then changed into a button-down, then back again. He was an idiot. He knew he was an idiot. But the pull was gravitational. It was the promise of being seen as someone with a unique perspective, not just another freshman. And beneath that, a darker, curious thread: the desire to step back into that velvet-draped room and see what would happen if he didn’t run.
The annex was quiet again. This time, he knocked with a knuckle that felt too brittle.
“Come.”
Davies was at his desk, papers spread under the glow of a green-shaded lamp. He looked up, his expression one of mild academic concern. No smile.No mischief. He looked like a professor preparing for a tutorial.
“Minalan. I’m glad you decided to come. Please, sit.”
He gestured to the chair before the desk. Not the armchair by the fire. The distance felt formal, safe. Minalan sat, perching on the edge.
“I got your email,” Minalan said, his voice thankfully steady.
“I hoped you would.” Davies leaned back, steepling his fingers. “What happened last week was unprofessional. I allowed the atmosphere of the place,” he waved a hand at the crowded shelves, “and the lateness of the hour, to foster an informality that crossed a line. For that, I apologize.”
It was so reasonable.So adult. The tension in Minalan’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled.
“It’s not,” Davies countered gently. “But we can move past it.To the work. Your insight on the Wife of Bath wasn’t a fluke. I read your preliminary notes on Gawain you left in the classroom. The question you scribbled in the margin—‘Is the green girdle a betrayal, or a smarter kind of faith?’—that’s a doctoral-level thought. It’s raw, but it’s there.”
No one had ever called his thoughts doctoral-level before. The praise was a physical warmth in his chest.
“I want to develop that,” Davies continued, his eyes earnest. “The university offers independent study credits for precisely this kind of focused, advanced work. It would be you, the primary sources, and my full attention. No distractions. No peer-review workshops to dull the edge of your thinking.”
He opened a drawer and slid a booklet across the desk. The Undergraduate Independent Study Guidelines. It looked official. It smelled of the printer. “The paperwork is straightforward. I’ve already initiated it on my end. All it requires is your commitment.”
Minalan touched the cover.It felt real. This was real.
“What would we do?” he asked.
“Deeper training,” Davies said, the phrase smooth and natural. “A stripping away of the conventional analysis you’ve been taught. We’d go beyond the text. We’d study the context of desire and shame, the architecture of temptation. We’d treat the poem not as a historical artifact, but as a living blueprint for human behavior.It would be demanding. It would require total honesty. And total trust.”
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the dark campus. “The classroom is a stage.Everyone performs. Here, there’s no performance. Here, we can work with what’s authentic. Your curiosity. Your hunger for understanding.” He turned, his silhouette dark against the window. “Even if that curiosity is… multifaceted.”
The silence stretched. The fire popped. Minalan looked from the official booklet to the professor’s thoughtful, waiting face.
“Okay,” Minalan heard himself say. The word was quiet, but it hung in the room, decisive.
A slow smile touched Davies’s lips, not the predatory grin from before, but one of profound satisfaction. “Excellent.” He moved back to the desk, but not behind it. He sat on the corner, close to Minalan. “Then we begin now. The first lesson is about setting aside fear. The fear of being judged.” He reached out, his movement deliberate, and brushed a thumb over the pulse point in Minalan’s wrist. It was a clinical gesture, almost. “Your heart is racing. That’s the body’s text. We need to learn to read it, too. To understand its truth, separate from the mind’s noise.”
He kept his thumb there, a steady pressure. “Breathe. And tell me, honestly… what did you feel when you left here last week?”
Minalan was trapped in the touch, in the question, in the terrifying promise of the work. The narrative was set. He had chosen it. Now the deeper training, in all its forms, could truly begin.
Now the deeper training, in all its forms, could truly begin.
Minalan opened his mouth to answer the professor’s question—what did you feel—but no sound came out. The pressure of Davies’s thumb on his wrist was an anchor, a tether to this moment that felt both sacred and wildly illicit.
“I felt…” he started, the words sticking in his dry throat. “Confused.”
Davies nodded, his expression one of deep academic interest. “Confusion is the friction between what you’ve been taught and what you know to be true here.” He tapped his own temple, then let his finger drift down to rest on Minalan’s chest, over his heart. The touch through the thin cotton of his shirt was electric. “And here. The body’s truth is often the first to arrive. The mind scrambles to catch up, to label, to moralize.”
His hand slid up to cradle Minalan’s jaw, his thumb brushing over Minalan’s lower lip. The gesture was possessive, an examiner assessing a specimen. Minalan’s breath hitched.
“The text we’re studying,” Davies murmured, his voice dropping into a intimate, conspiratorial register, “is about a bargain. A game with hidden rules. The training begins with learning a new language. A physical syntax.”
He leaned in. Minalan instinctively closed his eyes, expecting a kiss. It didn’t come. Instead, Davies’s voice ghosted over his ear.
“Open your mouth, Minalan.”
It was a command, soft but absolute. Minalan’s lips parted on a shaky exhale.
Davies’s other hand came up, cradling the back of his head. There was a shift, a rustle of clothing, the faint click of a belt. Minalan’s eyes flew open in time to see Davies’s erect penis. The reality of it, its intimacy, was a shock that froze him.
“This is the first lesson,” Davies whispered, his gaze locked on Minalan’s. “Trust. And the acceptance of a profound offering. It’s biology. It’s literature. It’s the most honest text you’ll ever read.”
He guided himself forward. The first touch against Minalan’s lips was startlingly warm. He flinched back, a small, involuntary sound escaping him.
“Shhh.” Davies’s hand was firm, supportive, not forcing. “Just breathe through your nose. Don’t think.Just receive. Let the confusion exist. Observe it. This is the deeper training.”
Trembling, Minalan let his lips part further. The taste was foreign, musky and saline. He felt a wave of panic, his mind screaming a dozen warnings that smothered under a heavier, dawning curiosity. Davies was watching him with an intense, pedagogical focus, as if waiting for a breakthrough.
“Good,” Davies breathed, his hips moving with a slow, patient rhythm. “You’re parsing the new vocabulary. Let go of the old definitions.”
Minalan’s hands, which had been gripping the arms of the chair, came up hesitantly, unsure where to land. They rested finally on Davies’s thighs, the solid muscle firm under his fingers. The act was surreal, a bizarre inversion of a tutorial. The professor’s low, encouraging sounds were his lecture now. Minalan’s own choked, uncertain responses were his seminar contributions.
He felt the tension coiling in the thighs beneath his hands, heard Davies’s breathing grow ragged. The hand on the back of his head tightened its grip, not painful, but definitive.
“Now,” Davies gasped, the word a strained command. “The culmination. The thesis statement.Take it. Swallow the argument.”
The hot, bitter pulse flooded his mouth. Minalan swallowed convulsively, tears springing to his eyes from the sheer strangeness of it. Davies held him there for a long moment, gently, before withdrawing.
Silence, broken only by the crackling fire and Davies’s slowing breath. He smoothed Minalan’s hair back, his touch now almost tender.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. “You’ve crossed the first threshold. How do you feel?”
Minalan could only shake his head, his mouth still full of the aftertaste, his mind a jumble of shame, awe, and a terrifying sense of accomplishment. He’d done it. He’d passed the test.
Davies stood, pulling him up by the hands. Minalan’s legs were weak. “The lesson continues,” Davies said, leading him slowly away from the desk, towards the worn leather couch nestled between bookshelves. “The body has many chambers for knowledge. Many libraries.”
He guided Minalan down onto his stomach on the cool, buttery leather. The world was reduced to scent and touch. Davies’s weight settled beside him, a warm presence.
“The poem is about a girdle,” Davies murmured, his fingers skating down the spine of Minalan’s back, over the waistband of his jeans. He hooked his fingers in them. “A belt. A piece of clothing that holds things in. Or lets them go.” He tugged, and Minalan, in a daze, lifted his hips to allow his jeans and briefs to be pulled down.
The cool air of the study kissed his exposed skin. He buried his face in the leather, his heart hammering against the couch cushions.
A bottle clicked open. The sound of slick, wet fingers.
“This,” Davies said, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur right by his ear, “is the most intimate close-reading. The annotation of a secret text.”
The first touch, there, was a shock so profound Minalan arched off the couch. A whimper was torn from him.
“Easy,” Davies soothed, his other hand a steadying pressure on the small of Minalan’s back. “Just breathe. Let the annotation happen. I’m just… underlining a passage. Making a note in the margin.” He pressed again, slowly, the slippery intrusion a burning, impossible fullness.“See? The body has a hidden diction. A grammar of tightness and release.”
Minalan gasped, his fingers clawing at the leather. It hurt, a sharp, stretching ache, but Davies’s voice wove through the pain, framing it, justifying it.
“You’re learning so fast,” Davies breathed, working his finger with a gentle, insistent rhythm. “You’re accepting the primary source without the filter of secondary criticism. This is the raw data. The truth before the essay is written.” He added a second finger, and Minalan cried out, the sound muffled. “There it is. The core of the conflict. The struggle is where the meaning is made. You feel it building? The central argument of your own flesh?”
Minalan was lost in a storm of sensation, the dirty, poetic talk weaving a cage of logic around the sheer physical violation, transforming it into something else.Something scholarly. Something earned.
“Such a good student,” Davies whispered, curling his fingers, and Minalan saw stars, a white-hot burst of pleasure-pain shredding through his resistance. “You’re rewriting the text of yourself. Line by line.”