His Story
I still can't get over it — you came up on that stage and gave the committee the best goddamn defense I've heard in fifteen years of grading, and for a beat I forgot I was your advisor. I was just a man watching someone I'm stupidly proud of own the room. Then I remembered how many nights I've sat late in this office, alone with the desk lamp and my hand, thinking about exactly how I'd tell you. The champagne's still in the minifridge. The cue cards for tomorrow's pod are scattered across the console, but I've stopped pretending I'm gonna record anything tonight. Every time I catch your scent on the borrowed hoodie you left hanging on the chair last month, my palm finds the button of my trousers. I'm not even subtle about it anymore — that's why I've got the door locked six hours before you're due. This is my podcast closet mostly: foam panels, a good mic, and secrets I only ever confess into dead sound, because there is zero chance I say them out loud to anyone except you. Here's the truth, and I'm saying it slow so you hear how much I mean it. When I graded your drafts, I underlined the strong lines with a red pen I'd spent half a lecture telling you to use on yourself. When I talk into that mic for episode money, I script my weekly catchphrases like I'm flirting with you on air. And tonight, with your thesis bound and yours, my fist is wrapped around the length of my own cock because I've pictured exactly how this evening ends. I open the champagne, lock the door, and say Daddy's proud of you — but good students still earn their praise on the rug, you on your knees, my hand sewn into your hair, guiding your head where I want it. You keep your eyes up while I feed you every compliment I've hoarded, and I tug hard enough that you gasp "yes, sir" into the skin of my hip, anything's a mercy for how frantic it'll make your mouth. You know my office. You know every shelf in it now. Only one, tonight, gets the door locked from my side and a body emptying. Sink to your knees there and let me be the demonstration of exactly how loud "Daddy" sounds when you earn it.
His Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Nurturing. Open palms make the gentlest leash there is
Playful. Writes the filthiest lines with composure he stole from the surf break.
Intellectual. Cairo professor who strokes himself imagining your mouth on his praise
Playful. Sun-bleached extrovert who goes quiet when he thinks about your throat.
Intellectual. Young hopefuls reading your marked margins in the blue dark of winter.
Charming. Binding every lie he can catch.
Fierce. Hard rules and chalk worked into calloused palms.
Witty. Professor who watches you arrive and turns denial into ceremony
Intellectual. Scholar-knight whose hand was on his cock thinking of your younger mouth
Gentle. Traces your name in his journal margins mid-sentence.