The Professor's New Furniture

Harry was confused. What did Canterbury mean by 'research assistant'? He had insulted Harry's intelligence, but wanted to offer Harry a job?

"Sign these," the professor pointed to the stack of papers, "no need to read anything carefully. Just boilerplate legal jargon."

Harry eagerly signed the lines on the front and back pages without so much as glancing at the text. He was offended by the professor's frank tone but couldn't bring himself to disagree. This seemed to please the professor.

"Oh," Canterbury spoke up again, "Do you have an ID on you? We'll need that for proof of eligibility for employment."

"Sure thing," Harry eagerly pulled his wallet from his pocket, removed his driver's license, and set both his license and wallet on the desk.

"Perfect," the professor grinned. Harry couldn't understand why the professor's mood picked up so suddenly. "Let me grab a photocopy. I'll be just a second."

The professor took Harry's ID from the desk and walked behind Harry and out the office door.

Harry looked for several minutes across the professor's office. The walls were filled with numerous awards with Canterbury's name printed across the middle. As Harry's eyes moved across the shelves, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.

"W-what the fuck?!" Harry heard himself mutter at what he saw on the shelf.

On top of a stack of papers sat the same mouse from the prior day's lecture. It was still posed in the same awkward stance that the professor had left it, and completely motionless. Although seeing it close up, Harry could see the creature's eyes looking directly at Harry, then darting around the room, then looking back at Harry.

"You're fucking kidding me—" Harry started to say. A sudden pinch at the base of his neck interrupted him.

Harry tried to look behind him or to stand up and wave his arms about. But an immediate lethargy overtook Harry, sending him into a deep sleep. A pair of hands gripped the sides of Harry's head, gently lowering him to the floor.

In the moment before he lost consciousness, Harry could see the professor standing above him, grinning triumphantly and holding a syringe.

— — —

When Harry woke, he was once again sitting in a chair. Though this was not the chair of his professor's office that he remembered. Where he last saw a mahogany desk, awards in biotech research, and shelves full of random objects, he now saw the wall of a small living room.

Harry tried to look around but found himself unable to move his head.

'What the fuck?' Harry thought to himself.

He tried to move his hands, stand up, or push himself up from his chair. But his muscles simply disregarded his commands. He tried to scream, but his mouth refused to open. He just continued staring ahead.

'Okay,' Harry thought, 'I don't know what the fuck is happening, but I need to get moving. Am I dreaming? No, let's try something small.'

Harry tried to move his big toe. Though he couldn't look down to verify, he felt no sensation of movement in his feet. Strangely though, he didn't feel numb. He could feel the sensation of his bare feet on the floor.

Indeed, Harry realized that he felt completely naked where he sat. He could feel the pressure of his large, muscular ass directly against the hard chair, and his bare back against a hard backrest. Based on the points of pressure, it felt like a wooden kitchen chair with a dowel-formed backrest.

Harry then tried his little finger. Then his ring finger. Then all his other fingers, with no success. He just felt his full hand and arms resting against the arm of a wooden chair.

Harry thought back to some meditation courses from his first semester. "Remember the breath," his instructor would repeat, "and begin again."

Harry tried to inhale deeply, to feel the rush of air into his lungs. But strangely, his body ignored this command as well. Indeed, he just now realized that at no point since he'd woken up had he—despite his internal panic—increased his rate of breathing. His body, without his control, simply breathed in, held for a moment, then breathed out, over and over again.

Harry then tried to blink or shut his eyes. As with his other experiments, Harry failed yet again. His eyelids, without any control or input from Harry, blinked once, then again, then again, then again.

Harry started to count the seconds between each blink. 'One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi,' and found that exactly four seconds passed between each blink. Harry counted again. Four seconds. Harry counted again. Four seconds.

Harry then tried to count the time between his breaths. Once every five seconds. One breath every five seconds with no variation.

'What the fuck? Am I dead?' But Harry then realized that there was one thing he could control: the movement of his eyes.

Harry looked up, down, left, and right, then moved his eyes in a circle. He was even able to point his eyes upward and hold them long enough that he felt slight pain.

'Okay, so I'm not dead. Is this what a coma feels like?'

Harry then looked around the room (as best he could without being able to turn his head) to take stock of his surroundings. He saw a beige carpet, and a white wall, with white trimmings. It looked like the inside of many basic, American suburban homes. Looking up, Harry saw that the ceiling was the same shade of white as the walls and trimming.

Harry strained his eyes to look right. He thought he saw something large hanging on the wall—art, perhaps—but it was too far in his peripheral to make out.

He then strained his eyes left as far as he could. He could make out a small, walnut-colored coffee table. At the edge of the table sat a stack of papers. On top of the papers was a mouse.

'SHIT,' Harry thought. 'That fucking mouse. Professor Canterbury!'

All of his memories from before he was knocked out flooded back into Harry's mind. He was in his professor's office. Then something pinched his neck, before he fell to the ground, and saw the professor looking down at him holding a syringe. Had the professor drugged him?

Harry then realized why he couldn't move. The professor must have given Harry the same treatment as the poor mouse from class. This was likely the same mouse that now acted as a paperweight to Harry's left.

'What the hell did that fucker make me sign,' Harry thought. 'And is this permanent? How the fuck am I supposed to get out of this?'

As if in reply to Harry's internal question, Harry heard footsteps behind him.

"Is my newest decoration awake?" The professor's low, monotone voice came from behind Harry. The professor then walked in front of Harry.

Harry had never seen the professor wearing anything but an expensive, tailored suit. Indeed, Harry doubted that he'd even seen the man wear the same tie twice. Canterbury was an impeccable dresser. This was only part of why Harry was surprised to see the man now donning a casual, blue robe.

"Yep," the professor smiled devilishly, "Good morning, Sunshine!"

Harry couldn't respond, so he just stared hard at the professor. He tried to look as intensely as possible. He also tried to muster the rage to move his body. Harry would have given anything to pummel that piece of shit into oblivion. And at Harry's size and strength, he could have done so easily.

"You're probably confused," the Professor continued, "That doesn't matter. I've had my eye on you since the first day of class. I can't believe how easy it was to get you."

The professor looked Harry up and down. Harry continued to glare directly at the professor's eyes. His attempt at intimidation had no effect.

"You truly are a specimen," the professor was leaning in toward Harry now. Harry could smell his expensive cologne. "I am going to thoroughly enjoy using you. But before I do, a few things you should know."

"First, this is permanent. Your muscles are completely affixed to whatever position I put you in. The nerves in your spine have been connected to a special chip behind your head. These are being fed by inputs that I programmed. In short, you'll never again be able to move freely. I don't tell you this to be cruel, I promise you. But I don't want you to go insane in there, so it's best if you abandon hope and accept your fate now."

The professor ran a hand along Harry's face, then down his neck, feeling his massive chest. The professor wrapped his hand around Harry's massive pec, massaged it a bit, then stroked his thumb around Harry's nipple. An electric feeling traveled up and down Harry's spine.

"But I promise you," the professor went on after several minutes of fondling, "I promise that I'll try to make it good for you too."

With that, the professor couldn't help himself. He descended to his knees between Harry's thighs and pressed his face between Harry's pecs.

"Hhmmmm," the professor groaned deeply, inhaling Harry's scent. "Fortunately, the chemical cocktail that I injected into your muscles won't allow them to atrophy. They'll forever be the massive things you have now."

The professor leaned back and grabbed Harry's hand. With just a light touch, the professor lifted Harry's left hand, pulled it out such that his arm was outstretched, and crossed it over Harry's body. When the professor let go, Harry's arm and hand stayed in the same spot.

This was a particularly strange sensation for Harry: he felt like he was expending no effort to keep his hand and arm aloft but could do nothing to lower it. It seemed as if pliable wire frames had replaced his skeleton.

The professor then did the same with Harry's right arm, crossing it to the left behind the professor's head. This created the effect of pushing Harry's chest together, giving the professor a deeper crevice in which to continue sticking his face.

After several minutes of this, the professor could no longer hold back. He stood up in front of Harry, pushing his arms aside. The professor untied the waistband of his robe, letting the robe fall open.

For the first time, Harry was distracted from his game of intensely staring at the professor. For a massive cock flopped in front of Harry's face.

"Let me introduce you two," the professor sneered as he grabbed his cock.

The professor stepped forward, letting his shaft rest against Harry's face. Harry could feel the weight of it pressed against his cheek. The professor shifted his hips, pulling the head across Harry's cheek and against his lips.

Harry could feel every bit of the head of the professor's cock as it rested against his skin and grazed his lips. He could also smell the warm skin as he inhaled and exhaled, every five seconds. The stiff, immobilized rugby player felt every one of the older man's pubic hairs tickling across his face. Even in his immobilized state, shivers sped down Harry's spine out through each of his extremities.

He desperately wanted to run. He desperately wanted to push the old man away. He desperately wanted to do anything at all about this symbol of the professor's manhood bouncing in front of Harry's face.

But Harry couldn't move away. He couldn't push the old pervert away from him. Harry couldn't even stop himself from inhaling the musk from the massive, engorged cock in front of him.

For just a moment, he was mesmerized by the size of it. Had Harry merely chanced upon the naked Professor, for example, in a locker room, then Harry would have been impressed. Indeed, though Harry himself was far bigger than average, this older pervert boasted a cock of much more impressive length and girth. Wherever that monster was about to be stuck it was going to hurt.

"I've been waiting for this for a long time," the professor moaned. Canterbury wrapped his hand under Harry's wide jaw, pulled it down, and squeezed Harry's cheeks inward. This opened Harry's mouth, forcing his lips into an "O" shape.

The professor then placed his hand on the back of Harry's head, wrapping his fingers through Harry's dark brown hair. Harry could feel his head being pushed forward and down, level with the professor's cock.

The professor gently angled the tip of his cock to the soft 'O' of Harry's mouth. Pulling Harry's head inward, the professor concurrently forced his cock into Harry's mouth.

At once, Harry could taste the salt from the professor's sweat. Harry's mouth flooded with saliva, filling the space under his tongue. Harry's throat further opened at the pressure of the veiny member, but Harry did not feel himself gag.

'No! No! No!' Was all that Harry could think. He was being face-fucked by a kidnapping psychopath, and there was nothing that Harry could do to escape. Harry could feel every vein and every ridge as the massive shaft forced its way through his lips, over his tongue, and down his throat.

Harry could taste the salt and sweat as the professor worked up his fervor. He had never tasted a cock before; indeed, this was never an experience he even wondered about, much less anticipated. As the professor worked up his pace, Harry could feel the moisture of their shared sweat against his cheeks, his forehead, and his chin. He could smell the increasingly pungent musk of the professor's sex. Every ounce of the professor's sexual prowess seemed to be aimed at overwhelming Harry's senses of smell and taste.

Harry thought for a moment about the porn that he had watched just the other day. He pictured in his mind—an easy thing to do given how frequently he'd watched the film—about how immobilized she was. He recalled about how helpless she looked against the men who used her body. He wondered whether there was a moment in which she dissociated from her reality, or whether she felt fully present as each man took turns defiling her.

A sudden change in the professor's pace snapped Harry back to the present moment. The professor had switched from his merciless pounding to a slow, gradual motion. Harry suspected that the older man was close to finishing but wanted to draw out the experience.

Harry looked up at the professor pleadingly. His rage was gone, replaced by hopelessness and despair. Professor Canterbury looked down at Harry, meeting his gaze.

"There's a good boy," the professor groaned, "Who doesn't like eye contact from their toys? But we can make this even better."

With his thumb and index finger, the professor pinched Harry's inner eyebrow, pulling it upward. To Harry's surprise, he could feel his facial muscles locking into this new position. The professor repeated this with the other eyebrow, then pushed both inner eyebrows down. This gave Harry the appearance of a pathetic, begging puppy.

The professor stared into Harry's eyes, admiring his handiwork. The pleading expression on Harry's face sent the professor into a frenzy. He thrust faster, forcing his cock even deeper into Harry's throat.

The professor's arousal soon hit its crescendo. The professor increased his pace, pushing his cock into Harry's face as he pulled Harry's head into his groin.

"Fuuuuck," the professor moaned as he pulled Harry's face even further in. Harry could feel that cock pulsating inside of his mouth, followed by a warm sensation traveling down his throat.

Harry couldn't see the professor at this point—only his stomach pressed against Harry's eyes. After holding Harry against his stomach for several moments, letting all of the cum empty from his balls—which pressed against Harry's chin—the professor slowly pulled out.

Adding insult to injury, the professor pinched Harry's lips against the shaft as he pulled out his cock, milking out the last of the warm cum. The professor then tilted Harry's head upward, pressed his jaw closed, and applied pressure to the top of Harry's neck. Involuntary, Harry swallowed the mixture of cum and saliva.

If it were possible, tears would have welled up in Harry's eyes. He felt that he had crossed over a threshold of no return. He had never until this day performed oral on a man. Indeed, he had never been violated in such a way. He never expected that a man would force himself inside of Harry. He never expected that he would ever swallow another man's seed. But regardless of whether Harry would escape from this situation, he could never undefile himself. He would always carry that experience of being face-fucked by this older, more dominant force of a man.

"And not even a mess!" The professor appraised. He sounded as if he described the satisfactory performance of some commodity. And to the professor, this was exactly what he was doing.

Without another word, the professor backed up and stretched his hands above his head as if he'd just woken from a nap. The asymmetry of mobility wasn't lost on Harry.

The professor looked casually over at the stack of papers on his coffee table. He appeared to mind neither the dollified rugby player in front of him nor that dollified mouse weighing down the papers. Indeed, he played no more attention to Harry after filling him with cum than the professor would have paid a washing machine after filling it with laundry.

The professor then looked at Harry. Though he looked more at Harry's body than Harry himself.

"Yes, I think that will do," the professor said quietly to himself. To 'himself' because, of course, there was 'nobody' in the room with him. Only furniture of various degrees of consciousness.

The professor walked behind the chair in which Harry sat, and dragged it across the carpet toward Harry's left, turning Harry and the chair in the process. But before Harry had the chance to really see the rest of the room, the professor tilted the chair forward.

Harry started to slip forward in his chair.

'Oh, shit oh shit oh shit,' was all Harry could think as he slid forward toward the floor.

With a thump, Harry landed face first on the carpet. Harry's waist and knees were still bent at a ninety-degree angle, with his knees digging into the carpet and his face planted into the floor.

The professor then took Harry's hands and planted them palm down on the floor. He then straightened Harry's back such that it was flat like a small tabletop.

"Yep," the professor spoke again to himself, "That will do just nicely."

Harry could hear some papers shuffle, followed by the distinct sound of someone sitting and settling into a leather couch. But what Harry felt next sent him into new levels of rage.

One at a time, the professor lifted his feet, and planted them once at a time on Harry's flattened back. He then casually crossed one foot over the other before settling back into the couch and continuing to shuffle through his papers.

'Fuck. You." Thought Harry.

The old bastard had just used Harry as a warm, living flesh light, without regard to his comfort, well-being, or consent. And now Harry was being used as a footstool. It was unclear to Harry which was worse.

But there was nothing that Harry could do about this. He just sat there, face-down into the beige carpet as the professor shifted his resting feet across Harry's back.

It surprised Harry how quickly the boredom set in. He could only ruminate on his predicament and fantasize about the revenge that he would enact on the professor for so long. But now, he just laid there in silence. The only sensory input he had was the carpet against his face, hands, and knees, as well as the professor's slippers against his back.

Harry again tried, vainly, to scream. He tried to wiggle that asshole's feet off of his back. There was nothing that he wanted more than to stand up and beat the shit out of that old man. And had he not been drugged and had his muscles deactivated, he could have done so easily.

Time passed slowly. Though 'slowly' was a meaningless concept in that moment; Harry had no idea whether an hour or two or three went by when he stood up, threw the papers on Harry's back, then stepped away. To a piece of furniture, to an object with nothing to do and nowhere to be but to be available for its owner, time is meaningless.