Chapter 7: Suspicions arise
Tuesday’s lecture hall felt charged with a different kind of static. Alex took his usual seat near the back, the memory of the park’s chill and Jhonny’s blunt commands a warm, secret layer beneath his clothes. He watched the door, his palms slightly damp.
When Professor Azzurro entered, following Professor Meek with his usual stack of papers, his eyes immediately scanned the room and found Alex. There was no smile, just a fractional widening of his eyes, a quick, almost imperceptible tensing of his jaw. He looked away first, setting the papers down with a sharp tap.
The lecture on coastal erosion began, but Alex heard only the drone of Azzurro’s voice, watching the man’s hands gesture at the board. Every so often, Azzurro’s gaze would flicker back, landing on Alex like a sudden weight before darting away, a silent concession that the calculus between them had permanently shifted. During a quiet moment while students copied a diagram, Alex let his fingers drift to his own throat, rubbing it slowly, his eyes locked on his professor.
Azzurro’s sentence faltered. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, his knuckles white around the cup. Professor Meek, leaning against his desk at the front, noticed the stumble. His sharp, brown eyes tracked Azzurro’s flustered glance to the back row, then followed it to Alex, who now sat perfectly still, a faint, knowing calm on his face.
The bell rang. As the class shuffled out, Alex lingered, slowly zipping his bag. He caught Azzurro looking at him again, this time with a raw, unguarded hunger that mirrored the frustration in the bathroom. It was there for only a few seconds before Azzurro approached Alex.
He stopped a foot away, the clean scent of his soap a stark contrast to the memory he carried. “Your essay,” Azzurro said, his voice low, holding out a paper. “The conclusion was weak.” His finger tapped a specific paragraph, but his eyes stayed fixed on Alex’s. “You need to… solidify your argument.”
Alex took the paper, his fingers brushing Azzurro’s. “I had trouble focusing last week,” he said, his tone light. “Maybe I need another private tutorial.” He let the words hang, watching Azzurro’s jaw tighten. “Your office hours are so helpful.”
Azzurro’s gaze darted toward the front of the room where Professor Meek was slowly erasing the blackboard. “That isn’t always possible,” he muttered, almost to himself. “The timing has to be right.”
“I’m flexible,” Alex shrugged, flipping through the annotated pages. “And I’m a quick study. You showed me that.” Across the room, Professor Meek slowed his erasing, the soft squeak of the felt stopping. He didn’t turn, but his shoulders were set in careful attention, a man listening to more than just words.
“This isn’t the place for this,” Azzurro hissed, but he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping further. “You can’t just look at me like that in my classroom.”
“Like what?” Alex smiled innocently. “I’m just a student who appreciates… thorough instruction.” He lowered his own voice to a whisper. “I dream about it, Professor. The taste, the smell. It’s all I think about.”
Azzurro pulled back as if shocked, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He straightened his tie, a useless, nervous gesture. “Control yourself,” he breathed out, the command devoid of any authority.
“Or what?” Alex asked, gathering his bag. He turned to leave, then paused. “You know where to find me. When the timing is right.” Professor Meek turned from the board, his expression unreadable, just as Azzurro, flustered and red-faced, quickly retreated to the lectern without another word.
The silence in the emptied classroom was thick with chalk dust and something fouler. Professor Meek methodically wiped his fingers on a cloth, his gaze lingering on the door through which Alex had just exited. "A troubling conversation," he stated, his voice quiet but slicing cleanly through the room's quiet.
Azzurro stiffened, stacking papers with excessive force. "The student was clarifying a grade. He's struggling with the material."
"I heard no material discussed." Meek set the cloth down, turning fully. "I heard whispers about private tutorials. About taste and smell." He let the words hang, their ugliness expanding. "Explain that pedagogy to me."
"There's nothing to explain." Azzurro’s laugh was a short, brittle sound. "The boy has an overactive imagination. You know how they are."
"I know you are flustered." Meek removed his glasses, polishing them slowly. "And I know that particular student has been... noticeably different this week." He slid his glasses back on, his eyes magnified and disarmingly sharp. "We will not have a scandal, Luccio. This ends now."
Later, in his sterile dorm, Alex stared at the notification on his screen. The sender was "r.meek@science.edu". The subject line read: "Checking In." Alex opened it, the blue light washing over his intent face.
The message was curt, professional, and utterly terrifying. "Mr. Danz, please see me during my office hours tomorrow morning, 9 a.m. We should discuss your academic focus." Alex’s breath hitched; this was not about coastal erosion.
He typed a reply, fingers trembling slightly over the keys. "Of course, Professor. Is everything okay?" The response came ten minutes later, a lifetime spent staring at the screen. "A matter of departmental decorum. I believe we can address it privately." The word ‘privately’ pulsed on the screen, a seductive, dangerous promise.
Alex wrote back, choosing each word with the care of a chemist mixing volatile compounds. "I appreciate your concern. I’ve been distracted. 9 a.m. tomorrow works for me. Thank you for reaching out." He hit send, the action final.
Professor Meek’s final email arrived just before midnight. "Very well. Room 307. Be prompt." Alex lay back in the dark, the park’s musk replaced by the sterile scent of anticipation. This was a different game altogether.
This was a different game altogether.
The next morning Alex walked to his meeting with Professor Meek, his stomach a tight coil of nervous energy. The professor was famously strict and somewhat frightening during class, a man of cold precision who tolerated no foolishness. Alex didn’t know what to expect; maybe he had been a bit too explicit when talking to Professor Azzurro, maybe everything was about to unravel.
He paused outside Room 307, taking a breath that did nothing to calm him. The hallway smelled of industrial cleaner and old textbooks, a scent of pure authority. He knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet corridor.
“Enter.” Meek’s voice was unchanged, a precise instrument. Alex pushed the door open to find the professor seated behind a stark metal desk, the morning sun glaring off a single, empty vase. The room held no personal effects, just stacks of journals and the sharp, clean scent of lemon disinfectant.
“Sit, Mr. Danz.” Meek didn’t look up from the paper he was grading, his pen moving in quick, silent ticks. Alex sat in the hard chair facing the desk, his hands folded in his lap to hide their slight tremor. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the scratch of pen on paper.
Finally, Meek set the pen down and removed his glasses. He looked at Alex, his gaze unnervingly direct and patient. “Your recent academic performance is adequate,” he began, his tone perfectly neutral. “Your behavior, however, is generating talk.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Professor.” Alex’s voice sounded smaller than he wanted.
“I mean your conversations with Assistant Professor Azzurro.” Meek leaned back, steepling his fingers. “The whispered words after class. The… specific appreciation.” He let the phrase hang, his eyes missing nothing. “It is unprofessional. It must cease.”
Alex’s mind raced, shame and defiance warring within him. “It was just about the coursework,” he insisted, the lie flimsy.
“Do not insult my intelligence.” Meek’s voice remained calm, a soft hammer. “I am not a disciplinary dean. I am a scientist. I observe data.” He paused, his head tilting slightly. “The data suggests you have needs that are… complicating my department.”
Alex said nothing, his mouth dry. He watched as Professor Meek slowly opened a desk drawer, his movements economical. He withdrew not a disciplinary form, but a simple, pristine white towel, which he placed deliberately on the desk between them.
“I am also a man with considerable stress,” Meek said, his voice dropping to a confidential register. “My assistant’s solution is messy, emotional. Undisciplined.” He pushed the towel an inch toward Alex with two fingers. “I propose a cleaner arrangement. One with clear boundaries.”
Alex was baffled. The pristine towel on the desk seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights, a stark, confusing symbol. He stared at it, then at Meek’s impassive face, his mind scrambling to connect this to the sweaty chaos of the park or Azzurro’s frantic release.
This was a different language entirely. “I don’t understand,” Alex said, his voice carefully flat, playing for time.
“Stress is a toxin,” Meek stated, as if beginning a lecture. “It requires excretion.” His eyes, dark and unblinking, held Alex’s. “Azzurro seeks degradation. You seem to seek… service.” He gestured minutely toward the towel. “I require relief. You require purpose. This is a simple transaction.”
The words hung in the disinfectant-scented air. Alex’s pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the professor’s calm. He thought of Jhonny’s blunt commands, of Azzurro’s frantic humiliation. This was neither. “You want me to… what?” he asked, feigning ignorance, hoping the man would spell out the filth himself.
Meek’s lips thinned, a faint sign of impatience. “I am offering you a standing appointment,” he said, each word precise. “Here. You will assist me in achieving a state of physical relaxation.” He tapped the towel once. “You will be silent, you will be thorough, and you will leave no trace. Do you comprehend?”
Alex’s mouth went dry. The clinical terms painted a clear, shocking picture. “And my grade?” he whispered.
“Your academic performance will reflect your dedication to your studies,” Meek replied, the implication clear. “This is separate. This is for my focus, and for your… extracurricular education. Based on your performance though, some bonus points could potentially be added.” He waited, letting the offer solidify in the silence. “Do you accept?”
Alex stared at the white towel, a flag of surrender on the steel desk. “Yes,” he heard himself say, the word a quiet exhalation that seemed to dissolve the last of the room’s formal oxygen.
“Good,” Meek said, a single nod acknowledging the contract. He stood, his movement fluid for a man in his fifties, and turned to lock the office door with a definitive click. The sound echoed in the now-private space. “Now…”
He walked to the center of the room, away from the desk, his posture still rigidly professional. “The towel,” he reminded, not looking back. Alex stood on unsteady legs, took the soft cotton, and followed. Meek began unfastening his crisp trousers with the same efficiency he used to solve equations, his gaze fixed on the blank wall.
Alex watched, hypnotized, as the professor freed himself. He was thick, circumcised, and clean, a stark contrast to Azzurro’s raw, European filth. A silent command hung in the air. Alex sank to his knees on the hard linoleum, the towel a pooled token in his lap. He didn’t rush, taking in the musk-and-soap scent, the quiet power thrumming in the vein under his lips.
He took him in, the skin smooth and warm. Meek’s hand came down, not to guide, but to rest firmly on Alex’s head, a steady, owning pressure. “Proceed,” he said, his voice calm, as if overseeing a lab procedure. Alex obeyed, finding a rhythm that was deep, methodical, and utterly subservient, his world narrowing to this single, sanctioned function.
The professor’s breathing remained even, a soft meter in the quiet room. Alex listened for a hitch, a gasp, any crack in that controlled facade, but found only the steady pressure of the hand on his head. He shifted his technique, alternating between deep, swallowing pulls and tight, corkscrew twists of his tongue along the sensitive underside. He focused on the frenulum, applying consistent, slick pressure there with the flat of his tongue. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor traveled through the professor’s thigh.
Meek’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair. “Adequate,” the man murmured, the word clinical but its delivery slightly thicker than before. Emboldened, Alex hollowed his cheeks, increasing the suction while maintaining that firm, focused rhythm. He was mapping him, learning the geography of his pleasure with a detached, service-oriented curiosity.
He was mapping him, learning the geography of his pleasure with a detached, service-oriented curiosity. The controlled rhythm was working, but Alex wanted to shatter that control completely. He needed the data point of Meek’s unraveling.
Alex began to rub the professor’s taint with his thumb. All the spit from Alex’s efforts allowed for this motion to just glide perfectly under Meek’s balls. Meek was thoroughly enjoying the experience.
A sharp, stifled gasp finally broke from the professor’s lips. “Ah.” His hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk forward. Bingo! That’s the spot.
Combined with the pressure on the professor’s frenulum, Alex was certain he could make this man explode and release all the stress and tension. He synchronized the deep, wet pulls with a persistent, circular grind of his thumb. Meek’s other hand slammed down on the desk for support, his knuckles white.
“Enough,” Meek choked out, but it was a plea, not an order. His whole body was a taut wire, vibrating. Alex doubled down, his thumb pressing harder, his mouth moving faster, a relentless machine built for this single purpose.
Meek’s release was a silent, violent convulsion. His back arched sharply, his head thrown back, a strained, guttural sound tearing from his throat that was nothing like language. Alex swallowed every pulsing wave, the taste cleaner than Azzurro’s, more chemical, but the victory was infinitely sweeter.
The professor slumped, bracing himself heavily on the desk, his breathing ragged and loud in the sudden quiet. Alex finished meticulously, then used the white towel exactly as instructed, leaving no trace. He looked up, waiting.
Meek slowly straightened, his face a mask of profound shock, as if he’d witnessed an impossible reaction in his own lab. He adjusted his trousers with trembling hands, refusing to meet Alex’s eyes. “Please Go. Leave,” he ordered, his voice raw.
Alex paused, kneeling on the linoleum. The professor’s shattered composure was more intoxicating than any release. He stood up, his own knees complaining, and calmly wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
He looked at the damp, crumpled towel in his hand, then at Meek’s averted, stricken face. A slow, genuine smile spread on Alex’s lips. The clean, chemical taste in his mouth was proof of a different kind of mastery.
“Sure thing, Professor,” Alex said, his voice light, almost cheerful. He casually folded the soiled towel. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
He walked to the door, then stopped, turning back with deliberate slowness. Meek still hadn’t moved, a statue of self-disgust. Alex raised the towel, giving it a little shake.
“Keeping this as a souvenir,” he announced, his tone playful and sharp. He threw a flirty wink toward the frozen man. “A little reminder of our… private tutorial.”
Then he opened the door and left, closing it softly on the profound silence behind him. The hallway’s bright fluorescence was a shock. He leaned against the cool wall for a second, the adrenaline finally crashing into him in a dizzying wave.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a violent vibration against his thigh. He pulled it out, his fingers still faintly trembling. The screen showed a single, new text from an unsaved number: You on piss duty tonight or what?
It was Jhonny. Alex stared at the words, the crude demand a grounding wire. He looked back at Professor Meek’s closed door, then down at the white towel clutched in his hand.