**Author's Note**
I had this idea after seeing these two Cambridge profs giving each other *that look* while chatting up some poor bastard at a department do. You know the type - respectable in public, absolute filth behind closed doors.
This is not supposed to be some clever literature piece. It's about fucking.
---
Prologue
There's something fucking liberating about keeping up appearances in public while doing whatever the fuck you want in private. After fifteen years with David, I've learnt that the best arrangements are the ones you choose for yourself, away from nosy bastards who'd judge you.
It started with Alexander from the maths department. Fucking hell, that man could calculate exactly where to put his fingers to make me come in seconds... Then Liam happened - gosh, so young and eager, couldn't stop shaking the first time I took his cock out. And Elliot? Our neighbour's kid turned out to be something else. The way he'd smirk at me across the room after he'd been balls-deep inside me the night before... Still gets me wet just thinking about it.
Each one taught us something. About what we actually want. About how much bollocks all those social rules really are. Our marriage is way better for it. The dirty looks we shoot each other at boring faculty dos, both of us thinking about the same filthy stuff we've done.
"Getting bloody good at picking them out, aren't we?" David said over breakfast Tuesday, that dirty grin on his face. "Maybe we need a proper system or something."
I snorted into my coffee. "What, like marks out of ten? Cock size, staying power, and whether they can keep their mouth shut afterward?"
"Plus brains," he added, mouth full of toast. "Don't forget we've got standards, love."
He always talks about our hookups like they're some kind of academic experiment. Cracks me up. Though honestly, I do think of these little adventures as educational - for the lads and for us. Each one showing us new shit we didn't know we'd be into.
Which brings me to that train to London, and a fit young thing called William Harwick...
---
Let me tell you about the 11:42 to Liverpool Street. It's got a vibe, right? Not the morning rush with all the miserable commuters, not the late train full of pissed academics. The midday one's different - lecturers skiving off, posh twats with jobs flexible enough to travel midday, and sometimes, if you're lucky, students in their best clothes going for interviews.
You're probably wondering why someone like me - Dr. Harrison, respected Cambridge art historian and all that wank - notices this stuff. Well, respectability's just a mask, right? Like the paintings I fix up, I keep my outside looking proper while underneath I'm thinking about all sorts of filth.
After Alexander bent me over my desk and made me bite my hand to keep quiet, after teaching Liam how to lick pussy properly, after Elliot fucked me so hard I couldn't walk straight - you'd think I'd have had enough of younger blokes. But once you start, you don't stop wanting it. You just get hungrier.
David had got us seats in First Class (one of the few perks of this shit academic pay). He sat there pretending to read some boring journal. I say pretending 'cause my husband never misses a trick, especially not when I'm eyeing up fresh meat.
"Three rows back, by the window," I whispered, pretending to check my papers. "Glasses, school uniform."
David flipped a page like he couldn't care less. "Posh school. Head boy, looks like. Nice face on him."
I had another peek. "Fucking gorgeous, more like. Look at those cheekbones. And his hands - bet he plays piano or something."
This is our little game. Fifteen years married and we figured out that being faithful doesn't mean being bloody bored. Adventures are better together. Since that first night with Alexander, we've got pretty good at spotting likely candidates for what we jokingly call "extra credit work." Nothing jokey about how thoroughly we end up shagging them, though.
"He's reading John Berger," I said, crossing my legs so my skirt rode up, showing the tops of my stockings. I knew he'd look. They all do, even the smart ones. "Bit deep for a schoolboy."
I wasn't wearing stockings and no knickers for comfort, was I? Not when I've had young cock inside me while David watches, wanking himself off. I wear them as bait, pure and simple. I could feel myself getting wet just thinking about fresh meat.
"Christ, Catherine," David said, trying not to laugh, "are you seriously checking out a sixth-former on a bloody train?"
"Just looking," I said, all innocent. "But he reminds me of that cellist from summer."
"Right," David nodded, putting his journal down. "The one who played all that classical shit then ate your pussy like a pro."
"That's the one," I grinned, feeling myself get even wetter. "This one's different though. Not all nervous like Liam was. Reminds me more of Elliot - you know, that confidence he had when he first fucked me while you watched."
Elliot always gets David going. Our neighbour's boy really left his mark, especially that night during May Ball when he was in my mouth while David did me from behind. We've still got his filthy postcards pinned up in our bedroom.
You probably think I'm a right predator, but it's not like that. Young blokes learn more with someone who knows what they're doing. Like practical lessons after all that theory, yeah? I've been around academia long enough to know the real education happens when I've got my knickers off.
The train slowed at Audley End, and our target looked up. Fuck me, those eyes - proper intense behind those smart-boy glasses. When he caught me staring, he didn't look away for ages. Definite potential there. I imagined those eyes watching me as I sucked him off.
I recrossed my legs dead slow, making sure he could see the silk against my thighs, knowing if he looked hard enough, he'd see I wasn't wearing anything underneath. His eyes dropped for a sec before going back to his book. His cheeks went all pink.
"Fucking hell, he's interested," I whispered to David, who was checking the time like he wasn't arsed.
"Course he is," he murmured. "That whole 'I'm going back to my book' thing. Controlled, but gagging for it. Wonder how quick he'd lose that control with your mouth round his dick."
As the train set off again, I fiddled with my scarf then let it "accidentally" fall as the carriage rocked. Old trick, but it works. Used it on Liam at that boring faculty thing. Sure enough, our schoolboy noticed right away and got up.
"Think you dropped this," he said, coming over. Christ, his voice - all posh school but with that hint of wanting to fuck.
I looked up like I was surprised. "Oh, thanks," I said, making sure to brush his fingers when I took it. "Such a gentleman."
"Just being polite," he said with a little smile. "Though it did give me an excuse to come over. Your conversation looked more interesting than my book."
Cheeky sod. I like that. It's what I noticed about Elliot at that garden party - the way he looked at me before he bent me over a desk in the departmental library later.
"I'm William Harwick," he said, shaking hands with David first, then me. "Head boy at Bishop's Stortford. Just had a Cambridge interview, actually."
"David Harrison," my husband said, doing that handshake blokes do when they're sizing each other up. "Economics at Trinity."
"Catherine Harrison," I added. "Art conservation, Fitzwilliam."
His eyes got all big. "Dr. Harrison? I was at your Rembrandt talk last term! Our class came. That demonstration of the layering techniques was brilliant."
I hate kiss-arses, but he actually remembered specific bits from my lecture. He'd been paying attention. Interesting. I wondered what other "layering techniques" I could show him, preferably with him on his knees.
"Good memory," I said. "That was pretty complicated stuff for A-level."
"William, please," he said. "Some talks just stick with you, especially since I'm thinking about art history with economics at uni."
I fucking love it when they've got brains to match their looks. So much better than just a pretty boy. Elliot was like that - could chat politics one minute then fuck me stupid the next. I'd had fun showing him exactly how to use that gorgeous cock of his.
David was giving him the once-over, amused, like he does with promising students. "Want to join us? Plenty of room next to my wife, and I'd be interested in hearing about your academic plans."
This is why David's perfect for this game. The totally innocent invite, testing the waters. William paused just long enough to look thoughtful before sitting down.
When he sat beside me, I shifted a bit, making sure my skirt rode up enough to show off my stockings and, if he looked quick, give him a peek at my bare pussy. His cool act slipped for just a second, eyes dropping to my legs before he caught himself. I swear I could almost hear him sniff the air, like he could smell how wet I was getting.
I love watching when they first start to cotton on. The confusion, the hope, the faster breathing. I saw it with Alexander when I first got him alone in my office, with Liam when David suggested some "private tutoring," and especially with Elliot when we first had him over. Young blokes are so obvious. Their cocks even more so.
"My husband was just asking about your reading material," I said, putting my hand near his on the table. "Berger's not typical sixth-form stuff."
"The syllabus books are pretty basic," William said, pulling himself together. "Ways of Seeing's just more interesting."
"Independent learning always beats the curriculum," David chimed in, joining our little game with the smoothness that comes from practice. "Sometimes formal education just gets in the way of real understanding."
We chatted easily after that, and fuck me if William didn't know his stuff. I kept myself just close enough, letting my bare leg brush his when the train rocked, noticing he didn't move away but didn't push it either. Controlled but aware. Perfect. I was already thinking about making him lose that control with my mouth.
