My Student Pt. 01

[Author's note: this is the first part of a three-part series loosely inspired by the Literotica story Aaron, my student, written by HairyJacques.]

Prologue.

After it all happened, I kept my job but lost my marriage. Tom didn't come back from DC. It was over a year before he spoke to me, and even then it was only to find a time to come get some of his stuff from the house. He asked me not to be there, he didn't want to see me. In the divorce, he had been merciful, he didn't completely clean me out. God knows he could have. I was able to keep the house. I suppose it was his last act of love for me.

My life rolled on. The book I was working on came out to moderate acclaim and I was hard at work on the next one. I taught. I attended conferences. The emails kept coming. After a few years, I stopped thinking about Aaron so much. I stopped worrying about what would happen if he ever got back in touch with me. And I learned my lesson. I never so much as glanced sideways at another attractive student.

So, almost four years after Aaron disappeared from my life, I was completely unprepared when I saw him on the internet. I was perusing a video site late one night, looking for some release so that I could fall asleep, and my eye caught on a thumbnail. Wow, that kid looks a lot like Aaron, I thought.

The title of the video was, blond straight twink coerced into rough ass fucking. Could it be...? I clicked. My heart thudded in my chest when I saw him. Indisputably it was Aaron, sitting on a couch, smiling at the camera.

"Holy shit," I murmured.

"What's your name?" a deep voice said, off-camera.

"David," Aaron said.

"What the fuck," I whispered, not breathing.

"David what?" The voice on the video continued.

"David Strangelove," Aaron said.

I paused the video. The alerts I set up for Dominic LaStrange and variations thereof had never yielded any trace of Aaron. In another window, I searched the name David Strangelove. A couple links to this exact video popped up. It looked like it was originally posted on a site called Tricked Straight Boys. I went to their home page and scrolled down through an endless stream of nearly identical videos, young guys fucking on what looked like the same dirty couch. I finally found the video with Aaron. It had been posted five months earlier. I clicked on a link called, Our Boys, and scrolled through the D's and then the S's. David Strangelove wasn't listed anywhere. And I didn't see him in any of the other videos.

My heart was racing. Looking at his face again, I felt an echo of his effect on me, on my head and my body. There he was, smiling, on my computer screen. But he was still gone, out of my life, probably forever. I unpaused the video.

"Where are you from?" the voice asked.

"Texas."

"Texas, huh? How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

He would have been at least 24 or 25, at the youngest, if the video was five months old. But he had always looked young for his age. Aaron's big, blue eyes shone with the same sparkle as I remembered. Another guy walked in and sat down on the couch.

"This is Danny. David, say hi to Danny."

"Hi Danny," Aaron said. They shook hands. Danny was big. Not a bear, but tall and heavily muscled. I scrolled forward in the video. It looked like Aaron and Danny sat for a while on the couch, talking with the off-screen voice. Then, about seven minutes in, they both stood up. I let the video play again in real time.

Danny took off his shirt, revealing his thick, muscled body. Then Danny reached over and pulled Aaron's shirt up over his head. I saw the slim torso that was etched into my memory, the wiry muscles of his chest and his abs, his nipples, the dusting of blond hair on his stomach leading down into his pants. I watched Aaron unbuckle Danny's belt and pull his pants down. A huge cock flopped out of Danny's underwear. My own cock was rock hard, and I pulled it out through the slit of my boxers, and began to stroke it. In the video, Aaron knelt and took Danny's cock in his mouth. Danny looked over at the camera and flashed a thumbs-up.

The off-screen voice chuckled. "Look's like the kid's a natural cocksucker," it said. Aaron was really going to town on Danny's cock. I saw him look up at Danny, and the camera cut to an over-the-shoulder shot, looking down across Danny's chest at Aaron's face as he stroked and sucked. I remembered how his mouth felt, the toothy, inexpert blowjobs he'd given me. He'd definitely had more practice, it seemed. I watched Danny's entire cock disappear down Aaron's throat.

"Damn kid, where'd you learn how to do that?" the voice in the video said, laughing. Danny closed his eyes and put his hand on Aaron's head, just as I had, four years earlier. I felt his hair in my hand, smelled his skin. Tasted his mouth. I was on the edge of coming. I let go of my cock and scrolled ahead some more, the two bodies dancing around each other in comically sped-up motion until I saw Aaron, completely naked, bouncing on Danny's cock, no condom, his feet resting on Danny's huge thighs. I paused the video on a still image of Aaron with his legs spread, his head thrown back, Danny's thick cock wedged up into his asshole, his own beautiful cock and balls frozen, mid-bounce.

I took a deep breath and set my computer down on the pillow next to me. I got up from the bed and limped to the bathroom. My knee hadn't been the same since the day Aaron left. I splashed some cold water onto my face and wiped it off with a towel. I looked in the mirror. The gray in my beard, in my chest hair, and in the hair at my temples stood out like a neon sign flashing the words, Old Man. Without Tom around to keep me healthy, I was more out of shape than I'd ever been.

"He was your student, you depraved fuck," I said, staring myself in the eye. I looked exhausted.

I went back to bed and put the laptop back on my belly. I restarted the video from the beginning.

Part 1.

He came into class about five minutes late, as usual. I stopped myself from making a comment, something like, why, thank you for joining us today, Aaron, so glad you could fit us in. I hesitated because today he looked especially disheveled; his straight, blond hair was more matted and unruly than usual, and was that the same shirt he wore to class on Monday? Something was wrong, I could tell.

"So, um... how did the structure of this system of nomenclature change, um... in the eighteenth century?" I spoke, distracted, watching him cut across the room, his T-shirt riding up as he moved between the desks, showing a glimpse of his pale, slender stomach and the ridge of his pelvis just above the waistline of his shorts.

I felt my cock start to swell as I watched him take his seat by the window. I moved back behind the lectern at the front of the class, and scanned the rest of the room.

"Yes, Stephanie?"

"I guess I'm still not clear about the structure of the previous system. Can you go over that?"

I watched Aaron lean over to reach into his bag, which was resting against his calf. His legs were lightly dusted with golden hair that caught the morning light streaming in through the window.

I cleared my throat and rubbed my eyes. I tried to wipe the image of Aaron's body from my mind.

"Sure," I said. "Let's spend a little more time on that. You're probably not the only one with questions."

The class went by too quickly, as it always did. This was my favorite class, Classification and Colonization: European Natural History and the Construction of the Scientific Method. All upper-level students, a wildly popular class, one that allowed me to skim the cream off of the top of the college's pool of already phenomenal students. And Aaron was cream amongst cream.

I'd known him since he was a freshman in my Writing Biodiversity seminar. He was one of those rare students who seemed to be genuinely curious, in an unselfconscious, guileless way. He always wanted to do well, to be the best. Refreshingly, though, he seemed completely unconcerned about his "career", unlike so many of the precocious students that seemed to flock to the college, given its reputation. He was open to any idea; he enjoyed turning unwieldy problems over and over in his mind. Beyond that, we clicked. I'd probably met with him at least a hundred times, one on one, over the last two and a half years that I'd been his professor. And It didn't hurt that he was cut directly from the fabric of my sexual dreams.

He had a wholesome, freshly scrubbed, post-war quality. I imagined him stepping off a bus in Los Angeles in the 1950s, hoping to make it big in the pictures, maybe from some farm town in the midwest, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, big-dreamed boy. In my fantasy, I was the burly, suspendered, cigar-smoking movie producer, sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. The intercom on my desk would buzz. I'd punch the red button with a fat finger.

"What is it, Dolly?"

"Your two o'clock is here to see you, Mr. Stanley."

"Send him in."

The door would open, Aaron would walk in. He'd approach the desk, tentatively.

"Hello, sir," he'd say.

"Take off your shirt, kid," I'd say, flipping through a script, not looking at him.

"Sir?"

"Did I stutter? Take your shirt off."

"Uh, OK, sir."

He'd unbutton his light blue, short-sleeved cotton shirt, fold it carefully and hold it in his hands. Bright sun would pour in through the dark wooden slats of my office window, cutting gleaming diagonal bars across his torso. I'd shake my head and fling the script I'd been reading it into the trash can.

"Schlock!" I'd yell. "Puerile horse shit!" I'd tap the ash from my cigar into a tray on my desk. "What am I paying these sonofabitch writers for, anyway?" I'd look at Aaron as if he was supposed to answer. He'd laugh, awkwardly.

Then I'd say, "Damn, kid, you're paler than a nun's titty. Ain't cha ever been to the beach?"

"I... I just got here, um, to Hollywood, sir."

I'd stand up, walk over to him. My large body would dwarf him.

"You're too short, kid, and you're too damn skinny."

I'd wedge my cigar in my teeth and put my hands under his arms, as if I were about to pick him up, spanning my thumbs and forefingers around his narrow ribcage. His breath would catch, as I rubbed my thumbs across his small, pink nipples.

"Dames, y'see... dames these days want to see a real man. Not a boy."

He'd be trembling. "Pretty face though," I'd say. I'd reach up to stroke his flushed cheek. "Pretty little face on ya, kid. I could see a lot of dames falling for this mug."

"David, he's your student, not some post-war boy-toy," Tom said, laughing, when I told him about the persistent fantasy I was having about the little blond freshman in my seminar. We were doing dishes together after dinner.

I always told Tom about my attractive students. He got a kick out of it, and I suppose it also helped keep things out in the open between us, an attempt to avert anything that might develop outside the boundaries of our marriage. Tom, a lawyer, did the same for me in terms of his attractive clients and colleagues.

Of course, being attracted almost exclusively to bears, Tom was mostly interested in hearing about my bigger students, the football players, the chubs. My taste in men was more all over the place, but as I got older, I had become increasingly intrigued by the young, the boyish-looking, the slender, the twink. The lean muscles of twink thighs, twink buttocks that could fit almost entirely in the palm of one's hand, as one caressed them, guiding the virgin, untrammeled twink hole into position above one's fat daddy-bear cock.

"What a classic, middle-aged cliché you've become, David," Tom said, shaking his head. "Chasing twinks. What's next, a Corvette?"

"Well, Dolly, y'see... someone's got to screen these kids for the pictures!" I said, mocking my own movie producer voice. "This kid could be the next Tab Huntah!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "He's really got you going, huh?"

I laughed. "Don't you ever see a guy who's so cute, you just want to squeeze him 'til he pops?", I said.

"No, David, that's not normal. And I'm not sure you should be fantasizing about... popping your students. Cute as they may be."

"Oh, come on. You know I'm just kidding around." I scrubbed at a bit of charred rice on the bottom of a pot. "But just for the record, you wouldn't want to share some twinky little trifle with me someday?"

"That could be hot... for you. Two chasers worshipping the great professor and his great big belly." Tom smacked my stomach with a dishtowel.

"What? I'm not that fat... am I?"

Tom hugged me from behind, then, and made a show of pretending that he couldn't get his arms all the way around me.

"Oh, Professor Stanley, you're so... round!" he said, pitching his voice up. "My little twink arms couldn't possibly..." I turned around and cut him off with a kiss.

"Oh... oh, I see. Someone's frisky tonight." Tom said, between kisses.

I was sensitive about my weight. I had always been big. Tall and broad. Despite having the frame to carry it well, I had struggled over the years to keep my weight in check. I'd come to accept and sometimes even appreciate that for most gay men, I ticked boxes associated with "bear": beard, belly, body hair. I wasn't quite a muscle bear, despite Tom dragging me to the gym with him multiple times per week, his insistence that we eat healthy food, his strict enforcement of a walk-to-work policy. But I did fill out a suit rather nicely, I thought, in all the right places.

Later, in bed, while I was writing, Tom turned to me from his book and said, apropos of nothing, "I'll trade you. Your little twink for that linebacker you had in your class a couple years back."

"The one that came to our graduation open house?"

"Yeah that one. Woof."

"Hmm, I think he's worth at least two, maybe two point five twinks," I said.

"I'll let you do whoever... and whatever... you want if you bring a guy like that home for us," he said, reaching for my crotch.

"Why would I bring anyone home when my husband is so fucking sexy," I said, folding my laptop. I watched as Tom pulled my rapidly hardening cock out of my boxers.

"Oh, Professor Stanley," he said, in his twink voice. "You have such a big... H-index."

I'd been teaching at the college for about fifteen years. On paper, everything was great. I was tenured early and promoted shortly thereafter to full professor. I was the go-to person in my field, somewhat rare for being at a small liberal arts college, but it happened that I had hit on the big idea at the right time, early enough in my career that things had mostly just chugged along on their own after that. In recent years, though, I'd gotten a bit restless as the thrill of writing The Next Book lost its luster. But I loved teaching, and things at the college were just so... comfortable. Life was good.

Tom and I had been together since we were both in graduate school. The minute he got his PhD he quit academia to go to law school. Even then, he still got a big job before I did, with a prominent firm in Washington. Luckily, he'd been able to negotiate a mostly remote position when I got my job, allowing us to move to the rural New England town where the college was located. Increasingly, though, it seemed he was getting called in to DC. He kept a small apartment there.

Tom was almost embarrassingly good looking, and exceptionally fit. Especially at a faculty party, especially in the humanities, he stood out from the crowd of frumpy academics. He was one of those guys who just seemed to get more and more handsome as they aged, the wrinkles and the gray amplifying his underlying good looks. My colleagues called him "Clooney." I was out to everyone at work, including my students; I talked about Tom all the time in class. He was my go-to prop for demonstrating the benefits of a life outside the academy. "See," I'd say, flashing a picture of Tom and me up on a slide, "Guess which one of us stayed in academia?"

After our usual routine, Tom laid with his head on my chest, swirling his fingers in the hair on my belly. "So, do I have to worry about you and this kid?" he asked. From the tone of his voice, I knew that there was real concern behind the question. Sometimes I had to remind myself how lucky I was to be married to this gorgeous man who was still so into me after all our years together.

"Ha. No, Tom. I'm not going to fall for my student. I'm touched that you're worried about it, though. You're so cute when you get jealous."

He was quiet for a moment. "I don't know David, that head of yours can get pretty rotten sometimes."

//

Aaron lingered after class that day, waiting for the rest of the students to leave. He hadn't said anything the entire period, he was clearly tuned out, mostly looking out the window. Once everyone had left, he approached me.

"Hey, Professor," he said, glumly.

"Hi Aaron. Is everything OK with you?" I asked.

He was looking at the ground. "Can I talk to you about something?" he said.

I had a meeting across campus in five minutes. "Can you come by my office later?" I said. "I have meetings until three."

He nodded, said, "OK I'll see you then."

During my meetings, I mostly thought about Aaron, his hangdog look, the glow of his folded arms in the light from the window. I imagined him standing up from his desk, taking off his shirt, running his hands over his chest and stomach in the brilliant light.

"David!" the committee chair, said, loudly. I jerked up in my seat. She continued, annoyed, "Nancy asked you if you've reviewed the student proposals yet."

"Yes, sorry, I'm here," I said. "I was just mentally rebutting my book editor." There were quiet chuckles around the table. "I'm sorry, Nancy. Yes, I reviewed all 27 proposals and I've narrowed them down to fifteen for our discussion today." There were audible groans.

Later, I waited for Aaron in my office, answering emails. 3:15 came and went, then 3:30, 3:45. I was about to send him an email, when, at a little after four, he tapped on my open door.

"Hey Professor," he said. "I'm sorry I'm late. Is now a good time?"

"Come in, have a seat," I said. He came in and sat in the chair across from me. He was wearing the same clothes as this morning. I sat back in my chair, waiting for him to talk. He sat quietly for a moment. I was used to Aaron sitting in my office, used to him taking a while to gather his thoughts.

"I think you're missing the point," he said. "About the Donovan piece, I mean."

I sat up, raised my eyebrows at him. "That's a bold statement," I said. This was quintessential Aaron, he consistently found interesting threads to pull on. "Elaborate."

"Well... respectfully..." he looked at me for a moment, hesitating.

"You're not going to hurt my feelings, Aaron," I said, smiling at him.

"You're taking her at her word... Giving her the benefit of the doubt, treating her argument as though it were serious. But I don't think it is. I think it's... some sort of bizarre satire."

"Hmm. That's an interesting idea," I said. "I think you're wrong, but I like your imagination."

He hopped to the front of his chair. "But I'm not wrong," he said. "Like when she says, 'nomenclature is dead'. She can't be serious! Not when she references Samuels just beforehand. I think..."

"Aaron," I said. "This is fascinating, but I don't think it's what you wanted to talk to me about."

He exhaled sharply and sat back in his chair.

I continued, "I like your train of thought about Donovan. Write it up, send it to me. But something else is wrong, I can tell. You've been off, all week. You haven't even changed your clothes. What's going on?"

His mouth twitched up in a smile but then he put his head down, and put his hands up over his head.