The first two summer months were lived in a state of suspended animation. Like a refugee, waiting forlornly in a camp, I’d wondered about my fate with a hideous sense of doom. Despite the sunshine, the sea breeze and the lack of any meaningful schedule, I found no joy in my days. Instead, each sunrise seemed to bring the certainty that things would soon cut to black.
Books that I’d meant to read were left on the shelves, my own writing trickled out with the scarcity of a desert creek. Eating was something I mostly forgot to do. Socially, I couldn’t get comfortable enough with my situation to risk staining someone else’s reputation. In short, I was owned by my blackmailer: leveraged by a single photo of some very bad behavior.
As had become my sad custom, I was sitting on the porch of my rented carriage house, looking at the cultivated grounds of the larger estate and thinking about the futility of my situation. The beer I’d opened thirty minutes ago sat sweating and untouched. My mind raced with scenarios of revenge, exposure, ruination and, very occasionally, unrivalled pleasure. The truth is, the act that had landed me in my dilemma haunted me as a jagged silver lining to the dark cloud I now lived under in its aftermath.
Yes, fucking the mouth of my student was irresponsible on a galactic level. But the scene in my office that day would have sucked in the most scrupulous man (the pun is intended). On the rare occasions, I did laugh these days, it was almost always at the absurd notion of walking away from the opportunity I had found myself in. Of course, no one would ever understand that reality unless they’d been there or had the superpower of total honesty. In my academia, a dedication to mindful inquiry stopped well short of delving candidly into sexual matters between student and professor. Considering that the young women in question had been the instigators and very willing participants was not in the realm of possibility among the jury of my peers. In the age of #MeToo, my conviction and disgrace would be immediate, profound and very public. There is simply no way of explaining a coed blowing you in your office while her friend masturbated in a rather graphic way right in front of you.
Next to the beer, my phone buzzed and kicked me out of my daily somnambulance. Almost without human contact these days, I picked up the device and turned it over with a bit of “someone cares” in my chest. A message from a number I didn’t recognize promised an attachment and so I opened it. On Mr. Jobs’ sleek screen, I appeared in digital glory, pants around my ankles, my manhood stuffed into the frothing mouth of young Jessica. The evidence that had put me on the rack for these two months now stared me in the face, electronically relayed through the wonder of modern technology; it gripped my bowels with a prehistoric understanding of threat.
Before I could manage the churn of my reaction, the phone buzzed again from the same number. This text read, “Paying u a vst 2nite. Dirctions to cum.”
There are many ways a a man like me could react to this kind of message. Perhaps belying my most authentic self, my dick leapt into battle station readiness. I must admit, on a cognitive level, this disappointed me. Where was my discipline, sense of dignity, my appreciation for the very dangerous territory this behavior had landed me in?
For weeks, I’d tried to figure out a way to extricate myself from it all but there simply was no reasonable way out. That picture of me, in anyone’s hands, would be my professional end. All I needed to do was cross its owner, Roberta, and “poof!” I’d be gone from university life forever.
So, why did it turn me on so much? Good God, if you could’ve seen that little snatch on Roberta or felt the eager pulls of Jessica’s mouth, no heterosexual man with a heartbeat could have walked away from all of that. Of this, I’m quite certain.
But as the sun skimmed the tops of the oaks surrounding my little house, I wondered if this evening would bring new pleasure or some fresh hell. I grabbed the beer and took a long, needy swig.
~~~~
At 8:30, I had a single light on in my reading room and I was feigning interest in Faulkner’s, The Wild Palms. For the past five minutes, I’d been on a single paragraph, not all that surprising given the author but I was definitely unfocused. My dick had not stood down since that promise of company. There was no dinner, just a couple of beers and a brief straightening up of the place. Then I felt silly prepping my home for a couple of kids a hair’s breath away from their teens (I hoped). So, I “read.”
With the shock of a cattle prod, the phone buzzed. “Drs unlckd. Lites & clothes off. U on ur hands n nees with your cute l’il butt pointed 2 the door.”
Jesus, they couldn’t even spell and yet they controlled me like a marionette.
At this point, reason did rear its head. The adult in me launched into a convincing case of why I should simply shut this whole thing down, take the professional consequence of what I’d done and move on to the next phase of my life. If I were being honest, the past two months had been no way to live. My work was pathetic and my hours were riddled with the anxiety of being found out. I just had to come clean and roll the dice. “Maybe they wouldn’t want to send that picture to anyone,” I hoped like an idiot.
35 years old, I had busted my cute little butt for seventeen years to get to the position I was in as a scholar. Literature was an obsession, it kept me up through the night, stoked me to classroom performances of real joy and made me feel satisfied with my contribution to the world. Considering all that I’d achieved, I still couldn’t escape a simple truth: I’d already crossed the Rubicon that day in my office. Everything that I valued was now in jeopardy and one more instance wasn’t going to make anything better or worse. Besides someone, it must be Roberta, had clearly thought pretty hard about making this happen. Have you ever had a profoundly beautiful twenty year old tell you to get naked on all fours? Hmmm?
I took my clothes off and got in position.
~~~~
After thirty minutes of dog imitation, when I’d become acutely aware of every smell and sound of the Massachusetts evening, I finally heard a car rolling in on the crushed seashell drive to my front door. Again, my cock was as rigid as the flagpole my guests would walk by on their way to the porch. As eagerly as I anticipated what their arrival might bring, there was also a heady dose of concern that this could be deeply humiliating.
The car stopped and I heard one, two… was that three doors closing?
Panic twisted my guts. Like an ass, I’d assumed this would only be Jessica and Roberta showing up, my partners in the office indiscretion. New members to this scandal were such a combustible component that for the first time in hours, I started getting soft.
Outside, they approached in silence but for one stifled, exuberant giggle shared by more than two. Fuck!
The door opened cautiously, I took a deep breath in the dark and turned my head to what the devil had brought to my doorstep.
“Don’t you dare look at us.” Roberta was cold and on point, extremely comfortable with her demands. Without even seeing her, I could imagine her imperious look. The surety flashing across her young face that only a life of privilege can provide.
“Here’s the rule, Professor Blackburn. You do exactly what we tell you to do and the picture stays between us. Got it?”
With as much self-respect as a man in my position could muster, I said, “Got it.”
Still, from the safety of the doorway, Roberta commanded, “Keep your eyes on the floor until I tell you otherwise.”
I got hard again. Being spoken to in this manner by a woman, fifteen years my junior was irritating to say the least. Were it not for the photo, I’d put her over my knee and give her the spanking she so richly deserved and, I had an inkling, would enjoy. But that was not on the menu tonight.
With my eyes fixed on the floor, I listened for clues on what was to come. Their plan was not without some creativity. In short order, I was encircled by a ring of votive candles all placed by the owner of a pair of tanned legs that I’m sure was Roberta. The lower legs were wrapped in gold strappy sandals in some kind of tribute to gladiator chic. Continuing in an ancient theme, she wore a flowy white dress that from my narrow vantage seemed very much like a toga. Of her companions, I could learn little as they remained behind me and said nothing but snorted out a bit of giddy silliness with some regularity. I must’ve been quite a sight for them: once a respected professor now, a naked subject to the Goddess Roberta. My asshole was the only instrument of greeting I was allowed to share with my guests.
When she’d finished with the candles, Roberta rolled out a thick yoga mat and slid it under my hands and knees. This bit of comfort was appreciated and I was flattered that she’d thought of me in this way. Then, she spanked my ass with such cold-hearted suddenness, I had to bite my lip to hide my pain. Though I still could not see them, the stillness from whoever was behind me suggested that this was not something they’d expected.
“You’ve got a nice ass, professor,” Roberta said from above me. “Anybody ever fuck it before?”
Let me tell you something at this point, I need to cop to having a sexual appetite that borders on addiction. One of the only ways I’ve been able to control it, has been to lose myself in my work and exercise. The very few times I’ve truly let myself go where I’d like to, the paths have been dark to say the least and very, very long. Like months at a time lost to a litany of perversions.
“No. That hasn’t happened,” I said truthfully.
The golden sandals made their way in front of me and Roberta dropped into my frame of view. The almond shaped eyes, the mocha lips and the perfect teeth assembled in a display of hedonistic temptation. She took me in for an uncomfortable minute or two, looking over my face for what I did not know. Somehow, my cock got even harder.
“You’re cute,” she said and nodded to her companions.
Behind me, there was movement. I was pretty sure there was no more than two of them. If there was a God in heaven, one of them was my Victorian lover, Jessica. She of the hungry mouth and full, wide breasts. The number of times, I’d splashed my stomach thinking of her this summer was embarrassing. Speaking of embarrassment, 35-year old me had even contemplated a romance between the two of us. There was something so sweet about her lightly freckled, blonde self. I mean, despite the blackmailing thing.
A warm, cautious hand rested on my left haunch. So light, I thought I felt a little tremble in its touch as it tentatively rubbed my ass cheek. That felt good. Even better was a different hand that reached between my thighs and cupped my balls. This hand was definitely practiced. Was it Jessica? Paying attention to the “no look” rule, I fixed my gaze straight ahead which meant deep into the eyes of Roberta. She’d knelt before me, a delicate gold chain running across her brown forehead with a very expensive looking ruby sitting in the middle of it. The girl was exotic. At least my weakness was exposed by a masterpiece of sexual attraction. She took a big breath and sighed it into my face. A little red wine, weed and maybe just a hint of breath mint passed my nose. Half lidded, her eyes sparkled with mischief. She was enjoying this.
“It’s thick.”
I did not know this voice but thrilled to know that its possessor had grasped my manhood with some appreciation.
“For a skinny guy, Professor, you’ve got a fat cock on you.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the compliment and the slow stroking that was finally giving my hardness the attention it had been begging for. With raised eyebrows, Roberta gave me a conspiratorial smile, though what goal we were working toward together, I could not fathom.
As the foreign hand continued its slow pump, I felt a pair of lips and a hot tongue begin a triple A roadmap of a journey across my ass. Without ever actually hitting my dark spot, the pilgrim got close enough on several occasions that my dick responded each time with a robotic flex. This elicited a giggle at first but soon seem to become a major objective in the work being done. The more I responded to the commands of the unseen attention, the more throaty the approval became. My guests seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as I was and, of course, this pleased me.
Roberta drew her face so close to mine, it became uncomfortable not to kiss her. With my erogenous zones aflame, my famine for the sultry temptress before me was biblical. In her eyes, it became quite apparent that my desire was noted and I believed the sought for purpose of the evening. Maybe even the turn on Roberta was looking for. Though I could not see what her hands were doing, I wondered if they’d found their way to the paradise between those smooth, brown thighs. Her eyelids fluttered and my wonder was confirmed.