By Max H.
The usual warnings apply. Don't read this if it's not legal for you to do so where you live. Always practice safe sex.
The holiday break was pleasant. I had my life back again for a couple of weeks. I was pretty much a hermit, but I didn't mind that. The two weeks off gave me time to get everything in order for the courses I'd be teaching in the term which started in January.
I was grateful not to hear from either Fred or Denny. The reprieve from daily humiliation allowed my tension level to subside considerably during that period. Though, to be honest, I wouldn't have minded a little one-on-one with Denny while Potts was temporarily out of the picture.
By this time I was used to freeballing, so I only wore underwear for warmth when I had to go out to run errands. It was winter, after all, which I'd discovered could be pretty chilly in the Southeast.
New Year's Day was on a Monday. The new term began on Wednesday. So I began to be nervous on Tuesday, realizing that it would soon be humiliation time again. That night I shaved off all the body hair I'd allowed to grow since the end of the fall term.
My first class was at 9:00, but I was up before daylight on Wednesday (well, it was January). Assuming the Wednesday rule still applied, I lubed up and inserted my old friend the butt plug. I was pretty sure Fred would be around to check that I was still following orders. Or else he'd send Denny.
After arriving at my office, I looked up the number of the room I'd been assigned for the first class. It was the one I'd used the previous term for the class Denny had been in. The one where I got fucked while Potts took pictures. Not the venue with the best vibes, so far as I was concerned.
My campus mailbox contained class lists for the new term. I didn't recognize any of the names in the 9:00 class. I could only hope they hadn't heard about my Wednesday boners, but word gets around, so I wasn't overly confident.
I hadn't had the damned butt plug in for two weeks, so sitting in the car had brought about a definite chubbing of my cock. I made a point of not sitting at the desk when I reached my office. But the act of climbing two flights of stairs to get there and then going back down a flight to the classroom saw to it that I was sporting a stiffie by the time I got to the room.
I paused briefly in the hallway. Then, taking a deep breath, I held the folder with my class materials in front of my crotch and stepped inside.
To my surprise, the members of the class weren't sitting in their seats. They were all crowded around the screen at the front of the room used for Power Point demonstrations and the like. Someone saw me and said, "He's here!" Then there was a burst of cheering and some applause. The group separated so I could see the screen.
What I saw made the blood rush from my head and I thought for a moment I was passing out. The image on the screen shifted from terrible to worse: it was a slide show. And the pictures were all of me. Potts had obviously done his worst, and there I was. Kneeling, looking up at the camera with cum all over my face, leaning across the desk in that very room being fucked first by the pointer and then by Denny, whose face I noted was clearly in the shot. And that changed to . . .
I mumbled something like "class dismissed," and turned to flee back upstairs to my office. On my way out of the room I saw that someone had written an Internet address on the board, something having to do with "Professor James" and a dot com.
"Hey, prof," someone called out, "wanna stick around and give us a demonstration?"
Once in the relative safety of the office, I collapsed into my desk chair, only to be jabbed roughly by the butt plug. I don't know how long I sat there in shock. Gradually, my breathing and heart rates returned to normal as I frantically wondered what to do next. I could certainly never show my face to that group of students again.
Who was I kidding? I couldn't show my face on campus again. Soon everyone would know. (As I was to learn later, many people already knew. Potts had made sure all the pictures were available online and had sent the URL and the Power Point to computers all over campus.)
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was, to put it bluntly, totally fucked. Although my hands were shaking, I managed to pick up the phone and call the dean's office. When his receptionist answered, I identified myself and asked to talk with the dean.
"I'm sorry, Dr. James, but he's not available. Can I take a message?"
"Um, I realize this is highly irregular, Mrs. Siddons, but I'm calling to tender my immediate resignation. I'm sorry, but it's absolutely necessary. I'll have my stuff out of the office by day's end and will see that the department chair gets my office key."
"Dr. James, you can't just --"
"Sorry, but that's the way it is."
I hung up before she could say anything else.
I packed what seemed to be the most important stuff into my book bag and headed for my car. I'd come back at night for the rest.
As I went down the hall and out the door to the parking lot, it seemed as if everyone I saw was laughing or, in some cases, sneering at me. Maybe some of that was my imagination. There had to be people who hadn't seen or even heard about those pictures.
When I got home, I just made it to the bathroom before I threw up. And then, after rinsing my mouth, I went into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what to do next.
I don't know how long I sat there, but I was startled when the phone rang. I picked up the extension next to the bed. The caller was the dean.
"James, you can't resign. You're terminated!"
"Terminated! For bringing discredit to the University. If you're thinking of talking with a lawyer, you'd better understand that we aren't firing you because you're a homosexual. But those pictures!" I could almost hear him shudder. "Imagine what an embarrassment they'll be to the University! I don't understand how you could have done such a thing."
I started to tell him that I was being blackmailed, but then I realized that Potts still had "proof" (along with Denny's testimony) that I'd come on to a student who was under age.
I didn't get a chance to say anything.
"Do not come back onto this campus for any reason. Your books and other belongings in the office assigned to you will be packed up by Buildings and Grounds and delivered to your residence. We'll be sending you some papers to sign."
"And, James, I assume you know you're not likely to get a teaching job anywhere in this hemisphere. I understand that not only do the local media have the story, but the national tabloids do as well."
"By all accounts, young man, you are a good teacher. I just don't understand what got into you." He must have realized the ambiguity of what he'd just said, for he coughed and then hung up.
He was right. The tabloids had a field day with the story. And of course that awful woman on CNN chewed it over for days.
I had paparazzi outside my door for a week until the landlord complained to the police, who eventually moved them along. I had to unplug the phone because of all the calls I got. Many of them were from reporters, some of them were from people who wanted me for sexual reasons, and some were from people who wanted to tell me that I was going to hell.
After the hubbub had subsided, I got a call from Randy Esposito, one of my few friends in the English Department. Basically he wanted to commiserate. There really wasn't anything he could do. He did tell me, though, that Potts had flunked out at the end of the fall term and that Denny had not returned to campus for the current term. Not surprising since he, as it turned out, was in many of the online pictures, sometimes in solo shots, sometimes with me. And there was one where he was kneeling naked before the photographer with cum on his face. Potts was obviously both the photographer and the person whose cum Denny wore.
I loathed Fred Potts and cordially hoped someday he'd get what he deserved. But I felt sorry for Denny. In fact, I'd come to miss him. He wasn't a bad kid. He, too, had been blackmailed by Potts. That plus a horniness a bit in excess of the most other eighteen-year-olds is what got him into his predicament. I assumed Potts had carried out his threat to Denny and arranged for his parents to see the pictures. I could only imagine what their reaction had been.
My next problem was what to do with myself. I knew the dean was right and so I didn't even try to look for a teaching job. I tried to sign up with some job placement services, but most of them, obviously having read the news articles about the porno prof, all but laughed at me. I became a recluse, driving 30 miles to a supermarket that stayed open until midnight for groceries and such. I searched for jobs on the Internet but turned up nothing.
I tried everything I could think of. After six weeks, I was running out of money. I thought I might look for a job in a fast food place, but that wouldn't pay the rent and utilities on my apartment.
It wasn't literally the day before the rent was due, rent I would be unable to pay, but it was close. The media vultures had decamped in search of other victims, so I was surprised when there was a knock at my door.
I opened it to see a guy who looked like a GQ model, though he appeared to be around 40, older than most of the hunks you see in GQ.
He handed me a business card. Paul Fenton, J.D., Attorney at Law.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Fenton, but I don't need a lawyer."
"I'm not here in my capacity as an attorney. May I come in?"
`What the hell?' I thought. I stepped back to let him in. Still hesitant, I didn't invite him to sit down. Now that he was in the room, I revised my estimate of his age upward slightly. I guessed that he was in his mid forties, but he was obviously in excellent shape. And equally obviously, he was highly successful. His clothes said subtle good taste . . . and money.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Fenton?"
"It's more what I can do for you." He looked around my living room, which contained a number of boxes I'd been packing, preparing to move I didn't know where. "You've run out of money, can't get a job, and don't have any idea what you're going to do next, right?"
"That about sums it up. You've obviously been reading the papers. But you're also guessing about my financial situation, aren't you?"
"You'd be surprised what I know about you. I'm here to offer you a way out of the mess you're in. I suggest you come with me. I assure you I'll bring you back here after we've talked, if you want me to."
I realized that I might be doing something foolish, but Fenton didn't look like an axe murderer or anything. And by that time I was pretty desperate. So I went with him. We got into his Silver Jaguar and drove away.
A half hour later we turned off a wide, tree-lined street into a curving driveway. The house it went with was old, well kept, and quite large. Mr. Fenton asked me to follow him. We went into the house to a room off the main hallway which was obviously a home office or study. The walls were lined with books. There was a fireplace on one wall with a leather settee and two wing-back chairs grouped in front of it. There was a desk with its back to a large window. A beautiful room. I would have loved to have one like it. Fenton sat at the desk and gestured me into a chair facing him.
"I don't know exactly how you got yourself into the mess you're in, but I know a little about it. Perhaps we can look into the matter later, if you agree to my proposal."
"Which is . . . ?"
"What are you facing if I take you home right now?"
Taking a deep breath, I admitted aloud what I'd been afraid to acknowledge to myself. "Homelessness, life on the streets, I'm afraid."
"I thought as much." He steepled his fingers together, making me think of an old Sherlock Holmes movie I'd seen. "I'm prepared to give you a place to sleep and food if, as I said, you agree to my conditions."
At that point I was ready to agree to almost anything. I wasn't stupid. I had a PhD, after all. Perhaps he thought he could use me as an assistant or something, even though I'd had no training in the law. "So, Mr. Fenton, what would you expect me to do?"
"Anything I tell you to."
"Anything as in . .?"
I started to say something, but he held up one finger. I knew to wait for him to speak.
"At the moment, boy, I'm more interested in your mouth and ass than your graduate degree. Now, I'm not a traditional master. I don't wear leather, don't have a dungeon or even any whips. But if you come here, you can expect to service me sexually on demand. Perhaps even do so for my friends from time to time. Officially, let's say you'll be my houseboy. From what I've discovered, you'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like having someone make your decisions for you?"
I'd never thought of that. "Well, I, uh . . ."
"Come on! You're a natural submissive, or you wouldn't be here right now. So, as houseboy, you'll be expected to keep the place clean, learn to cook my meals, do the grocery shopping, and run any other errands I may need to have you do."
"You're serious? I thought that kind of thing existed only in stories on the Internet."
He grimaced. "I don't read stories on the Internet. Well, not often. But your plight may work out well for both of us. If you are completely out of resources, as I have reason to believe you are, then what I'm offering wouldn't be so bad. You'll find that I'm an agreeable man, so long as you do what you're told. And I won't whip or otherwise physically harm you. But at the first sign of disobedience, you'll be on the street with no possibility of return."
I don't know why I asked my next question, perhaps because I'd already made up my mind. "What would I call you?"
"Since you won't be a slave exactly, `Master' seems excessive. So you may simply call me `Sir.' I should have pointed out that, should you agree to my proposal, I'll pay any outstanding debts you may have. Your other belongings, except for any items of sentimental importance, will be disposed of, including all of your clothing."
`You're Corey James, PhD, not some rich lawyer's fucking houseboy!' I thought. `But what choice do you have? You're a little old to sell your ass. Come to think of it, this is selling your ass. But at least it pays room and board. And he did say you could leave if you wanted to.'
So, long story short, I accepted. At first it was pretty humiliating because around the house he kept me dressed in those flimsy nylon running shorts and a tank top cut off just below my nipples. When I went to the dry cleaners or the supermarket, I wore jeans, trainers, and whatever was appropriate for the weather on top. Most nights I slept naked on a trundle that pulled out from under his king-size bed.
He expected to be sucked off every day, and two or three times a week he would fuck me. He was never rough or violent, but there was no tenderness involved, either. I was just a handy repository, I supposed.
I had cooked for myself since I started to grad school. He had many cookbooks, so I learned to cook well enough to please him.
"I'm helping you discover your true nature," he insisted. He was careful to explain that I needed to learn to be subservient, to forget that I had a doctorate and had been a university faculty member.
And time passed. A year later, though he still called me "boy" and I still called him "Sir," he had gradually begun to treat me more as a companion. That is, when he'd come home he'd ask about how my day had gone or compliment me if I'd done something well. He'd even occasionally pat my bottom in what seemed an affectionate way.
I found myself growing more and more comfortable in my role. I didn't have any physical needs. Well, I jacked off in the bathroom, since Sir never seemed interested in my sexual urges. But not having to make decisions or worry about anything more important than seeing that the dry cleaning was picked up and the soufflé didn't fall was good. I was in a comfortable rut. At first I Ionged to be back in the classroom, but, as Sir had predicted, those feelings occurred less and less frequently.
One day Sir surprised me when he got home. I'd fixed him his Blanton's on the rocks when he got home. He sat in one of the wing-back chairs in his study, and he asked me to sit opposite him in the other.
"Corey" (he'd never called me that!), would you like to fix yourself a drink?"
"Um, no sir, but thank you very much."
"I want you to tell me the whole story about how you got yourself into such a mess at the University."
"The whole thing, sir?"
"Exactly. I don't need all the details about your sex life during that period, but I want to know all about how you got involved with the other boy who was in those pictures, Denton."
"You know Denny's name, sir?"
"Yes, and I know Fred Potts was involved with it somehow, too. So tell me what happened."
I thought maybe a stiff drink would have been steadying and regretted my refusal of his offer. But I didn't think it would be a good idea now to change my mind. So I took a deep breath and told him all about the picture Fred had taken when he and Denny had first set me up in my office and subsequently how he had taken more pictures, the ones that wound up all over campus and on the web.
"So, just to make sure I understand this, young Clark had actually been subtly sending you sexual signals from the beginning of the term, and it was he who came on to you that first day in your office."
"Sir, his sexual signals in the classroom were far from subtle. But, yes, he started to kiss me there in the office. As soon as Potts stepped into the doorway, he froze and made it look as if I were the one who'd initiated the kiss."
"And he wasn't yet 18 at that time?"
"Yes, Sir. That is, he wasn't 18 yet. He showed me his driver's license."
"You should have called their bluff, you know. They'd probably have backed down. Certainly if it had gone as far as a trial, I'm sure that I -- or any competent attorney -- could have destroyed their false claims."
I didn't say anything. Maybe I had been a fool, but at the time I did the only thing I thought I could do.
"Now, what would you say if I told you I've traced both Potts and Clark?"
"I've worried a lot about Denny, sir. I don't give a damn about Potts."
"Why have you worried about Clark?"
"Well, he was being blackmailed by Fred Potts, too. And if I knuckled under to Potts, it's small wonder a kid his age would have as well. So is he okay?"
"First, about Potts. It may interest you to know that after failing out of the university, he joined the Army. But he was subsequently given a dishonorable discharge for homosexual activities. He's now detailing cars for a dealership in Junction City, Kansas." A ghost of a smile flitted across Sir's face. "I understand he turns tricks to augment his earnings."
"What about Denny?"
"His parents disowned him immediately after the pictures were made public. At the moment he's living with a cousin who's going to Auburn. Denton has a part-time job and is taking one course at a time at night."
"He's a good kid at heart, sir. I hope he has a good life." I didn't add that I missed him.
A few weeks later, I got a letter, the first mail I'd received since I'd been with Sir. It was from Denny, telling me that at the start of the next term he was going to be a full-time student at Auburn and that Sir was paying his tuition and living expenses. He thanked me over and over, as if I'd had something to do with Sir's generosity.
When Sir came home that evening, I thanked him profusely for what he was doing for Denny.
"No reason why a promising young life should be harmed by one stupid mistake. If he makes decent grades, I'll see that he can afford to finish at Auburn and go on to grad school."
As he said that, I'd been fixing him his bourbon, which I then handed to him.
"And, having said that, I think it's time for us to re-assess our, uh, relationship." Sir didn't often stumble over his words, but obviously `relationship' bothered him.
I waited with some trepidation. Was he finished with me? Was he going to throw me out?
"There's also no reason why your life should be ruined by a stupid mistake, Corey. I feel bad in a way about the conditions I imposed on you when you came here, but I wanted to watch you, to get to know you." He smiled. "And I don't mean getting to know you in a sexual sense. Or not entirely."
He got up, went to the bar and fixed a second Blanton's, added ice, and handed it to me. At that point I really wondered what was going on.
"The problem," he continued, "is that there is never going to be a way you can continue in your chosen profession in this country. Potts saw to that. But there's no reason to waste your mind. So I'd like you to become my personal assistant. To start with, you'll still be based here at home. You'll still be doing some of the same things you've been doing. But I'll pay you an appropriate salary. You'll have your own room, though I'm hoping you might see your way clear to visit mine from time to time."
I took a sip of the Blanton's and coughed. It's good stuff, but I hadn't had anything alcoholic for over a year.
"We'll advertise for a cook. You can help me with the interviews. We can hire a cleaning service. And then you'll supervise the running of the household. As time passes, I'd like to train you to work with me at the office, again in a PA capacity. I'm eager for you to meet John, my associate. When he was an undergraduate at the University, he lived here under conditions very similar to yours to this point. But he's 35 now and has been working first for and later with me since he passed the Bar Exam.
And that's the way things are now. I'm part major domo and part office PA, making more money than I was as a new instructor at the University. Paul is a considerate, generous boss and occasional lover. Denny spends all of his vacations from the University here, and when he's visiting Paul allows us to have all the privacy we want. (Except, of course, when he has Denny in his bed.) Den's going to law school eventually and the plan is that he'll become a part of the firm -- and the family.
So, as Shakespeare said . . . Well, you probably know which play I'm thinking about.
If you enjoyed this, I'd like to hear from you. Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org. Please put "PJ" or "Johnson" or something like that in the subject line so I'll know it isn't spam. Thanks. -- Max