Chapter 5: The experiment
Alex stood outside Azzurro’s office the next afternoon, the citrus ghost of Scott’s wipes still haunting his skin, and knocked. The door swung open immediately, as if the professor had been waiting right behind it. “Alex,” Azzurro said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he stepped back to let him in. The office was a mirror of Scott’s in its clutter, but colder, the light from the vintage lamp pooling in a too-warm yellow circle on the desk.
“Sit,” Azzurro instructed, not moving towards his own chair but leaning against the desk’s edge, blocking the exit. He locked the door and sat promptly at his dest. “I’ve heard such interesting things about your extracurricular studies.”
“So,” Azzurro said, his voice a low, pleased hum. “Let’s conduct a comparative analysis.” He gestured with his right hand. “I need you to describe the experience. Now. I need you to be precise.”
“I need you to be precise.” Azzurro’s fingers tapped the wooden arm of his chair. “Get under the desk.” Alex stared, the command hanging in the dusty air. “Now,” Azzurro said, his voice dropping to a soft, dangerous note. “It’s less private here, but we have our methods.”
Alex slipped from his chair and crawled into the dark, wooden cavity. The space was close, warm with the heat of the computer tower and the trapped scent of old paper. Azzurro didn’t move his chair forward, keeping a professional distance visible to anyone who might glance at the office door.
He simply unzipped his trousers, his movements casual, and freed himself. “My wife is out of state,” he explained conversationally, looking down past the edge of the desk. “I haven’t bothered with a proper wash in some time.”
The smell hit Alex first, a thick, pungent wave of concentrated body and neglect. “Go on,” Azzurro murmured. “Enjoy the full experience.” Up close, the evidence was a waxy, cheesy build-up, a stark contrast to Scott’s clean, lemon-wiped finish. Alex closed his eyes and leaned in, the aroma filling the cramped space, a multi-sensory claim far from the athletic tang of Scott’s possession. “Well?” Azzurro prompted, his tone coolly analytical. “How does the fieldwork compare?”
Alex was dealing with a mix of emotions—a sharp, instinctive recoil warring with a low, shameful thrum of excitement—but he could not believe such a hot scene was unfolding right here in broad daylight. The musky, animal reality of it, so different from Scott’s calculated dominance, made his throat constrict even as his mind raced. He was about to enjoy the filthiest dick he’d only ever dreamed of, a fantasy made shockingly tangible in this dusty cupboard of an office.
If Azzurro wanted an experience, he was going to get just that.
“It’s…” Alex began, his voice muffled by the confined space, then he leaned forward without another word. He didn’t just take it; he pressed his face into the coarse hair and warm skin, inhaling deeply, letting the intimate, unwashed scent of the man flood his senses. “It’s more honest,” he said, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against the shaft.
Azzurro’s breath hitched above him. “Explain.”
“Scott made it clean afterward,” Alex muttered, his tongue tracing a thick vein. “He used a wipe.” He took the head into his mouth, the taste blooming, salty and profoundly organic. “You… you don’t hide what it is.” He worked lower, his nose filling with the scent of skin and stale musk. “This feels real.”
“And what is it, exactly?” Azzurro asked, his voice tighter now.
“Power,” Alex breathed, the word vibrating against slick skin. “The kind that doesn’t need to be cleaned up.” He took him deeper, embracing the bitter, complex flavor, every detail a stark contrast to the lemony aftertaste he’d swallowed just hours before. Azzurro’s hand came down, not to guide, but to rest heavily on the crown of his head, a silent, claiming approval.
"That's enough commentary," Azzurro interrupted, his voice shedding all academic pretense, becoming a rough command. "Stop talking. Your mouth has a better use." His fingers twisted tightly in Alex's hair, applying downward pressure. "Focus on the experience. Clean it. Every last bit."
Alex obeyed, his world narrowing to the dense, musky heat before him. He used his tongue like a meticulous instrument, tracing the thick root, lapping at the coarse hair matted with stale sweat and waxy residue. The flavor was earthy, profoundly salty, a pungent honesty that made Scott’s lemon wipes seem like a childish cover-up.
"You love this, don't you?" Azzurro groaned, his hips giving a shallow jerk. "My little academic gutter. You’d rather be here, on your knees for a real man’s filth, than in anyone else's clean, sanitized bed."
Alex could only grunt in agreement, his nose buried, chasing the source of the scent with a desperate hunger. He wanted to consume it, to have this raw proof of servitude become a part of him.
"Such a hungry bitch," Azzurro sneered, watching the dark head bob beneath his desk. "You won't be satisfied until you swallow, will you? Until you prove you can take whatever I give you." Alex redoubled his efforts, hollowing his cheeks, his throat working, driven by a need that eclipsed all dignity.
Azzurro’s breathing grew ragged, his insults dissolving into guttural promises. "Take it. This is what you are for." The first hot pulse hit the back of Alex’s throat, bitter and vital. He swallowed convulsively, not missing a drop, the act a perfect, degrading completion.
Azzurro finally stilled, sighed, and looked down with cold, appraising satisfaction. "See?" he said, his voice regaining its light, conversational tone as he tucked himself away. "Sometimes the most valuable data isn't found in sterile conditions."
Alex stayed on his knees, the bitter aftertaste coating his tongue like a badge. He looked up, the edge of the desk cutting across his view of Azzurro’s smug face. "That was just a sample," Alex said, his voice hoarse but clear, no tremor in it.
Azzurro’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of genuine surprise cutting through his arrogant composure. "Oh?"
"I'm not done, professor." Alex wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a deliberate, slow gesture. "I want the full dataset." He let the statement hang, an unashamed demand in the dusty air.
A low chuckle escaped Azzurro’s throat, a sound of pure delight. "The appetizer merely whetted the appetite." He stood, adjusted his trousers with a sharp, efficient motion, and grabbed his worn leather satchel from the desk. "Come. The laboratory conditions here are suboptimal for a proper… replication study."
He unlocked the office door and peered into the empty hallway. "Now," he commanded, without looking back. Alex scrambled to his feet, his legs tingling from being cramped, and followed. They moved quickly down a back staircase, their footsteps echoing off the concrete, descending into the building's quieter, older basement level.
The air grew cooler, smelling of industrial cleaner and damp stone. Azzurro pushed through a heavy, unmarked door marked ‘Custodial’. It revealed a large, tiled restroom, long abandoned for renovations. A bank of cracked sinks lined one wall, and three empty stall frames, their doors long removed, stood like silent sentries in the spacious, echoey room.
A single, flickering fluorescent tube buzzed overhead. Azzurro slid the deadbolt closed behind them with a decisive thunk. The sound was final, sealing them in a private, porcelain-lined world. "No limitations here," he said, his voice echoing slightly as he set his satchel on a dry sink.
"No limitations here," he said, his voice echoing slightly as he set his satchel on a dry sink. He turned, his dark eyes holding Alex’s, and began to unbutton his shirt with deliberate slowness. Each button released a richer wave of his scent, that intriguing musk layered over crisp cotton and the ghost of his office.
Alex watched, his own breathing shallow, as Azzurro shrugged the shirt off and let it fall to the damp tile. “Your turn to direct the study,” Azzurro said, a challenge in his voice as he pushed his trousers and briefs down in one fluid motion, stepping out of the pooled fabric. He was fully naked now, his body lean and hairy in the flickering light, and he walked to the middle stall, sitting on the clean, empty toilet bowl as if it were a throne.
The porcelain was cold and unforgiving against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat he presented. Alex approached, the musky, intimate smell of him—sweat, skin, that unwashed cheesy note—wrapping around him like a promise. He dropped to his knees on the hard floor, ignoring the discomfort, his focus narrowing to the heavy cock resting against Azzurro’s thigh.
“Show me then,” Azzurro goaded, spreading his legs wider, his voice a low rumble in the cavernous room. “Impress me.”
Alex didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, burying his face in the dense, dark bush, inhaling the potent, animal reality of the man until he felt lightheaded. This wasn’t the calculated power-play of Scott’s desk; this was something raw, and he wanted to own it. He took the thick shaft in hand, guiding himself, and swallowed him down to the root in one slow, confident motion.
Azzurro’s head thumped back against the stall partition with a solid crack. “Cazzo,” he hissed, the Italian curse ripped from him. “You learn fast.”
Alex pulled back, his tongue painting long, wet stripes along the veined underside before diving deep again, establishing a ruthless rhythm entirely of his own design. He used his hands, his mouth, the flat of his tongue, every technique he’d learned or imagined, orchestrating a symphony of sensation. Azzurro’s verbal composure shattered into a stream of fragmented praise and filthy encouragement.
“Yes—just like that, ragazzo, use your throat,” he grunted, his hands fisting in his own hair instead of guiding Alex’s head. “You have a talented mouth, a greedy one.” Alex hummed in response, the vibration pulling another choked gasp from the professor. “You were made for this, weren’t you?
Alex didn’t answer with words. He released the shaft with a wet pop and leaned down further, his tongue finding the heavy sac beneath. He took one testicle into his mouth, gently rolling it, savoring the salt and musk and faint bitterness of skin, before lavishing the same attention on its twin. A low, continuous groan vibrated from Azzurro above him.
"Look at you," Azzurro breathed, his voice thick with a fascination that edged his cruelty. "A scholar of filth." Alex’s tongue was a broad, wet stroke along the perineum, then a meticulous point cleaning the intricate folds at the base of his shaft, never breaking contact, as if mapping uncharted territory. "Such dedicated fieldwork."
He moved back up the thick vein on the underside, a slow, worshipping pilgrimage. "You prefer this, don't you?" Azzurro hissed, his composure fraying. "To Scott’s… sanitized little games." Alex moaned in agreement, the sound lost against hot skin, his entire world this intimate, musky geography. "Tell me you prefer it."
"I do," Alex gasped, pulling away just enough to speak before sealing his mouth over the head, sucking hard, drinking the faint, pre-existing dampness. "It's real." Azzurro’s hand finally touched his head, not to force, but to feel the movements of his skull, tracing the devotion. "It’s better."
"Then prove it," Azzurro commanded, his hips lifting off the toilet seat to press himself deeper into Alex’s face. "Clean your professor. Make me new." Alex obeyed, drowning in the task, his tongue etching a promise of silent, dirty complicity across every inch.
Azzurro’s hands, which had been gripping the toilet seat, now pushed at Alex’s shoulders. “Enough of that,” he panted, his voice shredded. “I want more. Now.” He slid off the porcelain, his body guiding Alex backward until his bare back met the cold, dry tile of the restroom floor.
Alex followed, a new certainty humming in his veins. He looked down at the professor splayed beneath him, all arrogant composure dissolved into raw need. “You want more?” Alex asked, his own voice surprisingly steady.
He didn’t wait for an answer. Straddling Azzurro’s hips, he reached back, guiding the thick, flushed head of his cock. He sank down onto him slowly, achingly, feeling the brutal stretch that was now a familiar gateway. A choked gasp, half-groan, half-curse, escaped Azzurro’s lips as Alex took him completely, seating himself in the man’s lap.
The control was intoxicating, a heady reversal that made the basement air crackle. Alex began to move, setting a deliberate, grinding rhythm that had Azzurro’s head thrashing side to side on the tile. “You’re just a cheap hole,” Azzurro snarled, his words contorted by pleasure, his hands clawing at Alex’s thighs. “A convenient, dirty little socket.”
“Yeah?” Alex breathed, leaning forward, bracing his hands on the floor beside Azzurro’s head. He tightened his internal muscles on the downstroke, wrenching a sharp cry from the man. “Then why are you the one on the floor?”
He established a punishing cadence, each rise and fall a calculated assertion. Azzurro’s insults became a frantic, praising mantra. “Christ, you’re a greedy slut for it,” he gasped, his hips straining upward to meet Alex’s movements. “Riding me like a cheap whore in a filthy bathroom.” His eyes were glazed, losing focus, his body tensing like a coiled spring. Alex could feel the telltale throbbing deep inside him, the impending surge.
Just as Azzurro’s back arched, his mouth falling open in a silent roar, Alex stopped. He lifted himself completely off, leaving the man empty and trembling on the verge of release. Azzurro groaned, a sound of pure, animal frustration, his cock jerking against his stomach.
“Not yet,” Alex whispered, watching the agony of denial twist the professor’s face. He traced a finger through the bead of moisture gathered at the tip. “I’m not done with you.”
“I’m not done with you.” Alex’s whisper was a blade. He watched the agony of denial twist Azzurro’s face, the professor’s body taut and trembling on the cold tile.
“Then do your job,” Azzurro snarled, the command a ragged echo of his old authority, but his eyes were desperate. “Make me cum.”
Alex smiled, a slow, cool thing, and sank back onto him in one fluid, devastating motion. He set a brutal, deep rhythm, his own pleasure a secondary note to the symphony of Azzurro’s unraveling. He leaned down, his face inches from the professor’s. “Kiss me.”
Azzurro hesitated, a final ghost of defiance in his glazed eyes. Alex stopped moving, hovering perfectly still, a silent ultimatum. With a shattered groan, Azzurro’s hand came up to fist in Alex’s hair, and he crushed their mouths together.
The kiss was a surrender, salty and hungry. Alex swallowed his gasped curses, controlling that, too. As Azzurro lost himself in the friction and the kiss, Alex’s free hand wandered down, his thumb finding a tight, brown nipple on the hairy chest.
He rolled it, pinched it lightly, and Azzurro jolted beneath him as if electrocuted. A full-body shudder racked the professor. Alex switched to the other, teasing and tugging in time with his thrusts, and Azzurro broke the kiss to cry out, a raw, untethered sound that echoed off the tiles.
His back arched, his grip on Alex’s hair becoming a vice, and he spilled deep inside with a gut-punched finality, his entire being dissolving into pure, helpless sensation. Alex rode him through it, slowing, until Azzurro lay spent and blank-eyed beneath him, his clever mind utterly silent.
Alex slowly got off the professor’s cock and allowed the cum to drip from his ass onto Azzurro’s still-pulsating penis. He hovered there, watching the thick, pearlescent fluid trace a path from his own body onto the softening shaft below, a tangible transfer of everything that had just been claimed.
As Alex made out with Azzurro, the cum dripped out of Alex’s hole. He kissed him deeply, swallowing the professor’s staggered breaths, their tongues moving in a tired mimicry of the rhythm they’d just shared. He could feel the warm trickle on his thigh, a secret between their pressed bodies.
Once Alex had enough of Azzurro’s kisses, he started cleaning all of Azzurro’s cum off his dick, making sure he finished his job. He moved down the length of him with a quiet, thorough focus, his tongue collecting the mixed fluids from Azzurro’s skin and his own spillage. The taste was complex, bitter and salty, a complete ledger of the transaction.
Once done, he kissed Azzurro again, just to leave him with a taste of his own cum. Azzurro’s eyes, hazy and spent, fluttered open at the familiar flavor on his lips. A faint, crumpled smile touched his mouth, an acknowledgment of the circular perfection of the act.
“Efficient,” Azzurro murmured, his voice shot.
Alex didn’t respond. He held the professor’s dazed gaze for a beat longer, the taste of their shared conclusion still on his tongue. A strange, cool clarity washed through him, rinsing away the frantic heat of the last hour.
He stood up, his movements smooth and deliberate, feeling the chill of the tile through his soles. Azzurro lay where he’d been left, a sprawl of limbs and discarded power against the grouting. “Get up,” Alex said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it held a new, unassailable weight that cut through the humid air.
Azzurro blinked slowly, the command processing. A flicker of something—confusion, resentment, understanding—passed behind his eyes. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then, with visible effort, got to his feet. He swayed slightly, avoiding Alex’s steady gaze as he reached for his crumpled clothes.
Alex turned away, a dismissal. He found his own pants and shirt, dressing with a methodical focus that felt like armor. He didn’t look back as he tucked himself in, zipped up, ran a hand through his hair. The muffled, clumsy sounds of Azzurro struggling into his trousers were the only noise in the cavernous room.
Without a word, Alex walked to the deadbolted door, slid the heavy bolt back with a solid clunk, and pulled it open. A shaft of dim hall light cut across the filthy floor. He stepped through it, leaving the musk and the memory and the man behind. The door sighed shut on its own behind him, sealing Azzurro in with the evidence of his own use.
The hallway’s sterile fluorescence was a shock after the basement’s humid dark. Alex walked, his gait loose and easy, the dull ache inside him a satisfying receipt. He could still taste the professor, that complex bitter salt, and it made him smile at a passing janitor who gave a hesitant nod.
Out in the sharp autumn afternoon, the sun felt like a cool rinse on his skin. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the pull of muscles used in new ways, and dug his hands into his jacket pockets. His mind was quiet, beautifully still, free of the usual frantic buzzing.
Every step away from the Social Sciences building was a step into a lighter world. He replayed the final moments—Azzurro’s dazed surrender on the tile, the choked sound he’d made when Alex pinched his nipple—and a low, contented laugh escaped him. It hadn’t been about cleaning or servicing; it had been about mapping a man’s breaking point with his own body.
He passed a group of students debating a philosophy text, their words a distant murmur. His own reality, the sticky warmth slowly cooling in his underwear, was infinitely more interesting. He replayed the look on the professor’s face, the precise moment his insults had dissolved into helpless, grateful noise.
A breeze picked up, scattering dry leaves across the path, and Alex inhaled the clean, cold air. It mixed with the lingering scent of Azzurro’s musk on his own fingers, a perfect contradiction. He felt victorious, satiated in a deep way Scott’s clinical ownership had never achieved.
He knew he’d see him Tuesday for the supposed tutoring session. Azzurro would have to be there, would have to sit across that desk and pretend. The anticipation was a sweet, slow burn in his gut, far more pleasurable than any immediate touch. Alex left campus utterly satisfied, and he couldn’t wait for next Tuesday when Azzurro had no choice but to see him again.