Dr. Tim and the Boys
The following story is fiction. It involves sexually-explicit erotic events between males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or live in an area where it is not allowed, don't read it. In the world of this story, the characters don't always use condoms. In the real world, everyone should practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
I want to thank Evan, Patrick, Ash, and Tom W. for lots of helpful ideas and steadfast encouragement as I worked on this story. If it's any good, it's because of their help. If not, it's my fault. -- Tim.
timmead88@Yahoo.com Chapter 2: House Call #1
Friday I was a nervous wreck.
After my 11:00 class, Rebecca Stein came up to the desk and asked, "Are you OK, Dr. Mead? You seemed as if your mind was on autopilot this morning."
"I'm OK, thanks, Becky. But you're right. I HAVE had something on my mind. Sorry if it interfered with what we were talking about."
"Oh, most of the class probably didn't even notice. You're
sure you're all right?"
"Yes, thanks, I'm fine. Now, go enjoy your weekend!"
"Ok, professor. You, too."
'Yeah, right!' I thought. 'Some weekend this is going to be.'
It was a cool, damp afternoon. Spring in northern Ohio can be fickle, sunny and mild one day, wintry the next. I decided to run for a while. Running always helps to clear my mind. At home I put on a sweatshirt, some shorts, and my running shoes. I did about seven miles, not really pushing myself, just more or less coasting along. I don't remember much about it because I was thinking about what was in store for me that evening.
When I got back to the apartment, I showered and pulled on some clean sweats. Frankly, I don't know what I did for the rest of the afternoon. I didn't have anything to eat. Didn't feel like it.
The address to which I had been summoned was about a ten-minute walk from my apartment, so I left about 6:50. I was still wearing the sweat outfit and had put on some old sneakers. No need to dress up for the confrontation that was coming.
I was reasonably optimistic because I could explain that I hadn't known about Cedric's sister and that he hadn't left me any alternative to giving him the F at mid-term. He simply hadn't turned in a couple of required papers, and he hadn't come in despite my asking him to talk with me about them.
The address turned out to be a new and surprisingly upscale apartment building. No money problems here, apparently. It was certainly much nicer than my building. The number given me was for the third floor. After being buzzed in, I took the elevator.
When I knocked on the door, it was opened immediately by Trey Withers, the captain of the university tennis team, who was in the same lit class as Cedric. His eyes bore into mine, their expression unreadable.
"Do come in, Dr. Mead!" I recognized his voice immediately now. He had been the talker, the one who had sat on my lap, looked me in the eyes, and jacked me off. There had been something familiar about him the evening before in my office, but I hadn't been able to place him. I remembered once before class overhearing Trey refer to me as "the Iceman," which had led me to believe that my "adult act" might be better than I'd thought.
Trey, as I noted before, is about 5' 10" tall, with dirty blond hair which he wears clipped short. His name is Henry Lee Withers III, though everyone on campus calls him Trey. He has no southern accent, but, with a name like Henry Lee, I'd guess he was from Virginia.
In class, Trey had talked a lot at the beginning of the term. He seemed to like leading the class discussion, being in control of things. Lately, however, he had been quiet. He speaks articulately when he has something to say, and he writes pretty well, too. Certainly, with grades in the B+ to A- range, he had no reason to be disgruntled about how he was doing in my course. So it was possible that he could have been genuinely upset over Cedric's failing grade at mid-term rather than operating out of some grudge against me.
"Since we now have that photo, Dr. Mead, there's no need for us to hide our identities. Let me introduce my friends. This is Mark Mason, and this is Chaz Greeley."
I recognized both of them, too. Mark, like Cedric, is on the baseball team. He has dark, curly hair and blue eyes. He's about Trey's height but slightly more muscular. He actually smiled at me when he was introduced. He has nice dimples when he smiles. Well brought up, apparently, to smile under these circumstances. Or, was there something more sinister behind his smile? I knew nothing about Mark's academic abilities, his major, or his standing, except, of course, that, like all varsity athletes, he couldn't play his sport unless he kept at least a C average.
Chaz Greeley, about 6' 5", plays basketball. He has mousy brown hair, which he wears buzzed, and very pale blue eyes. Chaz definitely did not smile when he was introduced. I knew less about him than about the others. He wasn't really a star of the team, but he played first string, and the team had, as usual, had a good season this year. I sensed immediately a sort of intensity about Chaz. He looked me straight in the eye, his face deadpan, as Trey introduced us. I had the impression that Chaz really didn't like me.
All three were wearing t-shirts with the university logo, and baggy shorts. Trey had on sandals. Mark was wearing sneakers. Chaz had bare feet - big bare feet -- so I assumed that he, at least, lived in the apartment.
No one offered to shake hands. I nodded and said, "Gentlemen," though I didn't think the term was appropriate.
"We were all having a beer, professor. Let's get one for you," Trey said. He was now smiling at me!
"Forget the amenities, Trey. Let's cut to the chase. What do
you want?"
"We can try to be civil, Dr. Mead. First, I want you to have a beer with us. You can at least accept our hospitality."
"Trey, I'm here under duress. After what you three did to me yesterday, you expect me to drink with you?
"Well, yes, Dr. Mead, we do," he said earnestly, "and, given your situation, you'd better go along with us."
"Okay," I said without much enthusiasm, "I'll have a beer."
"That's better," Trey said. The others hadn't said a word. But Chaz left to go, I presume, to the kitchen.
When Chaz got back with a Heineken's for me, Trey continued, "Dr. Mead, Mark here thinks we should have let you explain more fully your side of what you did to Cedric. Would you like to do that?"
I didn't like the phrase, what I "did to Cedric," but I thought it best not to say anything.
"You have to understand that I can't discuss one student's work with other students. But I can tell you that Cedric failed to turn in two required papers, that I asked him twice to come in and talk with me about getting the due dates extended, and that he just never showed up. Then he simply quit coming to class. What was I supposed to do?"
Mark spoke for the first time. "Didn't you know that his sister had been in the hospital after her wreck?"
"No, not until Trey mentioned it yesterday," I replied.
"What about the memo from the Dean's Office," Chaz asked.
"I didn't get a memo from the Dean."
"That's funny," Trey commented, "the Dean's secretary says she sent you one the morning after the accident."
"Well, I never got it."
"Interesting," Mark commented. The other two glanced at each other. Chaz frowned.
At this point, I noticed that it was warm in the apartment, especially in my sweat shirt. I gratefully drank some of the beer.
Then they changed the subject. They asked about my running and about the courses I taught. Mark asked if I followed the university's sports teams. When I said I did, we talked for some time about the various teams, especially the tennis, baseball, and basketball teams. Mark and Trey seemed surprised and maybe a little impressed that I was up on what was happening in the sports world on campus.
I wondered where all of this was going, but I was still in no position to object. And, since it seemed that they were relaxed rather than hostile (except maybe for Chaz, who remained inscrutable), I had hopes of a successful conclusion to this encounter.
"You know," I offered, "I could check with the Dean's Office Monday morning. If there was a memo I didn't get, that would change things. Cedric's very intelligent. If he will come to see me about making up the work, he can probably be reinstated as soon as he gets it to me and I've read it."
Now. That should take care of the problem. What could be fairer than that? 'After all,' I thought, 'I am the professor and they are the students. What are they going to do?' An uncomfortable (for me, anyway) silence ensued. I nursed a second beer which had appeared without my being aware of it. The room was warm and the beer was amazingly refreshing. This whole thing had been going on for, I would guess, about 45 minutes. I was sweating profusely and beginning to feel lightheaded.
I thought it must have been the heat in the apartment plus the beers on an empty stomach. I was still nervous. I was about to test the waters by saying I thought it was time for me to leave. But I couldn't. I couldn't stand up. It was the most remarkable thing: I had at some point sprung a boner!
"Dr. Mead, it looks as if you're too warm. Why don't you take off your shirt?" Trey asked.
"Er, no, that's okay," I said.
"I don't think you understand. Take off your shirt."
"But, . . . "
"Take off your shirt, Mead! We have that pic, don't forget," Chaz said, menacingly.
What could I do? I took off my shirt.
"Now," Trey commanded, "Stand up."
That was a problem. I had that boner, remember.
"But I'm fine right here, Trey."
"For the rest of the evening, you will do exactly what we tell
you to. Got it?"
Reluctantly, slowly, I did what I was told. I recognized Trey's change of attitude. Moreover, they did have the picture, the one of me with the big cum stain on the front of my pants and cum on my face, my glasses, my hair. The implied threat was that they'd use it if I didn't do what they said.
Chaz cleared a couple of beer bottles off the very sturdy looking oak coffee table.
"Now Dr. Mead, stand up on the table," he said.
"Why?"
"Don't ask questions Timmy boy," Trey said. "Just do what the
man said."
I was offended by his using my first name in such a familiar and disparaging way, but, remembering the picture, I stood up on the table.
"Look, guys," Chaz said, smiling for the first time, "the
little prof's got a stiffie!"
Even with the jock strap, my sweat pants were indeed tented out noticeably. I should have been mortified, but for some reason, it was all beginning to strike me as absurdly funny. I think I was standing there on the table with a smirk on my face. I couldn't have told you why. I was feeling giddy, faint, with an urge to giggle.
I noticed that Mark had produced a camera from somewhere, leaving me in no doubt as to what was going to happen.
Chaz said, "OK, PROFESSOR, turn your back to Mark."
I knew that I had no choice but to do what these guys wanted. I also realized that I had been developing a what-the-fuck attitude, wherever that was coming from. Anyway, I did as they commanded.
I turned my back to Mark.
"Now," Chaz said, "with your right hand, pull your pants down over your right cheek."
"Come on, Chaz," I said in one last feeble attempt to resist before losing control completely.
"Just DO it!"
I did it.
"Look guys, he's wearing a jock strap. As if he needed to."
"Pull your jock down over your ass cheek, too," Chaz continued.
I did that.
"Now, turn your head over your right shoulder, put your left index finger in your mouth, and look at Markie. No! Get that smile off your face! Give Mark a sultry look."
Why was I smiling, anyway? How does one look "sultry"? I
gave it my best shot.
Laughter.
Click!
Yes, Mark was photographing all of this.
"Cute, Tim," Trey said. "Now, pull your pants below both sides of your butt, and then put your finger back in your mouth and look at Mark.
Getting my pants below my woodie provided a temporary glitch, but I did that, to more laughter.
"What a scrawny ass!" Chaz commented.
Click!
"But doesn't he look cute?" Trey asked.
More laughter.
"Now," said Chaz, who seemed to have scripted all of this, "bend over and pull your cheeks apart."
"Aw, come on guys, enough's enough," I complained.
"May as well do what he says," Trey said, softly.
So I did it.
"Nice balls, Timmy. Not much cock, but man-sized balls," Chaz commented. "And no more hair on his ass than a kid!"
"Timmy," Trey said tauntingly, "I see your rosebud! You can expect some traffic there, l'il prof."
Traffic? I was too befuddled to have any idea of what he
meant.
Click!
"OK. Now lick your finger and stick it up your ass."
'Can it get any worse? Oh, well, what the hell!'
Click!
By this time, I knew I was totally blitzed. I heard myself laughing, saying to these guys, "whatever you fuckin' want!"
I have to admdit, I don't actually remember anything after that. Oh, I can reconstruct what MUST have happened. I just don't have any recollection of the events of the rest of the evening.
I woke up the next morning, Saturday, with a terrible headache. I was naked, in my own bed.
'How did I get here?' I wondered. I had no idea how I had gotten home. The trio of jocks must have brought me here, used my key to get in, stripped me, and put me to bed.
It also seemed clear that they had put something like Viagra in my beer, probably along with roofies or one of the other "date rape drugs" readily available on any campus. All of that on an empty stomach was pretty potent.
As I got my eyes open and sat up, once the fireworks in my head subsided, I saw a note pinned to my pillow.
It read, "Good morning, slave. Look at your email and be back here at 7:00 this evening. Wear shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers. Nothing else." It was signed "Your masters."
'Woah! What did go on last night?'
After a necessary trip to the john, my head still pounding, I logged on and checked my email. There was a message with pictures attached. Several of them. There were all of the ones I've told you about: me with one cheek showing, me with my pants just below my ass (sucking a finger in each and looking absolutely ridiculous!), me bent over and holding my ass cheeks apart, and me, bent over, with a finger up my hole (that was not an altogether new experience).
But there were more, every one showing Junior erect in all his modest glory. There was a series of three, in all of which I had a huge carrot up my ass, with the green, leafy top still attached. In one I'm on all fours. In one I'm on my back, knees drawn up to my chest. And in the third I'm standing, the carrot still sticking out of my ass, pumping my cock. My head is thrown back, eyes shut, mouth open, spraying cum.
I was totally fucked. My "masters" yet! What could I do? It looked as if I had no choice but to do what they wanted, and I shuddered to think what that might be. One thing was clear, for sure: I had to show up at their place again that evening.
I usually call Amy on Saturday evenings. She always expects that. I look forward to our long talks on weekends when we can't be together, though I sometimes wonder whether she just wants to know that I'm not out with someone else.
Anyway, I thought about calling her in the afternoon and making some excuse or other about why we couldn't have our usual Saturday night talk. I sure as hell couldn't tell her the real reason. Maybe this time I'd just send her an email.
(to be continued)