Chapter 4: Try and relax
Alex ran, the slap of his sneakers on the pavement a frantic counter-rhythm to his pounding heart. He burst through the heavy oak door of the Social Sciences building and took the stairs two at a time, the ghost of Azzurro’s knowing smile clinging to him like a chemical smell. He skidded to a halt outside Scott’s office, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and knocked.
“Enter,” Scott’s voice called, warm and amused.
Alex pushed the door open to find Scott leaning back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. “Cutting it close, kid,” he said, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
“Sorry,” Alex breathed, the word shaky as he shouldered the door closed. He drank in the sight of the familiar, comfortable chaos—the leaning towers of books, the faded map pinned to the wall, Scott’s relaxed posture. This was his sanctuary, not Azzurro’s sterile box. He focused on that, pushing the panic down. “Got held up with a lab thing.”
“Ah, the rigorous sciences,” Scott chuckled, gesturing to the worn chair opposite him. “All numbers and no soul. You look like you need to sit.” Alex sank into the chair, the old leather creaking under him, and the solid reality of Scott’s presence began to dissolve the cold knot in his gut. He wouldn’t ruin this with Azzurro’s poison.
“So,” Scott said, leaning forward, his elbows on the cluttered desk. His eyes were bright, curious. “You wanted a field study.” He let the phrase hang, ripe with possibility.
“Yeah,” Alex said, his voice steadying. He met Scott’s gaze, pushing every thought of the other professor away. “I was thinking about landscapes of control. How power maps itself onto a place.” He was parroting Scott’s own lecture terms, a language that belonged only to them.
Scott’s grin widened. “Now you’re talking my language.” He reached into a drawer, pulled out two apples, and tossed one to Alex. “Start with the micro-geography. This office.” He took a loud, crunchy bite. “Tell me what you see.”
Alex caught the apple, its cool, smooth weight a tangible anchor. He looked around, at the controlled disorder, the personal kingdom. “I see a center,” he said, a real smile finally touching his lips. “Everything else is just periphery.”
Scott’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a slow heat building behind his gaze. He leaned further across the desk, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Forget the office. Let’s talk about a more… personal topography.”
Alex’s breath caught, the apple forgotten in his hand. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Scott said, standing and slowly walking around the desk, “you mention landscapes of control.” He stopped in front of Alex’s chair, looking down at him. “The most interesting maps are the ones you can feel.” He reached out, his thumb brushing the line of Alex’s jaw. “I want to chart your coordinates.”
A shiver traveled the length of Alex’s spine. “Yes,” he whispered, the word dissolving into a sharp intake of breath as Scott’s mouth found his. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was claiming, a firm pressure that tasted of apple and the faint, familiar echo of coffee. Alex’s hands came up, grasping at the soft fabric of Scott’s shirt, pulling him closer.
They broke apart, breathing ragged. “Exploration requires access,” Scott muttered, his fingers finding the hem of Alex’s t-shirt. Alex lifted his arms without a word, the cotton peeling away over his head and landing softly on a pile of papers. Scott’s hands, warm and sure, traced a path from his collarbone down to the waistband of his jeans. “Here’s a valley,” he said, his voice rough, dipping a finger just beneath the denim. Alex arched into the touch, a silent plea.
Scott unfastened his own jeans, pushing them down his hips with a practical shrug. He kicked them aside, then focused back on Alex, working the stubborn button open, the zipper’s rasp loud in the ticking quiet of the room.
He helped Alex shimmy the jeans down over his hips, letting them pool around his ankles on the worn rug. "Turn around," Scott murmured, his voice thick as he guided Alex by the shoulders. The cool office air kissed Alex's skin as he faced the bookshelves, their titles blurring into dark, leather-bound blocks.
Scott went very still behind him. "Well," he breathed, the word hushed with genuine surprise. The intricate network of black ink spanning Alex's shoulder blades wasn't what he’d expected from the quiet student in the front row. "You don't seem the type."
His fingertip, calloused and warm, touched the center of Alex's spine where a detailed compass rose was inked. Alex shuddered at the contact. Scott traced the lines of longitude first, then followed the curling, geometric waves that fanned out across Alex's ribs. "A stylized ocean," Scott observed, his touch following a serpentine sea creature woven through the waves. "And a leviathan."
"It’s just ink," Alex whispered, his forehead nearly touching a dusty volume of Herodotus.
"It’s a damn cartography project," Scott corrected softly, his finger now exploring the sharp, angular lines of a mountain range shaded near Alex's left shoulder blade. He applied the lightest pressure, mapping the peaks and valleys of scar tissue and ink. "This is a landscape. Why hide it?"
Alex remained silent, his breath fogging the book spine in front of him. Scott’s tracing became slower, more deliberate, committing the topography to memory. His other hand settled on Alex’s hip, holding him in place as his finger completed its survey, lingering in the hollow at the base of his spine. "Everyone’s got their territory," Scott finally said, his voice low. "I guess this is yours."s
Scott’s hand slid from the inked mountains down to the waistband of Alex’s briefs, hooking his fingers into the fabric. “But tonight,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial rumble, “I’m charting the undiscovered country.” He pulled the briefs down in one firm motion, letting them fall atop the denim puddle at Alex’s feet.
The cool air of the office was a shock against Alex’s exposed skin. Scott’s hands, warm and rough, settled on his hips, holding him in place as he took in the view. “Beautiful,” Scott murmured, more to himself than to Alex, his thumbs tracing the subtle dimples at the base of his spine.
Then his fingertips found a different map, one of tense muscle and yielding flesh. “This time,” Scott said, his voice losing all its earlier amusement, becoming flat and deliberate, “I’m in control.” A single, spit-slicked finger pressed against him, not asking, just stating its intent. Alex gasped, his hands flying back to brace against the bookshelf, sending a tremor through a precarious stack of papers.
“And I’ll use you as I please,” Scott finished, working the finger inside with a slow, relentless pressure. The stretch was sharp, unexpected, and it pushed every other thought—Azzurro’s smug face, the panic in the lab, the bitter aftertaste of fear—clean out of Alex’s head. There was only this: the dry burn, the weight of Scott behind him, and the shocking, welcome emptiness being filled.Scott added a second finger, the stretch blooming into a deep, resonant ache. “You’re mine to explore,” he breathed against Alex’s neck, his other hand splayed possessively across his stomach, pulling him back onto his hand. Alex groaned, the sound muffled by leather-bound books, his body arching in contradictory signals of protest and need. The ticking clock on the wall measured the slow, deliberate rhythm Scott set, a tempo of pure possession
Scott withdrew his fingers, leaving Alex empty and trembling against the shelves. "You need more than that for a proper survey," Scott said, his voice casual, as if discussing rainfall averages.
He spat, a thick wad that landed with a warm, wet smack right where his fingers had been. Alex jerked at the sensation, a shocked gasp catching in his throat.
"Please," Alex choked out, the word mangled by need. He pushed back against the nothingness, his whole body a single, desperate request. "Use me. Just fucking use me, professor."
Scott’s laugh was a low huff of pure satisfaction against his neck. "That’s my eager research assistant." He lined himself up, the blunt, hot pressure a promise of territory claimed. "Remember your place on this map."
He didn't ask. He pushed, a slow, devastating invasion that burned away every coherent thought. Alex cried out, the sound swallowed by the books, his knuckles bleaching white against the shelf.
"Tell me," Scott grunted, settling deep, his hips flush against Alex's skin. He was motionless, letting the sheer, stretching fullness be the entire reality. "Tell me what you are right now."
"Yours," Alex gasped, the truth ripped from him. "I'm yours." It was surrender, and it was the only thing that made the ache make sense.
Scott began to move with a possessive, grinding rhythm. Each thrust was a brutal correction, a reaffirmation of the hierarchy they’d built in that bathroom. The clock’s tick was drowned out by skin, by shuddering breath, by Scott’s muttered, "Good. Good."
Alex felt himself unraveling, a coastline being reshaped by a relentless tide. He was just geography beneath Scott’s hands, and for now, that was the only sanity he needed.
He was just geography beneath Scott’s hands, and for now, that was the only sanity he needed. “Turn over,” Scott grunted, his voice raw as he withdrew, leaving a sudden, aching void. He guided Alex by the shoulder, turning him roughly until his back met the chaotic landscape of the desk.
Papers whispered and crunched beneath his weight, a pen rolling off to clatter on the floor. Scott pushed his thighs apart, his gaze locking onto Alex’s with an intensity that felt like ownership. “I want to see your face when I take what’s mine,” Scott said, his words barely more than a heated breath.
He lifted Alex’s legs, hooking them over his own sturdy hips, and leaned in. The new angle was deeper, shocking, a claiming that went straight to the core. Each thrust now was a deliberate conversation, Scott’s eyes reading every flinch and gasp on Alex’s face.
“Mine,” Scott repeated, a statement, not a question, as the desk groaned in rhythm. Alex could only nod, his fingers scrambling against the wood, gripping nothing. The world narrowed to the smell of old paper and sweat, to the weight of a man writing a new history across his body.
He was completely mapped, entirely known, and the terrifying freedom of that shattered him. A sound escaped him, part sob, part surrender, as the last of his secrets were rendered obsolete.
The punishing rhythm didn’t falter; Scott drove into him with a focused, animal intensity that made the desk shimmy against the floor. “Please,” Alex gasped, the word shredded by each driving impact. His hands fluttered near Scott’s stubbled jaw, a weak attempt at pulling him down. “Kiss me. Just kiss me.”
Scott paused, his hips still buried deep, and looked down at him with dark, amused eyes. He worked up a thick mouthful of spit and let it fall, a direct hit on Alex’s parted, begging lips. “You want connection?” he breathed, the question hot and mocking.
Then he finally crashed his mouth down, swallowing Alex’s shocked whimper. The kiss was a brutal claiming, a tang of salt and shared breath as Scott’s thrusts turned frantic and losing their rhythm. Alex kissed back desperately, tasting himself and Scott and that dismissive spit, his body tightening around the relentless friction. A raw, guttural sound vibrated from Scott’s throat into his mouth, and a scalding flood filled him, pulse after pulse, as their teeth clicked together and the world dissolved into a white, silent static.
Scott stayed buried inside him for a long moment, his breaths hot and ragged against Alex’s neck. He finally pulled out with a soft, wet sound, his hands guiding Alex’s limp body to turn over onto his stomach once more. “Stay put,” Scott murmured, his voice gravelly and spent.
Alex obeyed, his cheek pressed to the cool, paper-strewn wood, every muscle liquid. He heard Scott shift behind him, then felt the warm, shocking pressure of his mouth, not kissing, but consuming. Scott’s tongue was thorough and demanding, lapping up the mess he’d made with a low hum of approval.
He worked until Alex was clean and trembling, then pulled away. “Look at me,” Scott ordered softly. Alex turned his head, his vision blurred.
Scott leaned close, his own mouth glistening, and locked their lips together in a deep, filthy kiss. He fed it all back to him—the salt, the bitterness, the intimate proof of their coupling—in a slow, claiming transfer. “Swallow,” Scott whispered against his mouth, and Alex did, gulping down the offered submission.
Scott broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting them for a second. He looked down at his own softening dick, glistening and wet. “Your job’s not finished,” he said, his thumb brushing Alex’s lower lip. “Clean me up. Use your tongue only. Get every drop.”
Alex obeyed, his tongue a careful, penitent instrument on the sensitive skin. Scott watched him work with heavy-lidded eyes, running a hand through Alex’s hair almost absently. “You missed your calling,” Scott finally said, his voice rough. “You should have been a custodian.”
He pulled Alex up by the hair, guiding him off the desk and back onto his knees on the worn rug. “Since you’re so good at cleaning up,” Scott said, looking down at him, his expression shifting to something deliberate and dark. “Let’s see you handle the source.” He nudged Alex’s shoulder, turning him to face the office’s dusty, forgotten corner where a scuffed metal wastebasket sat.
“No toilet here, but a vessel’s a vessel,” Scott murmured. The first hot splash against the inside of the bin was deafening, a roaring cascade that went on and on. He’d clearly been planning this, the volume startling, a torrent that spoke of intentional hydration.
“Open,” Scott commanded, and Alex did, leaning forward over the bin as Scott’s aim shifted. The taste was overwhelming, a bitter, salty flood that gagged him instantly. “Swallow it,” Scott growled above the sound, his hand fisted in Alex’s hair, holding him in place. “All of it. You wanted this, didn’t you? My little campus urinal.”
Alex choked, tears blurring his vision as he forced himself to comply, each gulp a violent act of submission. “That’s it,” Scott praised, the sound twisting into a sneer. “Take every last drop. Prove what you are.” The stream finally tapered, leaving Alex sputtering over the brimming bin, his mouth burning, his entire being reduced to that single, humiliating function.
Scott tucked himself away, looking down at the panting, tear-streaked student. He used his foot to nudge the wastebasket aside, the liquid sloshing ominously. “Now,” he said, his tone reverting to that of a pleased professor concluding a successful experiment. “I believe we’ve completed our fieldwork for today.”
Alex complied, the absurdity of the moment hitting him, and a choked, airy giggle escaped his throat. Scott looked down at him, his stern expression dissolving into a low chuckle that shook his shoulders. "See?" Scott said, his voice warm and familiar again. "Fieldwork has its messy moments."
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small, crinkled packet of lemon-scented wet wipes. "Here," he said, tearing it open and handing one to Alex before taking another for himself. They cleaned themselves in efficient, practical movements, the sharp citrus smell cutting through the heavier scents in the room.
"So," Scott began, pulling his shorts up with a soft rustle, "you sticking with Meek for Chem 102 next semester, or are you jumping ship?" He tossed the used wipe into the wastebasket with a perfect arc.
Alex stood, his legs feeling strangely distant, and pulled his own clothes on. "I might bail if Azzurro's teaching a section," he said, forcing his tone into casual territory as he zipped his jeans. "He's less of a medieval torturer."
Scott laughed, a real, easy sound. "Smart man. Lorenzo's sharp." He gathered a stack of scattered papers from the desk, his movements returning to those of a preoccupied professor. "Just don't let his charm fool you; he's probably more dangerous than Meek."
"I'll keep that in mind," Alex mumbled, shouldering his backpack, the weight of tomorrow’s meeting settling back onto his shoulders. They stood there for a beat in the cluttered office, the dynamic shifted back to something almost normal.
"Get some rest, kid," Scott said, nodding toward the door. "You look like you've been through a geopolitical upheaval." Alex offered a weak smile and slipped out, the click of the door behind him sounding final. The hallway was empty and quiet, his own footsteps the only sound as he walked away, his skin still smelling of artificial lemon and his mind already racing toward the next day's dangerous rendezvous.