The Professor Who Knows His Place

Hear the peppy, upbeat string music. The life of a professor is not all drudgery. Feel the warmth of the sunlight coming through those grand windows. See him smiling cheerfully at the undergraduates passing him in the hall.

"Hi, Professor Rimby!"

"Hi, Rimby!"

"Vanessa, Julia, be good now. Study!"

"We will professor!"

The soft carpeted floor, the redone interior of this academic building, grand but with modern refinements and technology plugs. The scent of the undergraduates' lotion and hair products. It's a good life for the handsome Professor.

Passing through the cheerful academic crowds.

Knowing that no one who passed him, knew his secret.

Later that afternoon, after their class together ended, Vanessa came up to him at the lectern at the front of the room.

"Professor Rimbaud, I have a question..." and she asked her question, slowly, but Professor Rimbaud noticed that Vanessa was wearing a necklace and its pendant was laying all the way down on her décolletage, right there atop the roundness of the swells boosted and accentuated by the lace of her demi-bra, peaking up from the too-deep neckline of her layered top. He was aware of his own noticing, and aware that his eye had been so skillfully and instantly led to this precise, deliciously creamy place, because he realized that his subconscious had instantly registered that when Vanessa stepped up to speak to him after class, she already had, since entering the lecture hall fifty minutes earlier, unbuttoned one button from her blouse, the second from the top, enough to reveal the top swells of her breasts and the silly pendant charm now laying, so lazily, squeezed tightly between...

Vanessa coughed.

The Professor's eyes went up her neck, past her wry smile, directly to her piercing eyes.

Her eyes that were saying, unequivocally, I know, I caught you, I'm flattered, I know and you know, I caught you, I made you look and you know I know it.

Her eyes that were smiling across the brief but also endless silence between them.

"Maybe I should come by at office hours?" Vanessa offered.

"Yuh, yuh, yes," the Professor stammered. And Vanessa smiled, turned, left, and the Professor was so glad for his secret that day. He turned to erase the wipe board and felt the organic ache of longing against the restraint of good judgment; against the plastic ache of reserve and good judgment.

His next class was easier, mostly beefy and sinewy jocks. They were less serious than his after-lunch crowd, but at least half of this class knew that when they needed permission from Professor Rimby to miss lecture in person or live zoom because of a team practice, or a team game, or even once, a team gangbang, but that's another story, they knew Professor Rimbaud would have their back and grant them permission to absence themselves and watch a recorded zoom lecture hosted on the departmental server and do so "on the honor code," which meant never.

They knew Professor Rimbaud would have their back and let them skip class whenever because he was the cool professor, and that's all they thought about him.

But after those two classes, there was one of those treats that the life of an academic at an institution such as this provided. A film screening accompanied by an introduction and post-film questions with the film's writer-director, a cult figure of some gravitas. Faculty status granted the Professor priority seating with his department. When he got to the lobby of the Film School's main theater, the colleagues he liked were there and the colleagues he despised had gone home early. Score!

And then they got to the seats: the seats were good. Center back orchestra, just where he wanted to be for a film of this grandeur, magnitude, and scope! Where the audience's energy could wash over him.

And, what was this? A few rows ahead of him, it was the alluring Vanessa. Was she a sophomore or a junior? He couldn't quite remember because she had re-buttoned her blouse but it was still so tight across her chest and middle, showing off the prime proportions of a young scholar thirsty for an education, and her thighs and hips just seemed so out of proportion for the rest of her natural proportions... but when he tried to make eye contact through the crowd, did she see him and turn away quickly? Or had she not noticed him at all?

More crowd filled in the rows between them as the time for the presentation drew closer. He sometimes could catch Vanessa contorting around in her seat, as if she were craning to look for something or someone coming from the back of the house, holding her phone in one hand, and then returning to text with it again.

The Professor remembered how she smelled from earlier today, when she and he breathed the same air.

Then, the first of the house lights turned off. Then, there was a crash.

Loud and silly, from the back of the house. A crash and then a dumb sounding, young voice: "Er, sorry," and then big sounding, dumb sounding young masculine laughter. And then the bounding of footsteps, as down the aisle came two, short but thick and lean, fuzzy-buzz-cut-headed greco-roman wrestler types, one wearing an inside-out cotton sweatshirt, chopped and butchered at the sleeves and sides into a poncho cut, and towards this one, the first of the two bounding down the aisle, the Professor saw Vanessa pop her head up over the crowd just so slightly, her silky college-girl hair looking like it was softer than soft and smelled twice as nice, and then suddenly it was her row the two wrestling oafs bounded their way into, starting on the aisle and steadily making their way across.

Making their clumsy-yet-graceful way across everyone else's knees until Vanessa's girlfriend moved smoothly over one seat to sit herself next to the second, taller wrestler, and then the shorter wrestler in the inside-out sweatshirt-poncho sat down next to Vanessa, looked her in the face and eye, said something silly and dumb, and Vanessa rolled her eyes, but he turned his cheek and grabbed the back of her head and pushed her head forward towards his face until her lips were not so much kissing his cheek as pressing against his cheek, but Vanessa did not pull away or fight back, she smiled and giggled and began kissing the oaf's cheek on her own power, though he did not relax his seamless grip, and then the rest of the house lights began to go out and the master of ceremonies came to the microphone to say nice things about the guest of honor.

It was a long movie, made more interesting by the glimpses occasionally through the crowd, as they moved, shifted position, or as a particularly bright scene came on. Early on, Vanessa's head seemed to be laying on her guest's shoulder, in casual, proprietary, college girl snuggling. Her head was still, not moving.

But by the halfway point, her seatmate began to be more instructive. His head moving quickly, sharply. Like he was whispering something to her. Like he was showing her what to do, in the small, unobserved space they had.

Vanessa snuggled her head back on his shoulder... but now she seemed to be moving ever so perceptively.

The young, presumed greco-roman wrestler next to her, leaning his head back, not paying attention to the film anymore at all.

And neither was Vanessa, for that matter.

To be so full of hormones. To be so brazen. The Professor thought to himself that he could smell their pheromones from where he sat.

Or was that the smell of the young wrestler's semen, as Vanessa pulled him off, in the crowded theater, in the dark, like the young scholar she was.

Yes, the life of a professor is quite rewarding indeed, observed the Professor.

Sadly, he did not have office hours until Wednesday.

After the film and the questions for the cult star, it was cool in the parking lot though there was plenty of daylight left as the Professor walked to his car. He was aching and sore, and dying to get home and get his wife to get him out of these restrictive, professional clothes and to get some relief!

He drove home listening to affirmations recorded for him to play on repeat while commuting. The digital file was her homemade birthday present for him one year. "Because keeping my husband in his proper place isn't just for Valentine's and Christmas anymore!" she said, beaming when he opened the file on his music player and he began listening to it.

They began with "repeat after me, these are my affirmations, my wife loves me, and I love my wife," and he would say "these are my affirmations, my wife loves me and I love my wife," and then they would take him on a journey through his catechism, more and more gradually from repeating that "my wife deserves pleasure" and "my wife deserves to have things her way" to "I am my wife's favorite sex toy" and then to the absolute depths of depravity that would shock any of the vanilla and even some of the kinky drivers waiting next to the Professor at a stop light.

And ending with the same refrain, the same blessing, at the conclusion of each digital cycle, timed almost perfectly to coincide with the Professor pulling into his own driveway.

"My wife loves me, and I love my wife, and my wife loves other men's penises."

"My wife loves me, and I love my wife, and my wife loves other men's penises," the Professor said, ending on the thoughts of those technical, clinical male organs, long and lengthy, thick and girthy, and about the sounds his wife made when she saw them, held them, tried to accommodate them, lost her mind around them.

But there was no room left to pull into his own driveway that evening.

Someone had beaten the Professor to it.

A black jeep wrangler with silly after-market modifications and even sillier punisher decals.

The professor had to drive up the block until he found a free parking space. Then he locked his car and walked down the leafy street to his own house.

Did his neighbors see him parking not on his own driveway like usual? Did they see him looking for a free spot on the crowded semi-urban, semi-suburban street? Did they see the jeep in the driveway? Had they seen it before? Did they see the Professor walking down the sidewalk to his own house?

He crossed his front yard. The house was quiet. No music. No screaming. No moaning.

He unlocked and opened his front door.

And there it was. On his and his wife's couch. Another man's penis.

Attached to the man. Naked, relaxed, cocksure; naked on the Professor's couch in the Professor's house in the Professor's front room.

The first thing someone would see coming into the house would be this naked man.

Whose penis was out, visible, curled soft but thick, in a mildly trimmed forest of dark hair. And the Professor was looking at it. Inspecting it. Seeing from his front door if he could detect the tell-tale signs of his wife on this strange man's penis.

The Professor pulled the door closed behind him, locking it reflexively like normal, like this was a normal evening.

"Hey, I know you."

The owner of the penis was speaking to him. The owner of the penis clearly had seen the Professor staring and inspecting at his resting and contented member, he had noticed this grown man inspecting the penis and package of him, another grown man, and he had let him look to his heart's content.

The Professor turned back to face the room and met the man's eyes. He looked familiar.

"You're a teacher," the strange man said. "At the college," he gestured with his thumb, directionally in the general area of where the college was, and then named it.

"Yeah," the Professor confirmed.

"I coach. Field hockey in the fall, softball in the spring."

"Those are women's sports."

"You bet," the man agreed. "I'm great with young women. Really able to motivate them, get them to be their best. Your roommate's quite an athlete."

"Roommate?"

"Yeah, Allie. I met her at the tennis bubble, her coach is a friend of mine. She's a great player. I swear, I thought she was a student here when I met her! She said if you came in, just relax, she said you're an understanding roommate and are used to her being herself. That's great, bro!"

The Professor cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah, well, she's a great roommate."

"Yeah, she said you're cool with casual nudity, even if you don't practice."

"Oh, sure. Make yourself at home. Any friend of Allie's... you know the rest."

"No, what? How does it go?"

Another cocked eyebrow. "Is a friend of mine," he answered.

And then his roommate appeared, wearing a long t-shirt that covered to her knees. "Oh, hi."

"Oh, hi... Roomie," the Professor said.

"Hi," Allie said. The Professor noticed there was no wedding ring nor engagement ring on her left hand, not even a tan line left. "Sorry to surprise you like that," she said.

"No prob," the Professor said, on his way to the bedroom, "you two have fun!"

"You're right, your roommate is cool," the man said. "Hey hon, I think he was checking out my cock."

The professor could hear all this because he stopped around the corner and held his breath listening.

Allie snickered. "Yeah, well, it's a real great cock," she said. Wet kissing noises. Then: "Look, you can't stay for dinner. You stayed too late as it is." More kissing noises.

"Yeah, but your legs wouldn't let me go. You just wanted more and more," the man said, obviously grinning as he did.

"I know and now I'm overflowing and can't take any more," Allie said, in her half-sincere, half-dismissive tone.

"Just some head for the road?"

"Go home. To your wife," Allie said, full of joy.

A manly chuckle then the manly sound of jeans being zipped and simple clothes being shrugged on. The sound of more kissing and then the opening and closing of the front door.

What would the neighbors think seeing this man leave via front door at this hour, looking like he had just gotten dressed and forgot to comb his hair?

Allie watched him get into his truck and drive off, loud music blaring from the jeep's speakers. Loud, angry music.

With her back still to the rest of the house, she called, "Come out come out, wherever you are."

The sound of bare feet on the hardwood. The professor was stripped down to his tighty whities.

Allie chuckled. "How was work today, dear?"

"Fun. Grueling."

She laughed again. "Excellent. I'm so glad I'm not working anymore and that's all on you. It's so much better when I have tennis lessons and time to... be my true self."

"Yes, darling. Absolutely. I'm sorry to bring it up, but I've been aching all day, do you think we might--"

"Put your needs first?" Allie answered. "But we already are, darling. Why do you think I do this? It's all for you. Now, I told him he couldn't stay for dinner. But you, darling. I've been saving dinner for you."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes. Come now sweetie. Lots of protein for my hardworking man. Lay on your back. We'll eat in the living room tonight. On your back right here on the floor."

The Professor knew the drill. On his back, between the couch and the coffee table. The couch where the un-named coach had been sitting, naked, with his penis out, just minutes ago.

She hiked her long nightshirt-length t-shirt to her hips, squatting over him with the flash of purple-pink panty covering her.

"You see how soaked these are already, hon?" Allie said. "Just pull them to the side, I don't want to take them off and lose any. And you need to get every drop. Eat it all up, Johnny."

Her athletic, tennis legs held her pelvis above his face and mouth and nose with an easy and well-practiced squat. The Professor could feel the heat radiating through the bright, synthetic fabric. The moisture was heavy behind the feminine lingerie. He could smell her deeply, and smell a scent that he knew was not her.

"You're so lucky. To be able to go into this one with open eyes the whole way. No more pretending it's not what it is anymore," Allie said from above him. "No more pretending you're not what you are, anymore. Go on. Pull it to the side."

She closed her eyes and felt his fingers, slipping the silver of fabric off the purple-red and swollen angel-wing lips that were her labia. And as he did, a big salty drop fell out instantly, landing right in the Professor's open mouth at the tip of his tongue where it hit first one, and then all of his taste receptors, as the liquid love shattered in a hundred droplets and found a hundred pathways down his tongue's taste buds.

He tasted and swallowed, and tasted, and licked his tongue out and found more of that same taste, much, much more, all over the familiar folds and valleys of his wife's labia and so much more as he plunged his tongue into the depths of her vaginal opening.

As his tongue pressed inward, he thought about the cock he saw minutes ago, the cock that minutes before that, was right where his tongue was now.

His wife writhing on the man's cock like she now writhed on her husband's tongue. Wantonly without shame. Only with pleasure. A whore for pleasure. A slut for sensual sensation.

"You little cleanup cuck. You little cleanup cuck. You little cleanup cuck," Allie moaned these words like a mantra, riding his face, riding his tongue, riding his cum-guzzling face like innocent ladies ride their pillows.

The thought went through his head, "I am her favorite sex toy," like a mantra, while he gave her the speed and pressure she wanted, which let her pop without awkwardness or reserve, the way a lady might not feel comfortable doing in front of a newer, younger lover like the one who had loved her right before the Professor arrived home.

The comfort of the familiar. A polite husband who greets her lovers with respect then presents his handsome face to ride. The comfort of his familiar lips and tongue and fingers and his insatiable appetite for the semen of other men and his need to lick her clean every time, no matter how many dozens, how many hundreds of different-sourced loads have now landed inside her honey twat, sucked out by her own sucking pleasure and pressure from her orgasm, coming on the cocks of worthy men, all those worthy men, all those men who were worthy where and when her own husband was not.

"Marriage is compromise." The stenciled phrase on the cutesy walls of their cutesy master bath, his wife's refuge, her soaking palace, her inner sanctum. Later, the Professor will wash his red face and massage his sore and stretched jaw, in that bathroom; will see the redness in his face from how his skin reacts to those mixture of essential oils and even more essential fluids, though of course, all those essential oils and essential fluids were those essential fluids of others, not his own. And the Professor will run a washcloth under the cold tap and apply it to his face and to his sore jaw, sore from opening wide and sore from licking, from kissing his wife's mouth, the mouth that does not kiss him back but does fuck him back, and he will smell the scent those essential fluids left under his nose and he will look at the words, "marriage is compromise," and he will believe it.

But when she's coming she's not squatting over his face teasingly anymore. When she rides his face she rides with legs astraddle and knees on the floor, putting her whole weight on him because she knows Johnny is proud to take it, proud to be the most depraved and desperate rug muncher not currently incarcerated in a woman's reformatory.

"Eat me. Eat me, you cleanup cuck," Allie commands, and the Professor obeys, and she comes, and as she comes and spasms, the Professor tastes her come and the come of someone else entirely.

From his prone position with the weight of her on his face, the salty taste of sin and the scent of corruption through his senses, the Professor reflects that this life was hardly drudgery and toil at all.

But, as his wife enjoys her afterglow, and who knows how many she's already enjoyed today, the Professor lays there with her on top of him and feels the ache. The pain. The agony.