Chapter 3: Golden Submission
They walked over to the bathroom near the entrance of the building. The flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom buzzed like a trapped insect, painting their shadows long and distorted against the grimy tiles. Scott closed the door behind them, the click of the lock echoing with finality.
“You don’t have to prove anything, you know,” Scott said, his voice low, but Alex was already sinking to his knees on the cold floor. “I know,” Alex whispered, his eyes fixed on the bulge between Professor Scott’s thighs. “I want to.”
A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Scott’s face as he pulled his shorts down. “Christ, kid.” He guided himself out, already half-hard from the spectacle of Alex’s devotion. The first hot, arching stream hit the back of Alex’s throat with a startling force, bitter and profoundly salty. Alex swallowed convulsively, his eyes watering as he struggled to keep pace, the sound impossibly loud in the tiled room.
Scott watched, transfixed, one hand braced against the metal stall partition. “Look at you,” he murmured, a thread of awe in his voice. His flow steadied, and Alex closed his eyes, surrendering to the warm, sour taste, to the ultimate intimacy of this consumption. He drank until the last drops fell, a faint, bitter kiss on his tongue.
Scott tucked himself away, slowly pulling up his shorts. He looked down at Alex, who remained on his knees, panting softly with his mouth open, a glistening trail at the corner of his mouth. Scott reached out, and grabbed Alex by the jaw.
Scott’s thumb pressed into the soft flesh of Alex’s cheek, holding him firmly in place. He worked a thick wad of spit in his mouth, his eyes locked on Alex’s wet, open lips. He let it fall, a gleaming strand that landed with a soft, warm splash across Alex’s mouth and chin.
“Clean yourself up,” Scott said, his voice a husky command. He released Alex’s jaw with a slight push. “Now get up off that floor.”
Alex wiped his face with the back of his hand, swallowing hard as he shakily rose to his feet. The buzzing light made the air feel static and thin between them. “Let me give you a ride home,” Scott said, his tone shifting into something almost casual, as if offering a spare pen.
“I’ll walk,” Alex said, his own voice surprisingly steady. He adjusted his backpack, its weight a familiar anchor. “The air will do me good.”
Scott studied him, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He gave a slow, conceding nod. “Suit yourself.” He pulled the bathroom door open, releasing them into the empty hallway’s silence. The main exit loomed at the end of the corridor, a rectangle of fading evening light.
“See you in class, professor,” Alex said, not looking back as he started walking. He could feel Scott’s gaze on his back until he crossed that exit door, the taste of salt and submission still vivid on his tongue.
He could feel Scott’s gaze on his back until the door eventually closed. The taste of salt and submission still vivid on his tongue. The hallway was empty, lit by the sickly glow of emergency exit signs. His sneakers squeaked on the polished linoleum, the sound absurdly loud in the silence.
From the shadowed doorway of the department mailroom, Professor Azzurro watched the boy pass. He’d been sorting late committee work when the murmur of voices from the men’s room had pulled his attention. The words were muffled by tile and the hum of the fan, but the cadence was unmistakable—Scott’s low baritone, then a younger voice, deferential.
He’d caught only fragments. A sharp, “Look at you.” The distinct, percussive sound of a stream hitting porcelain, or something else. Then, clear as a bell, Scott’s rough laugh followed by, “Clean yourself up.” Azzurro’s hand had stilled on the mail slots, his scholarly mind piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t sought.
Now, the bathroom door at the end of the hall clicked open again. Scott emerged, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his face relaxed in a way Azzurro rarely saw in faculty meetings. Scott’s eyes, bright and distant, met Azzurro’s by accident. A flicker of something—surprise, then a swift, neutral mask—passed over Scott’s features.
“Working late, Lorenzo?” Scott called, his voice amiably normal, but his posture was a fraction too stiff.
“Unfortunately,” Azzurro replied, holding up a stack of envelopes. “The budget committee waits for no one.” He kept his tone light, conversational. “You’re here late yourself.”
“Just catching up,” Scott said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked. He didn’t stop. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” Azzurro said. He watched Scott’s broad back head towards the building’s exit, the pieces settling into a deeply unsettling picture. The boy from earlier, the charged silence, the commanding tone he’d overheard. He looked back at the men’s room door, then down the empty hall where the student had vanished.
He stood there for a long moment, the envelope edges digging into his palm. The boy had been young, with that slouched, backpack-heavy posture of an undergraduate. Dark hair, maybe. A certain quiet intensity in the way he moved. Azzurro replayed the snippet of voice he’d heard—young, male, deferential—but no distinct features attached to it.
He walked slowly back to his office, his leather soles whispering on the linoleum. The image of Scott’s face, that loose-limbed satisfaction, replayed itself. It was the look of a man who’d just settled a private, potent score.
Back at his desk, Azzurro tried to focus on the budget reports. The columns of numbers blurred. He kept seeing the empty hall, that closed bathroom door. Who was the kid? Not a geography major; he knew most of Scott’s regulars. This felt different, secretive, charged.
He swiveled his chair towards his computer, the old springs groaning. With a few clicks, he pulled up the roster for Scott’s “Cartography and Power” seminar, a class he occasionally guest-lectured for. Twenty-three names. He scanned them, his finger hovering on the trackpad. Anderson, Blake, Chen, Delgado. He stopped at each male name, conjuring a face. Nothing clicked.
Frustration prickled at him. He minimized the window and pulled up the wider history department undergraduate list, over a hundred names. It was useless. The boy’s face remained a half-formed ghost in his memory, an outline without details, belonging to none of the names on the screen before him.
The ghost of that voice, that submissive "Yes, professor," stuck in Azzurro's craw. He closed the roster, the screen fading to black, reflecting his own unsatisfied frown. Across town, in his tiny apartment, Alex stared at the ceiling, the bitter and sour tastes of semen and piss still haunting his mouth. He replayed every command, every grunt, the crushing weight of Scott’s hand on his head, a loop that left him aching and profoundly calm.
He waited with a hunter’s patience, letting two sunsets pass. On Saturday afternoon, his phone glowed in his dim room. He’d drafted and deleted a dozen messages, but now he simply typed: Would a field study be possible after Monday’s lecture? He hit send, his pulse a quiet hammer in his throat.
The reply came barely a minute later. Thursday. My office. 4:30. Scott added, Don’t be late. Azzurro, meanwhile, found his weekend routines punctured by invasive curiosity. Grading papers in his sunlit study, he’d pause, his pen hovering over an essay as he imagined that closed bathroom door swinging open. He pictured Scott’s expression again—that satiated, unguarded looseness he’d never seen in twenty years o. Driving to the market, he scanned the sidewalks near the Social Sciences building, looking for a familiar slump, a particular shade of dark hair, knowing it was futile but unable to stop himself. It was an academic puzzle now, a mystery with unethical, tantalizing edges. He wasn’t going to report a colleague on a whisper and a look; that wasn’t his style. But he wanted to know.
But he wanted to know. The following Tuesday, propelled by a restless need that had simmered since Thursday’s text, Alex detoured to Scott’s office after his last class. The door was locked, the light off, the silence behind it absolute. A sharp pang of disappointment, stupid and childish, twisted in his gut as he pressed his forehead to the cool wood.
He walked back through the building’s echoing main hall, his backpack feeling suddenly heavier. Pushing through the heavy exit doors into the afternoon glare, he nearly collided with a man carrying a stack of lab manuals. “Whoa, sorry,” the man said, his voice accented, his grip firm on Alex’s arm to steady them both.
Alex mumbled an apology, stepping back. Professor Azzurro studied him, the casual smile on his face not reaching his suddenly focused eyes. This was the slouched posture, the dark hair, the tense jaw he’d seen fleeing the Social Sciences building last week. “You’re in Professor Meek’s Chem 101, right?” Azzurro asked, his tone deliberately light, conversational. “The Tuesday/Thursday section.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, caught off guard. He tried to place this younger, sharp-faced professor with the five-o’clock shadow. “Alex. I’m helping with the titration lab next week.”
“Right, Alex.” Azzurro’s smile widened, a perfect mask of approachable enthusiasm. “I remember now. Looking for Professor Scott? He usually beats it out of here by four on Tuesdays for a department thing.” He watched Alex’s face closely, noting the faint flush at the mention of Scott’s name. The puzzle piece clicked into place with a quiet, satisfying finality.
The puzzle piece clicked into place with a quiet, satisfying finality. “Yeah, just had a question,” Alex mumbled, already stepping away. “Thanks, Professor.” He moved past, heading for the campus path with a forced, casual slouch. Azzurro watched him go, the lab manuals feeling suddenly insignificant in his hands.
He stood in the buzzing afternoon, Scott’s name now attached to a specific face. Over the next two days, he listened differently. In the echoing stairwells, between the racket of slamming lockers, he caught the whispers. They were never complete sentences, just fragments. “...a total whore for it, I heard...” “...like, really into the gross stuff…” “...a pervs favorite, probably…” The word ‘slut’ was a hissed staple, usually preceded by a crude, specific adjective. The rumors had no solid source, just the electric currency of scandal passed between bored students.
They painted a picture of a mythic figure, a campus ghost story of depravity. Azzurro’s mind superimposed Alex’s retreating back, his tense shoulders, onto this phantom. The boy leaving the bathroom, Scott’s satisfied exit—it wasn’t just gossip. It was a confirmed case study. Thursday, after Meek’s class, he would have his own lab session. He’d ask about titration techniques, of course. Then he’d steer the conversation toward the peculiar ecosystems of university social hierarchies, and see what truths bloomed in the sterile air.
The harsh chemical scent of acetone clung to the air in Azzurro’s lab Thursday afternoon, a sharp contrast to the earthy smell of Scott’s office. Alex focused on calibrating a burette, his movements precise as Azzurro paced between the long benches. “Precision here dictates the entire reaction,” Azzurro said, his voice echoing off the stainless steel. “It’s a hierarchy. The pure reagent is the unforgiving king. Your technique is the supplicant.” He paused, watching Alex’s steady hands. “Much like the social ecosystems here, don’t you think? Everyone has their assigned function, their place in the titration.” Alex kept his eyes on the glassware, giving a noncommittal hum. Azzurro leaned against a counter, crossing his arms. “The tenured professors are the concentrated acid, potent and immutable. The adjuncts are the diluted base, reactive but weak.” He smiled, a flash of white in his scruff. “And the students? They’re the indicators. A color change, proving the reaction occurred. Sometimes they’re the catalyst, sparking something… unexpected.”
Alex finally glanced up, meeting Azzurro’s assessing gaze for a second before looking down. He adjusted the clamp, the metal clicking softly. Azzurro decided to listen. “You seem like an observant guy, Alex. Quiet. You must see the strange alliances, the private factions.” The hum of the fume hood filled the silence. Alex slowly released the stopcock, a single drop falling into the flask below. “I suppose,” he said, his voice barely above the hum. “Most people just keep to their own reactions.” Azzurro’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes narrowed slightly, cataloging the careful evasion. He noted the tension in Alex’s shoulders, the defensive curl of his frame over the equipment. Alex, as per usual, was quiet, but always observing—though now his observations were turned inward, guarding. The quiet between them stretched, dense with unasked questions. Azzurro pushed off the counter, the moment breaking. “Well,” he said, his tone shifting back to professional lightness. “Don’t let the base overrun the king. It makes a terrible mess.”
Alex gave a vague nod, thoroughly confused by the professor’s philosophical tangent. He decided to focus solely on the precise, clear logic of his procedure, the neutralization point a far simpler goal to comprehend. He recorded his final measurement, his handwriting neat and controlled on the lab sheet.
Azzurro watched him wash the glassware with meticulous care, the water steaming. “Your technique is excellent,” Azzurro remarked, leaning against the sink. “Precise. Consistent.” He dried his own hands on a rough paper towel. “It shows a disciplined mind.”
“Thanks,” Alex said, closing his notebook. He slid the completed lab report across the stainless steel counter toward Azzurro.
As Azzurro picked it up, scanning the figures, he didn’t look up. “Say, Alex. I’d like to go over some of your earlier work,” he said, his tone casual, almost breezy. “Some interesting approaches in your problem sets.” He finally met Alex’s eyes, his gaze friendly but intent. “Got a minute to chat after class?
“Actually, I have to be somewhere else at 4.” Alex said, his thumb already finding the clock on his phone. “Could we maybe do it tomorrow?” He kept his voice casual, but a familiar, sour taste ghosted the back of his throat, a memory from another meeting.
“Won’t take a minute,” Azzurro said, his smile unwavering as he stacked the lab reports. He didn’t look up. “It’s best when the data is fresh, trust me.”
Alex swallowed, calculating. The walk to the Social Sciences building was seven minutes. He could spare a bit of time here and still be panting at Scott’s door right on time. “Okay, sure,” he said, the words tasting like compromise. Azzurro finally glanced up, his dark eyes sharp beneath the fluorescent lights. “Excellent. Give me a sec and then let’s head to my office.”
The clock above the door read 3:08. Alex fell into step behind him, the weight of the approaching meeting with Professor Scott settling on his shoulders like a physical burden. Azzurro’s office was a stark contrast to Scott’s comforting chaos—small, ruthlessly organized, and smelling of coffee. He gestured to a hard plastic chair.
“So, your method for calculating molarity on the third problem set,” Azzurro began, pulling a paper from a neat file. He leaned back, the chair creaking. “You took a… creative shortcut.” He tapped the page. “It’s the kind of efficiency that comes from intense, singular focus.” He let the observation hang, studying Alex’s face. “Or from a mind preoccupied with something else entirely.”
Alex’s fingers tightened on the edge of the hard chair. “I was just trying to save time,” he said, forcing his voice to stay flat, wanting this to be over. He just needed to get out of this boxy, airless office and across campus.
“Time is an interesting commodity,” Azzurro mused, neatly squaring the paper’s edges against his blotter. He leaned forward slightly, the faint shadow of his stubble darkening his jaw. “We always seem to be rushing toward something, or away from it.” His eyes, dark and unblinking, held Alex’s. “An appointment, perhaps?”
Alex felt a cold slickness under his arms. “Something like that.” He shifted his weight, a clear signal of his desire to leave.
Azzurro smiled, a thin, knowing curve of his lips. He let the silence stretch, the hum of his computer the only sound. “You can go in a moment,” he said softly. He gestured dismissively at the lab report. “This isn’t actually about molarity.”
The air in the small office grew thicker, harder to pull into his lungs. Azzurro watched him struggle with it, a scientist observing a reaction. “It’s about observed behaviors,” he continued, his tone conversational yet precise. “About a student leaving a certain bathroom, and a certain professor leaving after him, looking… fulfilled.”
Every muscle in Alex’s body locked. The memory of the disinfectant smell, the taste, roared back.
“Relax,” Azzurro murmured, not unkindly. He leaned back, threading his fingers together over his flat stomach. “I’m not the morality police.” He studied Alex’s pale, frozen face. “I’m just a man who pays attention.” He let that sit, a stone dropped into still water. “And what I find interesting isn’t the what, but the why. Why a bright student would kneel on a public bathroom floor for a married man with a dad bod.”
Alex flinched. The crude, reductive truth of it stripped the encounter of its dark poetry. “I have to go,” he whispered, the words barely audible.
“You agreed to stay,” Azzurro reminded him gently, a predator with all the time in the world. “So stay.” He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, a study in casual power. “Scott enjoys the worship, I suppose. The obvious power. It’s a bit… straightforward.” He tilted his head. “I’m more interested in the worshipper. In what you get from it.”
Alex’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. He just stared at the clean, geometric pattern of Azzurro’s tie.
Azzurro’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. “That look on his face last week… like he’d conquered a continent.” He paused, letting the image fester. “I saw it. I see a lot from my mailroom door.” Alex’s breath hitched, trapped. “So,” Azzurro said, leaning forward again, his elbows on the knees of his crisp trousers. “You can run along to your ‘somewhere to be at four’. Or you can understand that I now have a much more interesting study in mind.”
Alex’s mind whirred, a frantic calculus of scandal and expulsion.
The sterile office air grew thin, metallic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he managed, the lie brittle and transparent. Azzurro just smiled, a slow unfurling of genuine amusement. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s almost endearing.” He glanced at the clock behind Alex. “You have twenty-two minutes before whatever he’s promised you. Time for a more... reciprocal arrangement.”
“I’m not doing anything with you,” Alex hissed, the defiance undercut by the tremor in his voice.
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Azzurro replied, his tone shifting to one of scientific curiosity. “Yet.” He leaned forward, the scent of his sharp cologne cutting through the coffee smell. “I want you to tell me what you were thinking about in my lab. Be precise.”
Alex stared, uncomprehending. The professor’s dark eyes were insistent. “Your mind was elsewhere. I want to know where.” Azzurro’s gaze dropped to Alex’s mouth, then back up, holding him trapped.
Panic, cold and sluicing, tightened Alex’s throat. Would Professor Azzurro out them? Would Scott be fired? Would he be kicked out of the school?
The thoughts racing through Alex’s head were starting to become overwhelming until Azzurro cut him off and leaned closer. “Stop,” he commanded quietly, his breath a warm brush against Alex’s cheek. “Your fear is palpable, but irrelevant. I don’t want to ruin anyone.” He tilted his head, examining Alex’s face like a specimen.
Alex’s pupils were dilated, his breath shallow.
“Go to your appointment,” Azzurro said softly, pulling back as if disinterested. “Be your perfect, devoted self.” He stood, an unambiguous dismissal. “But tomorrow, you’ll come back here at four. And you’ll tell me everything. Don’t be late.”