No, I amend that thought. I want to be dirty with Kyler.
The line that I drew less than a week ago has already blurred like the lines of his impressionist painting. Blurred so boldly that I can no longer see the variance or distinction between the role I play as Kyler’s professor and as his lover.
I sit on my leather ottoman, knees spread wide, a nearly empty martini glass in one hand resting on my thigh, the other hand holding my phone that lays face down against my chest.
And then the ping and the articulate vibration of the phone signals his response. It sings like the Hallelujah chorus in my empty living room.
It’s almost comical how fast I pick it up and read the words scrawling across my screen. The nickname I gave his contact number, in the event…well, in the event things veer off academia.
Art Boy: I’ve had many of these real-life experiences.
Art Boy: Perhaps it’s just you that fantasizes over this painting? And it speaks to you about one spectacular fuck you can’t seem to forget?
Art Boy: Maybe it brings to mind, like all good art should, a personal experience where you were fucked so good and so hard that nothing can ever compare to it again?
I finish my drink in one swig and move the glass to the end table, gripping my phone with both hands as I type. Fueled with something bold and daring clawing its way out of my chest and my soul. My body hungry to walk this tight rope of sexual awareness and to stay lucid while not falling off into the unknown.
Before I can stop myself, I’m pressing his contact number in my keypad and allow my carefully laid lines of behavior — the ones where I promised I’d remain professional —completely distort their shape and turn hazy, as if they never even existed.
“Hello, Professor.”
Kyler’s tone is amused but has a heavy, smoky sensual vibration in his voice. My cock stirs viciously in my shorts, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip in anticipation of this conversation. Because I know exactly where it’s going.
And I’m going straight to hell if I believed those sorts of things.
I’m agitated and horny, so my response doesn’t come out sweet.
“Don’t fucking pretend that your painting isn’t us. You’re the one who painted it and it’s derived from your scandalous mind, which can only mean that you’ve been the one to fantasize about me.”
I press my ear against my phone so it’s snug against my chin and drop my hands to my groin. It’s no secret where this is going, so I might as well be good and prepared. I unbutton and unzip my shorts, not an ounce of guilt coursing through my head as I slide my hand over my growing erection.
There’s silence on the other end. “Kyler, answer me. Do you think about it? Our night together? The way you opened up for me and called me Daddy when I pressed deep inside your body?”
He groans and the sound makes me grow impossibly harder. “Yes, fine. I have.”
His words are clipped as if struggling to leave his throat. And oh my God, his throat.
I remember exactly what it felt like to skim my wet lips over his smooth perfect throat. Or when the head of my cock slid over his tongue and ventured so far down his throat. I’d jerked and pushed farther as he swallowed down to gasp for air.
“Yes, what?” I rasp, squeezing the head of my dick so I don’t go off in seconds like an inexperienced teenager.
I want him to say it exactly the way he did the night we were together. It’s a fetish and a kink we both seem to share, but on opposite ends of the spectrum.
“Yes, daddy.”
Because I’ve been very closeted in my sexuality and haven’t much explored or pursued anything with men on a regular basis, it surprised me to find myself so turned on when Kyler called me daddy and asked that I punish him for being a naughty boy.
Now, of course, being an academic and always curious about the underlying psychological explanation, I theorized about the psyche related to this domineering and submissive form of kink. And I was certainly interested to learn what pushed Kyler to seek out that type of sexual play.
Our short night together only allowed for tame punishments, such as a few solid spankings against his bare ass and terse instruction I’d given him to follow. But it had me realizing what I’d been missing all this time in my sex life.
Perhaps it was the freedom it gave me to explore my dominant side for the first time in my adult life.
“That’s right. Now be a good boy and take out your cock, Kyler.”
I can hear rustling but it’s only momentarily until he returns with a breathy voice. “Okay. My cock is out just like you want.”
I suck in a breath, exhaling slowly, enjoying the heightened awareness between us. Knowing the line we’re about to cross and feeling that heady thrum of excitement from the illicit nature of this call.
“Are you leaking for me?”
“Yes, daddy,” he pants breathlessly.
Goddamn, I want to see him.
I want to see his face and the need flashing across his marbled hazel eyes. I need to see his pulsing cock, it's color a deep purple hue and see with my own two eyes just how much I turn him on. And in turn, show him exactly what he does to me.
Everything about him pushes me past my carefully constructed limits.
But warning lights come on in my head, the distinct blare of an alarm buzzing for me to wake up and get a grip on reality.
This has gone too far already. I promised him I wouldn’t do this. I will not use my advantage and my position—which I’ve worked so hard and so long to achieve—to prey upon a student, regardless of whether said student is just as willing of a participant. Or whether said student and I have had previous sexual relations.
My silence must be noticeable, as Kyler’s breath halts in my ear, his voice soft and tenuous.
“Luc? Are you still there? Did I…”
Swallowing my guilt, I zip up my jeans but leave the button open, hastily standing up in my living room to give me the solid footing I need to end this before I make a mockery of my life and become another statistic.
“Kyler, I’m sorry. I can’t do this with you. I’ve got to go.”
Reluctantly — but quickly so I don’t talk myself out of it — I end the call.
And feel like shit the remainder of the weekend.
10
Kyler
I tossed and turned all night, questioning every little detail of the call last night with Lucas. Still dissecting it, while turning it over and over in my mind, wondering what I could have done to make Lucas veer off course so suddenly and abruptly without warning.
The clock on our kitchen microwave says it’s eleven forty-five. Being that it’s Sunday, all I have going on today is laundry, the much needed grocery shopping, and studying.
“Morning,” calls Peyton from her spot on the couch where she’s sprawled out in a short pink bathrobe, legs and feet bare, the television on one of the design shows we usually record and then watch together. “I was going to wait for you to watch, but it’s been hours! You must have had a late night last night.”
She pauses the show and slips off the couch to join me in the kitchen, sliding up next to me with an expectant look. There’s still hot coffee in the carafe, which I pour in my cup and drink down like it’s the water of life.