We were in the study of Professor Hendrick's house, in the late evening, nearing the end of the tutorial he was conducting. At least I assumed it was nearing the end, because I was very close to coming. We were in a straight chair facing his desk. Professor Hendricks, his hands wrapped around my waist was sitting in the chair; I was sitting on his hard cock—or, rather, fucking myself on his cock in slow risings and fallings and me moaning in tenor to his groaning in baritone.
Professor Hendricks was murmuring how nice I was between his groans of churning inside me—as well he should, because I had had no intention of letting him fuck me and had fended him off for weeks.
Yet here I was, not only letting him have me, but doing the fucking myself—skewered in his lap and pushing off the oriental rug under the desk on the balls of my feet. Up and down, up and down. I'd never done it this way before. But I was in full heat, total rut. Today I wanted a cock inside me; I wanted to fuck myself on a nice juicy cock—and here was a more than willing Professor Hendricks, handily providing a hard pole.
Laying in front of me on the desk top, open, was what had finally won the day for Professor Hendricks. It was a coffee table book of glossy pictures—although not exactly the sort of book most people would lay out on their coffee table. The photos were of men fucking—and not just fucking. They were fucking in public places, sometimes with people strolling by and not taking notice at all. I had no idea how some of these photographs had been taken. Naked male couples fucking on the grass or on the benches in a public park on a sunny day. People sunning on the beach, with a couple of men right there fucking on a towel in their midst. Commuters packed into a subway car, hanging on straps—and there, one man with his pants down around his knees and another man crouched behind him fucking up into him.
I had been sitting at the desk in the straight chair with Professor Hendricks off to the side in his arm chair, running over the mathematics tables with me. Trying from time to time to touch me, but, as usual, me not having anything to do with it. Not saying anything, not accusing him of anything. We both knew that was out of bounds. He was the professor and I was the student. Anything in the open would mean I wouldn't pass his class. And no good reporting it; all the students knew he fucked his male students like a rabbit—whoever's pants he could get into. Surely the university administrators knew that. But he was a big name in applied mathematics; he gave the university stature. In a dispute between him and a student, it wouldn't be the professor who would be packing his bags.
"Perhaps this is something that you might be interested in," he had said. And then he had put this glossy photography book in front of me.
And I'd made the mistake of opening it. I went into instantaneous, intense heat. I had no idea that seeing guys fucking in public would be such a turn on. My interest was obvious to the professor, as I'm sure he had hoped it would be, and he was leaning into me from behind. Touching me. And I wasn't pulling away as usual.
I turned a page, and the professor was pulling my T-shirt over my head. And I was letting him do it. My eyes were pouring over the photographs. Drinking in every pixel of them. Searching the eyes of the passers by for any sign of recognition that there was fucking going on within their sight. And here and there, seeing a reaction and stirring at the thought—actually at the thoughts: both of stumbling upon such a scene in public and of being the guy being fucked. Doing it in public. Seeing who was attracted. Who might be bold enough to join in.
All of the guys having sex in the pages of this book were real hunks. The professor had his arms laced under my pits and his hands on my nipples, pinching them. He had brought down another book—this time a photo album. Even more real and more erotic to me. Not just glossy, quite possibly staged or photo-shopped photos in a book of guys fucking in public, but actual, real life photos of the same. And in these photos—the professor—doing the fucking. A younger, more muscular, achingly handsome professor. My reaction was intense—I wanted to be fucked by the man in these photos. And somehow it didn't matter that he was older now.
He was naked and his hard cock was rubbing between my shoulder blades. And he turned my face to him and kissed me. I let him do this, but only briefly. It was the photographs I wanted to see—it was the "him" in the photos I wanted fucking me. But the photo wasn't real life. Real life was the professor, here, in his study, dominating me.
I stood at his guidance and leaned over the desk, face close in to the photographs. Turning pages, examining the photographs closely. My pants and briefs gone now. The professor sitting in the straight chair, his hands spreading my buttocks cheeks, his mouth and tongue at my asshole.
And then me, in a frenzy of lust and want. Rising and falling on the professor's dick as he sat under me in the chair, moaning, his hands encasing my waist. And me scrutinizing the photographs of the guys fucking in public places. My eyes went to the captions in the glossy book. There were repeated references to an Internet address.
Fucking myself on the professor's hard cock in the quiet evening of the wood-paneled study and repeating the Web address over and over again in my mind.
* * * *
I could hardly wait that night when I got back to the dorm for my roommate to drift off to snoring before I huddled down behind my desk, out of view from his bed, and tapped out the address for the TR trade site on my laptop. I hadn't the foggiest what that meant, but, with trembling fingers, I clicked on the "join" button. I had to pay a fee, which was a bit stiff—but within moments of the images of public male fucking popping up on the screen, I too was stiff and happily masturbating away.
The images almost immediately took over my life, and I found myself checking the latest additions to the Web site whenever and wherever I could settle in a place that had an Internet connection.
I was crouched over the laptop in the university library one day, checking out the Web site and trying to be discrete about holding my throbbing dick through the cloth of my trousers under the rim of the library table top. I don't know how long I had been at that before I realized that someone was standing behind me and looking over my shoulder. I turned. It was a guy a couple of years older than I was—Mediterranean darkness of complexion and with a profusion of black curly hair. The hair was not only on his head but heavy on his forearms as well and welling up at the v in the neck of his sports shirt. He had what I would call bedroom eyes and full, sensuous lips. His features where angular, almost craggy, but everything fell together in a highly attractive, attracting package.
I didn't know how much he had seen, but I only became aware of him when he had laid his hand on my shoulder. In shock, I looked around. Long, thick fingers, with curls of black hair on them above the knuckles and on the back of his hand.
I mumbled something—I don't know what—and snapped my laptop shut and stumbled out of the library building. When I reached my car, I turned as I was throwing my stuff into the backseat, and saw him there at the top of the stairs up to the library entrance. He was scanning the area around the library.
Before his eyes turned in my direction, I instinctively shut the car door again and slipped across the street and into the large city park that ran across the road from the older, main buildings of the university. I was well down the path and turning onto one that rimmed a large grassy area when I looked back and saw him again at the entrance I'd used to get into the park.
I went off the path and into a grove of trees. I found one where the trunk split into two about four feet off the ground so that I could hide behind it and peek out between the tree trunks and view the path rimming the grassy area. I couldn't be sure he was following me. If so, I should be able to see him from here when he passed on the path and then double back and be gone. I was so embarrassed that he might have seen what I was viewing on my laptop screen in the library. Still, I was all a tremble and aroused. The new sensations were delicious. And here I was in a public place.
I waited a few minutes, but no sign of the man who had followed me into the park, although a couple, very much taken with each other did pass by not more than twenty feet from where I was half concealed between the two trunks of the tree. Two young guys had come out onto the grassy area, throwing a Frisbee and being pretty noisy about it. They looked pretty hunky, and my imagination went to what the three of us could be doing out on that grassy lawn.
My mind went into a fantasy of the three of us throwing the Frisbee—all in the nude. People were passing by us on the pathway skirting the irregular oval of parkland we were frolicking in, but they weren't seeing us. It was like we weren't there. The two men were impossibly hung, like this was some sort of a cartoon. One laughed and flew the Frisbee over my head toward a fringe of trees. Both I and one of the young hunks were going after it. Our paths collided at the fringe of the trees, on a little knoll just short of the tree line. We went down in a heap. The guy was under me and somehow I was stretched on top of him, my ass impaled on his hard cock, and he was fucking me. The other young man approached and fell down on the grass at my feet and began sucking my cock. All of the time, people—in Victorian costumes, the women with frilly parasols—were strolling the pathways around the oval, oblivious to the fucking going on just short of the tree line.
I came back into the real world, my hand at my crotch, spot of wetness on my pants where my cock had released some precum.
I was about to leave, when I felt hands on my hips from behind and a deep voice was whispering in my ear. "Hold still. Just hold right there."
I turned my head in shock, just in time to see a mop of black curly hair dipping down at my side. Hands were fumbling at my belt buckle and then my zipper, and my pants and briefs were being slipped down off my hips.
I flinched and moaned as a cool tongue lapped between my butt cheeks, seeking out my asshole, and a hand encased my dick. I was confused. Was I slipping into another fantasy or was this real. It seemed quite real, though. I should have pulled away then and stumbled out of the park, but the lust filled me immediately and I was going very hard. The reality was even more arousing than the photos on the public fucking Web site were.
I gave in to it—just as I had for the professor. I stood, leaning into the crotch of the tree, my legs spread out behind me, locked and in a wider stance so the dark guy could kneel between them. I was depicting as fully clothed for anyone spying me from the park path or out on the grassy area, but I was revealed from the rear as naked from the waist down, with, first a tongue, and then fingers, digging into my ass canal and a big, calloused hand pulling at my engorged cock.
