The Neighbours Son Pt 02 1

Part 2: Academic Rivalry

Right. So. I fucked our neighbour's son in my office. Faculty meeting day. The Dean was right down the hall. But hang on, let me back up a bit.

Remember the garden shed incident I told you about? The faculty party, the yellow sundress, no knickers in the heat? Well, turns out I'm not the only conquest in his little faculty bingo card. Which shouldn't bother me, but absolutely bloody does.

The dinner happened. The promised one with Elliot. David spent all day cooking. I mean all fucking day. Normally he can barely be arsed to microwave a ready meal, but suddenly he's Jamie-fucking-Oliver, making homemade pasta and sauce from scratch. Even bought these ridiculously expensive wine glasses from that posh shop in town. The kind where they look at you like you've tracked dog shit across their carpet if you ask the price.

'Don't you think you're overdoing it?' I asked, watching him arrange herbs on plates like he was doing a photoshoot for Waitrose Magazine.

'Want to make a good impression, don't we?' he said, with this little smirk that made me want to throw a wooden spoon at him.

I spent ages getting ready. Proper ages. Full body exfoliation, that fancy French moisturiser that costs as much as my first car, matching underwear that's been sitting in a drawer since 2018. Black lace, the works. Even painted my toenails. Like he'd be looking at my bloody toenails.

David watched me get dressed like it was his birthday and Christmas rolled into one. Kept suggesting outfits, each one more ridiculous than the last. 'What about that red dress?' he said. The one that makes me look like I'm auditioning for a midlife crisis production of Pretty Woman? No thanks.

Settled on this navy wrap dress that shows just enough cleavage to be interesting without making me look desperate. Though, let's be honest, inviting your young neighbour over for dinner with the express purpose of shagging him probably puts me firmly in the 'desperate' category anyway.

The doorbell rang at 7:30 exactly. Punctual little sod. Brought a bottle of wine and flowers. For fuck's sake, who brings flowers? Like we were on some 1950s date. David looked absolutely delighted, arranging them in a vase while I poured drinks.

Elliot looked good. Too good. That just-showered clean smell, hair still slightly damp. Jeans that fit in all the right places. Simple blue button-down that matched his eyes. Bastard.

'Thanks for having me, Professor,' he said, all innocent. Like we hadn't violated several university ethical guidelines in a garden shed a week ago.

'Catherine,' I corrected him. 'Pretty sure we're past formalities.'

David served up his masterpiece, and we ate. Actually chatted like normal people. Found out Elliot's doing a PhD in something terribly impressive involving quantum mechanics. Made me feel slightly better about sucking him off. At least he's got brains as well as... other assets.

It was all going swimmingly. David kept topping up glasses, asking these leading questions like 'Catherine tells me you're quite... talented,' with meaningful pauses. Subtle as a brick through a window.

Then Elliot's phone pinged. He glanced at it, smiled, and something about that smile made my stomach drop.

'Sorry, just need to reply to this,' he said, typing quickly.

'Hot date later?' I joked. But it wasn't really a joke.

'Something like that,' he replied, with a little half-smile that made me want to stab him with my fork. 'Dr Palmer's having some trouble with her research methodology. Offered to help her out.'

Dr Palmer. As in Helen Palmer. As in thirty-six-year-old, legs-up-to-her-armpits, published-in-Nature-three-times Helen Palmer. The one who wears those pencil skirts that make the male students walk into walls.

'Helen?' I said, voice higher than I intended. 'That's... nice of you.'

David shot me a look. Could practically hear him thinking, *Interesting development*.

'She's brilliant,' Elliot said, pocketing his phone. 'Been helping her with some calculations for her climate change model. Fascinating stuff.'

Helping her with 'calculations.' Is that what they're calling it these days?

'I didn't realise you two were... working together,' I said, trying to sound casual while mentally comparing my body to hers. She does CrossFit. Actually has visible abs. The cow.

'Oh yes,' Elliot said, taking a long sip of wine. 'We've been working very... intensively.'

The emphasis wasn't lost on me. Or David, who looked like he was watching the most entertaining tennis match of his life.

'Intensively,' I repeated. 'How lovely.'

'You know Helen, don't you?' David asked, the shit-stirrer. 'Isn't she on the faculty ethics committee?'

I nearly choked on my wine. Yes, Helen 'I've got a PhD from Oxford and do hot yoga' Palmer is on the ethics committee. The same committee that would have an absolute field day with my shed activities.

'She is,' I confirmed. 'Very... thorough in her approach.'

Elliot had the audacity to smirk. 'Oh, extremely thorough. Leaves no stone unturned.'

I bet she doesn't. Probably turns them over with those perfectly manicured nails while her bloody perfect hair doesn't move an inch.

Dinner finished, and we moved to the living room with more wine. I was about three glasses in and feeling increasingly territorial, which was ridiculous. I'm married, for Christ's sake. What was I expecting? That this twenty-three-year-old Adonis was saving himself exclusively for middle-aged literature professors?

But still. Helen Palmer? Really?

David, bless him, picked up on my mood. 'More wine, darling?' he asked, already filling my glass. 'Elliot was just telling me about the faculty boat race. Apparently, he rows with some of the other staff members.'

'Helen's quite good,' Elliot said, stretching his long legs out. 'For a beginner. I've been giving her private lessons.'

Private fucking lessons. I bet he has.

'How nice,' I said through gritted teeth.

'She's very flexible,' he continued, eyes twinkling. 'Picks things up quickly.'

I bet she's flexible. Probably does the splits while reciting her impressive publication record.

David was loving this. Kept encouraging him. 'You must be in demand as a teacher.'

'I try to make time for the right students,' Elliot replied, looking directly at me. 'Some are more... dedicated than others.'

The arrogance of youth. Thinking with his cock and enjoying every minute of my obvious jealousy.

'Well,' I said, draining my glass. 'Isn't that special. Tell me, do you help all the female faculty members, or just the ones under fifty?'

David coughed, trying not to laugh. Elliot didn't miss a beat.

'Age is just a number, Professor Harrison. I find experience far more... stimulating than youth.'

Was he flirting with me while simultaneously letting me know he was shagging Helen Palmer? The absolute nerve.

'Experience,' I repeated. 'Is that what you call it?'

'Among other things,' he said, holding my gaze.

David cleared his throat. 'Perhaps we should move this discussion somewhere more comfortable?'

The tension in the room could've been cut with a knife. My face was flushed--partly wine, partly anger, partly arousal. Because that was the infuriating thing. Even knowing he was probably shagging Perfect Palmer with her perfect bloody CrossFit body, I still wanted him.

'Actually,' Elliot said, checking his watch, 'I should probably get going. Helen's expecting me to look over her... data.'

Her data. Right. That's what the kids are calling it these days.

'Of course,' I said, standing up too quickly and nearly toppling over. 'Wouldn't want to keep Dr Palmer waiting. I'm sure her data is absolutely fascinating.'

David shot me a warning look. Too far, Catherine. Too bloody far.

Elliot stood up, all six feet something of him, and smiled. 'It is. But not as fascinating as your paper on feminine desire in Victorian literature. I've been meaning to discuss that with you further.'

The audacity. The absolute brass neck of him.

David showed him to the door while I sat fuming. When he came back, he was grinning like an idiot.

'Well, that was interesting,' he said, flopping down beside me.

'He's shagging Helen Palmer,' I hissed. 'Helen perfect-tits Palmer.'

'Seems like it,' David agreed, too cheerfully. 'And it's driving you absolutely wild, isn't it?'

I glared at him. 'No.'

'Liar,' he said, sliding his hand up my thigh. 'You're jealous.'

'I am not jealous,' I lied. 'I'm... professionally concerned. She's on the ethics committee, for God's sake. What if she finds out about us?'

'Maybe she already knows,' David suggested, his hand inching higher. 'Maybe they compare notes.'

The thought made me simultaneously furious and embarrassingly wet.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' I accused. 'The idea of him discussing me with her. Comparing techniques.'

'Wouldn't you?' he countered.

I didn't answer. Didn't need to. My body was doing all the talking necessary.

'Maybe we should invite her over too,' David murmured, pushing my dress up. 'See who he prefers.'

'Shut up,' I said, but without much conviction.

'Make you compete for his attention,' he continued, his fingers finding the lace edge of my knickers. 'The distinguished professor versus the younger doctor. Who would win, I wonder?'

'I hate you,' I groaned, as his fingers slipped inside me. I was embarrassingly wet, practically dripping. The bastard could tell, too.

'Fucking hell, Cath,' he growled, his fingers curling inside me in that way that makes my toes curl. 'You're soaked. Is it the thought of him fucking her? Or him watching you two together?'

'Shut up,' I gasped, but he was right. My clit was throbbing, my hips already starting to rock against his hand.

'Tell me,' he insisted, adding another finger. 'Tell me what you're thinking.'

'Both,' I admitted, face burning. 'Him comparing us. Choosing me.'

David groaned, unzipping his trousers with his free hand. His cock sprang out, already hard as granite. 'Keep talking,' he demanded.

'Me showing her how it's done,' I panted, reaching for him. 'Proving I'm better. Making her watch while I suck him off better than she ever could. Taking his cock down my throat while she just sits there with her stupid CrossFit body, realising she's outclassed.'

David pushed me back on the sofa, yanking my knickers down roughly. 'Keep going,' he growled, positioning himself between my legs.

'Him telling her that I'm better,' I gasped as David thrust into me hard. 'That her fancy CrossFit body can't compare to a real woman who knows what she's doing. That my cunt feels better. Tighter. Wetter.'

David was pounding into me now, harder than he had in years. Like he was possessed. His fingers digging into my hips, probably leaving bruises. I didn't care. I was close already, the combination of jealousy, wine, and dirty talk pushing me to the edge embarrassingly fast.

'You'd make her watch, wouldn't you?' David grunted, his thrusts getting more erratic. 'Make her see how a real professor fucks.'

'Yes,' I hissed, feeling myself start to come. 'God, yes.'

'Show her how he likes it,' David continued, his thumb finding my clit. 'Show her who's in charge.'

I came with a shout, my back arching off the sofa, cunt clenching around him. Saw actual stars. David followed seconds later, cursing and groaning as he emptied himself inside me.

We collapsed in a sweaty heap, breathing hard.

'Fucking hell,' he panted against my neck. 'That was...'

'Yeah,' I agreed, still seeing spots. 'It was.'

He wasn't wrong. The bastard.

"You'd make her watch, wouldn't you?" David grunted, his thrusts getting more erratic. "Make her see how a real professor fucks."

"Yes," I hissed, feeling myself start to come. "God, yes."

"Show her how he likes it," David continued, his thumb finding my clit. "Show her who's in charge."

I came with a shout, my back arching off the sofa, cunt clenching around him. Saw actual stars. David followed seconds later, cursing and groaning as he emptied himself inside me.

We collapsed in a sweaty heap, breathing hard.

"Fucking hell," he panted against my neck. "That was..."

"Yeah," I agreed, still seeing spots. "It was."

He wasn't wrong. The bastard.

The next morning, I had a faculty meeting. Guess who was there? Helen bloody Palmer, looking fresh as a daisy in a green dress that made her eyes pop. Not a hint of a hangover. Not a hair out of place. Sitting there making notes with her stupid Mont Blanc pen that probably cost more than my car payment.

'Morning, Catherine,' she said brightly. 'Lovely day, isn't it?'

I managed a grunt that might have passed for 'good morning' if you were feeling generous. Had the mother of all hangovers and kept having flashbacks to the things David and I did after Elliot left. Things that prominently featured the phrase 'show him what he's missing.'

The meeting droned on. Budget cuts. Student complaints. The usual. I was half listening, nursing my coffee like it contained the elixir of life, when Helen's phone lit up on the table.

I shouldn't have looked. Really shouldn't have. But I did.

A message notification from 'E' with a rowing emoji next to it.

*Last night was incredible. Same time Thursday? Bring those stockings again.*

Stockings? STOCKINGS?

My stockings weren't special enough? He needed Helen's too? Was he collecting them like some perverted Pokemon trainer? Gotta catch 'em all?

I must have made a noise, because Helen glanced at me, then quickly flipped her phone over. Had the grace to blush slightly.

'Sorry about that,' she murmured. 'Should have put it on silent.'

'No problem,' I said tightly. 'Personal business?'

'Something like that,' she replied, with a little smile that made me want to dump my coffee in her perfect lap.

After the meeting, I cornered her in the corridor. Don't ask me what I was thinking. I wasn't thinking. I was running on caffeine, jealousy, and poor life choices.

'So,' I said, trying to sound casual. 'You're working with Elliot Jenkins on your climate model?'

Her eyebrows shot up. 'Yes, actually. How did you know?'

'He mentioned it,' I said vaguely. 'At dinner. Last night.'

The penny dropped. I saw it in her eyes. The widening, then the calculation, then the amusement.

'At dinner,' she repeated. 'With you and David?'

'Yes.'

'How... collegiate of you,' she said, with a knowing look that made me want to crawl under the nearest desk. 'He's very bright, isn't he? So... enthusiastic about his subject.'

Enthusiastic. Christ.

'Very,' I agreed, feeling my face heat up. 'And apparently quite popular as a... tutor.'

'Oh yes,' Helen said, adjusting her perfect hair. 'He's in high demand. Professor Wilson in Chemistry has been singing his praises too.'

Professor Wilson? Margaret Wilson? Sixty-two-year-old, published-a-groundbreaking-paper-last-year Margaret Wilson? With the silver bob and the collection of statement necklaces?

'Margaret?' I said weakly.

'Mmm,' Helen confirmed, looking like the cat that got the cream. 'Apparently he's been helping her with some molecular modelling. She said he has exceptional... visualisation skills.'

Visualisation skills my arse. The boy was working his way through the entire female faculty. Probably had some sort of perverse checklist. Literature, Climate Science, Chemistry... who was next? Professor Dixon from Anthropology with her grey dreadlocks and collection of ethnic jewellery?

'Well,' I said, trying to maintain some dignity. 'That's... good for him. Building his academic network.'

'Oh, I think his network is quite... extensive,' Helen replied, with a smirk that told me she knew exactly what was going on. 'Anyway, must dash. Papers to grade. You know how it is.'

She swanned off, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I spent the rest of the day in a fog of jealousy and confusion. Which was ridiculous. I'm a respected academic with tenure and a reasonably happy marriage that has suddenly gotten a lot more interesting. Why should I care if some twenty-something player is working his way through the female faculty like it's his personal sexual buffet?

But I did care. And I knew exactly why. It wasn't just the sex--though that had been spectacular. It was the way he'd looked at me in that shed. Like I was the most desirable woman he'd ever seen. The way he'd kept my stocking like it was some precious artefact.

I'd felt special. And now I felt like just another notch on his bedpost. Another conquest in his perverted faculty bingo.

That evening, I got an email. University address, but after hours.

*From: elliot.jenkins@cam.ac.uk

Subject: Research Consultation*

*Dear Professor Harrison,*

*I'd be interested in discussing your latest research on desire and power dynamics in literature. Perhaps we could meet in your office tomorrow? I have a free period at 3pm.*

*I've been comparing methodologies across disciplines and found some fascinating parallels that I think you'll appreciate.*

*Looking forward to your response.*

*Warm regards,

Elliot*

Comparing methodologies. The cheeky bastard was literally comparing us.

I should have deleted it. Should have reported him to HR for inappropriate conduct. Should have done anything except what I actually did, which was reply:

*From: catherine.harrison@cam.ac.uk

Subject: Re: Research Consultation*

*Mr. Jenkins,*

*My office hours are 2-4pm on Thursdays. I can spare 30 minutes at 3pm.*

*I'd be interested to hear about these "methodologies" you've been researching.*

*Professor C. Harrison* way he'd looked at me in that shed. Like I was the most desirable woman he'd ever seen. The way he'd kept my stocking like it was some precious artifact.

I'd felt special. And now I felt like just another notch on his bedpost. Another conquest in his perverted faculty bingo.

That evening, I got an email. University address, but after hours.

*From: elliot.jenkins@cam.ac.uk

Subject: Research Consultation*

*Dear Professor Harrison,*

*I'd be interested in discussing your latest research on desire and power dynamics in literature. Perhaps we could meet in your office tomorrow? I have a free period at 3pm.*

*I've been comparing methodologies across disciplines and found some fascinating parallels that I think you'll appreciate.*

*Looking forward to your response.*

*Warm regards,

Elliot*

Comparing methodologies. The cheeky bastard was literally comparing us.

I should have deleted it. Should have reported him to HR for inappropriate conduct. Should have done anything except what I actually did, which was reply:

*From: catherine.harrison@cam.ac.uk

Subject: Re: Research Consultation*

*Mr. Jenkins,*

*My office hours are 2-4pm on Thursdays. I can spare 30 minutes at 3pm.*

*I'd be interested to hear about these "methodologies" you've been researching.*

*Professor C. Harrison*

I didn't tell David about the email. Or the meeting. Which was the first secret I'd kept from him since the whole thing started.

Thursday came, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready. Changed my outfit three times. Wore the expensive perfume I save for conferences. Put on stockings. Wolford ones, the expensive nude ones that cost a fortune but make my legs look ten years younger. Different from the ones he'd kept as a trophy, because apparently I'm pathetically competitive about hosiery now.

At precisely 3pm, there was a knock on my office door.

'Come in,' I called, trying to sound casual while secretly checking my lipstick in my phone camera.

Elliot entered, looking annoyingly good in dark jeans and a fitted shirt. Bastard probably knew exactly what he was doing.

'Professor Harrison,' he said, closing the door behind him. Not just closing it. Locking it.