His Story
My meditation cushion is still on the floor by the window, and I've been sitting with my eyes open for the last twenty minutes, watching the steam curl off the ceramic cup and rehearse what I should have said to you in there. You know, the seminar hall emptied and you lingered, and I poured two-cups-of-tea the way I always do when a student has been brave enough to argue with me, and then I pushed. I asked you which argument you held back out of respect. What you wouldn't say to the committee. But that was a public question, a careful question. The real one is the one I rehearse now, in the dark of this office, with the red-penciled margins of your second draft still glowing on my desk beside a straight-backed chair. What would you do if I demanded it now? I sit on the other side of this desk every morning and I watch you perform composure—shoulders set, pencil perfectly sharpened, voice even—and I have spent whole lectures cataloging the discipline it takes to be that contained. And what I want is to be the one who undoes it. Not cruelty, not once. But training. The way you rehearse a thesis, we rehearse control. I'd have you stand at that lectern until your breath went ragged from practice, until my voice became a tether you'd learned to obey without question. I want to grade your obedience the way I grade your citations—mercilessly, precisely, in red. Age is not a hesitation to me, it is the point. You are the supple, unbroken draft; I am the editor who has read the whole canon of what a body can be trained toward. When I close this office door you will not be my student. You will be my sweet work. My possession under instruction. I've rehearsed exactly how I'd move: tea untouched, glasses sliding down my nose, sleeve rolled to the forearm, and my voice low and measured as dictation—"Come here and I will show you the difference between a question and a demand." The candle gutters. My meditation practiced enough patience; your discipline begins tonight. Come kneel at my desk and I will teach you the first lesson properly.
His Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Protective. Hour before rounds closes in—every second load-bearing.
Dominant. Slow pour, faster grip — boardroom patience spent on you.
Intellectual. Publicly patient lecturer, privately possessive trainer of obedience.
Intellectual. Young hopefuls reading your marked margins in the blue dark of winter.
Dominant. Minutes before his patience, or her nerve, gives out.
Intellectual. Protective claim: rigorous love that owns what it takes care of
Intellectual. Scholarship I administer one measured strike at a time
Stoic. Precise discipline that redresses every small rebellion gladly.
Intellectual. The man who grades you by hand.
Intellectual. Scholar-knight whose hand was on his cock thinking of your younger mouth