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 it's not, it's my fault. -- Tim
timmead88@Yahoo.com Chapter 1: Office Call
I've just had an incredible series of experiences, and I couldn't tell anyone about them. Certainly not my fiancee, nor my parents, nor any of my colleagues. The shit would hit the fan bigtime if any of them knew. I would normally have talked with Amy, my fiancee, about my problems, but in this case, I couldn't do that.
Anyone I might have told about all of this would have known that I'm 26, that I'm in my second year of teaching here at the university. They could see I'm not a very big guy (and that's important in the story), about 5'7' and 135 pounds. I ran cross country in high school and college, and I still run, swim, and work out a little to stay in shape, scrawny as that shape may be. Also, because it comes up later, I'd better mention that I have dark red hair, about the color of an Irish setter's (my mom calls it "auburn"), green eyes, and very pale skin. I have contacts, but I wear glasses in class to make myself look older. I suspect that doesn't help much, but anything to keep from looking like a kid up there in front of the class.
This all started not long ago. It was a spring evening. I had run in the afternoon and showered when I got back to my apartment. I put on a blue oxford button-down, some almost-white poplin pants, and cordovan loafers. After a bowl of canned veggie soup, I left for my evening class.
When you're a new assistant professor, you teach what, where, and when the head of the department wants you to. After graduate school, I had several pretty good offers, two very tempting ones on the West Coast, and one in the East. I chose to come back to Ohio partly because my parents still live in the state, and partly because I would be reasonably close to Amy, who teaches high school art in Indianapolis. Another factor was that the university was willing to start me as an assistant professor, rather than as an instructor. And that would mean the likelihood of tenure sooner. So here I was in my second year.
As at any university with 35,000 students, you got all kinds, some extremely bright, others dumb as a stump. But they tended to be nice, pleasant people without the sort of competitive edge you hear about in eastern schools. All in all, I was happy enough. The load was heavy, but since I had practically no social life, I was able to get some work done trying to convert my dissertation into something publishable.
I got to my office about a half an hour before the class was to begin. The room where that class meets is just down the hall a few doors from my office.
I was sitting at my desk looking over my notes for the upcoming class when three guys walked in without knocking. They were all wearing jeans, sweatshirts, and ski masks. They appeared to be students, but of course I couldn't really tell. One was really tall, way over six feet. The other two were more like 5'10". The tall one and one of the shorter ones had pullover purple sweatshirts with the university crest in gold. The third had a sweat that zipped up the front, with pockets, and the university's athletic logo, again gold on purple. All were well put together, though not beefy. I would have guessed jocks as soon as I saw them.
Amused by the ski masks, I said, "What's up guys? Is this a fraternity thing of some sort?"
One of the two (relatively) shorter ones closed and locked the door. The other two came around behind my desk, which faces the door, and grabbed my arms. They quickly had them behind my head while they put some sort of plastic which worked just like handcuffs around my wrists. Then they put their hands on my shoulders, effectively trapping me in the chair.
"No, Dr. Mead," the apparent spokesman said, standing in front of my desk. "This has nothing to do with a fraternity. We're here to teach you a lesson." I couldn't recognize him because of the mask, but I knew that voice.
Remaining silent, the two behind me pulled my chair back from the desk. It was almost as if they had choreographed all this. Their leader came around and leaned back against the desk, facing me as I was held in my chair by the other two.
Though I was beginning to feel intimidated, I tried to keep my dignity as I asked, "Come on guys, what have I done?"
Instead of answering, the one in front of me sat down on my knees, facing me. I recognized his aftershave as Eternity, the same one I wear. I tried to stand but was still held down by the two behind me. Then the guy in front reached down and began to fiddle with me! He actually found my cock through the material in my pants and the silk boxers I was wearing, pulling it up so it was lying flat against my belly.
Now the first thing any guy would instinctively do when someone grabs his dick or balls is double over. I tried to pull my knees up, but the guy was sitting on them. I tried to bend forward, but the two behind me held me back against my chair. I was trapped, helpless.
"Hey, guys," the one who was handling me said, "the li'l prof here doesn't have much of a tool." (He's right, I suppose. At five inches on a good day, it's not very big. But then I'm not a very big guy.)
With that he began to rub my dick. He found the sensitive spot on the under side just beneath the head and began to concentrate on that. How was I supposed to react? I wanted to retain my poise. I wanted to be stern. I was getting pretty pissed. And I was getting hard.
"Stoppp!" You mustn't do that! What have I done to you?"
"Well, Dr. Mead [he stressed the 'Dr.'], you gave our buddy Cedric Jones an F at midterm, so now he's not eligible to continue playing baseball. And he is our best hitter. We're here to show you what happens to people who diss jocks, --er, varsity athletes." Damn! Where had I heard that voice?
All the while, the massage was going on, and I was getting harder and harder, hotter and hotter, finding it increasingly difficult to keep my mind on the discussion.
This was excruciating. Not that it hurt. I've put up with a certain amount of shit all my life because of my size. It wasn't as bad in college as it was in high school, because people in college tend to be a little more accepting. But I really thought that working my tail off to get through graduate school and landing a job here at the university would finally gain me some respect. And here I was, the victim of something that still looked to me like a fraternity stunt.
"Please, guys, unhh, don't do this. I'm not, unhhh, gay!"
"Nobody said you were. And you wouldn't want anyone to think you were, would you, professor?"
I wanted to say that, although I wasn't gay, I certainly wouldn't denigrate gay people. However, since I was being driven wild by the rubbing and squeezing of my cock, what I actually said was more like, "Gaah, please, don', unhhhhh!"
I continued to plead (and groan), but to no avail. He just kept rubbing. The bastard seemed to take pleasure from what he was doing, though perhaps he was just enjoying my shame.
I hadn't had another guy's hand on my tool since I was about twelve when Sammy Reed next door and I had done some mutual jacking off. In high school and college, I was no Don Juan, but I had the usual kinds of sex with women. Amy was really good to my needy member until we became engaged about six months ago. Then she decided for some reason that we should cool it with sex until we were married. Oh, she'd let me play with her tits, and she'd rub Junior through my pants, but that's as far as she'd go. I didn't know whether I could hold out until June, but since she was 200 miles away in Indianapolis, I didn't have much chance to talk her out of her unreasonable position anyway. And, when we were together, she'd managed to make me come in my pants more than once. I guess I've got a pretty quick trigger.
Anyway, here I was, trying to protest what was happening to me while getting more and more into having my dick stroked. Yeah, that's right, even if it was a guy! My cock had a mind of its own, and it was liking what was happening. Much to my humiliation.
"P p please, st, stop, uhh, I'm, ohh, going t t to -jeez- cum!"
"That's the general idea, professor. Just go with the flow."
And before long, I did.
The guy on my lap pressed my pants into the puddle in my shorts. "Look," he said, "Mead may have a little dick, but he just got rid of a big load."
He was right. I don't know why I should have been so stimulated under those circumstances, but it felt like I came buckets. It took a while to get my breathing back to normal. Then, looking down, I saw a huge, shiny, wet spot on the front of my pants. And I was due in class in five minutes.
The guy on my lap stood up. I was glad of that, for my legs were going to sleep.
He said, "Now, professor [stressing the word, tauntingly], my friends are going to let go of your arms. But we don't want you to stand up. There are three of us, and you're not very big, so you can't go anywhere. Besides, you wouldn't want anyone to see you looking like that, would you?"
He was right on both counts, so I just stayed where I was, more or less reclining in my chair. The talker straddled my legs, took out his cock, and began beating off. The guys behind me came around, one on each side, and did the same. So here I was, looking up at three big cocks being whacked. In my shame I sat there in a daze and watched. What else could I have done? I could have shouted for help, but I sure as hell wouldn't have wanted anyone to come into my office at that moment. So, I decided, discretion being the better part of valor, to stay put and stay quiet.
The men above me didn't seem to be getting into their masturbatory session too much. Of course, I couldn't see their faces. I'm ashamed to say that they were much quieter than I had been. There was just a little grunting and, eventually, some heavy breathing. Whether they were really turned on or not, they were all three college guys, and they came pretty quickly. I think the tall one said something like "Oh, shit!" when he came. It was the first time he had spoken.
They came all over me. The spokesman added his load to the front of my already-soaked slacks. Curly scattered his seed over the front of my shirt, and Moe, the very tall one, fired his all over my face and hair. Then he reached down, took some of his own cum off my cheek, and spread it around the lenses of my glasses, thus effectively blinding me. All I could see was a milky blur. Then he stuck his finger toward my mouth and said, "Clean it up, Timmy." I didn't recognize his voice, I decided, after hearing it twice. I turned my head away, but he simply grabbed my face, squeezed my jaw, forcing it open, and popped his finger into my mouth. Then he wiggled it around inside my mouth, removed it, wiped it on my shirt, and let go of my face.
At this point, I heard a familiar clicking sound. At first I was too befuddled to recognize just what it was, but then I realized that the one who had never said anything had taken a camera from the pocket of his sweatshirt and was taking pictures. Could it get any worse?
All right, li'l prof," said the talker, "on your feet."
With that, the two behind me hoisted me up, took off the plastic handcuffs, and frog marched me out of my office and down the hall.
"Oh, God, no! You can't let my class see me this way!"
"But that will make our point, professor. Maybe you'll think about this before you flunk some other poor guy who's behind in his class work, at least not until you find out why. I'll bet you didn't know that Cedric's sister was in a car wreck and has been in the hospital."
"No, I didn't . . . ." Before I could finish, they pushed me into my classroom so hard I fell face down on the floor.
I almost passed out from tension and shame. Here I was, with a big stain on the front of my slacks from the load I'd shot, with cum all over my clothes, my face, my hair, and my glasses, lying on the floor at the front of my classroom, just minutes after the starting time for the class. I literally wanted to die. My teaching career was over. Amy would never marry me. And I'd be the laughingstock of all these students, of the whole campus.
It was ominously quiet. There were no gasps or guffaws when I was propelled into the room. I raised my head and tried to look around, but I still couldn't see anything because of the cum smeared on my glasses. So I sat up and took them off.
The room was empty! I could see something written on the blackboard but had to get up and go closer to it before I could read it. Someone had written "Dr. Mead's class will not meet this evening. Please read the next assignment on your syllabus before the next meeting."
Wow! These guys really had meant the whole scene as a warning. If I could get home without being seen, I might be off the hook.
I went back to my office and huddled anxiously at my desk with the lights off until after all the classes in the building were finished. Giving everyone plenty of time to leave, I sneaked down the stairs to my car, which was parked in a faculty slot near the door. There was another nervous moment as I dashed from my car into the building and up to my apartment, but I made it without being seen.
I quickly shucked out of my disgusting clothes, threw them in the hamper to be washed the next day, took a very long, hot shower, and pondered what I could do about the events of the evening. Though one of them was obviously someone I knew, I had no idea who my "attackers" were because of the masks. And I was hardly going to tell my department chair or the dean about what happened. Nor the police. It would have been simply too humiliating.
After my shower, I put on a pair of clean boxers and turned on my computer. I hadn't checked my email so far that day, and I was hoping there would be something from Amy to help get my mind off of what had happened.
There wasn't.
But there was something there for me. It was a message, saying, "OK, Li'l prof. Now your ass is ours." Attached to it was a picture of me in my desk chair, covered with cum! The message continued that I was to appear at an address near campus at 7:00 the next evening, which was a Friday.
Obviously, I had to show up. The implied threat was that, if I didn't, the picture would be - what? Given to the dean? Posted to computers around campus? Printed and stuck on bulletin boards? God, what could I do?
I had to go see if I could reason with them. Didn't I?
(To be continued. This is not going to be a traditional humiliation story. Dr. Tim gets his payback -- and a lover, so hang in there, please. --Tim)