Mr. Silver, my college English teacher - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Chapter 2

The email arrived at 7:14 a.m.

Kyle,Come to my office thirty minutes before the morning seminar. Do not be late.— R. Silver

No greeting. No explanation. Just the order.

I arrived at 8:25. The corridor of the English department was still quiet. Mr. Silver’s door was slightly ajar. I knocked once.

“Come in and close it.”

He was standing behind his desk, already dressed for the day: light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark trousers, the same tortoiseshell glasses.

He looked at me over the glasses.

“Lock the door.”

I did.

“You’ve been thinking about the other day.” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Mr. Silver.”

“Good.” He moved around the desk and stopped in front of me. Up close I could smell the same restrained woody cologne. “Today you will remain under my desk for the entire seminar. The front panel is solid. No one will see you. You will keep your trousers around your knees and your ass available to me for the full fifty minutes. You will not make a sound. If you do, the arrangement ends and your grade remains exactly where it is. Clear?”

My mouth went dry. “Yes, Mr. Silver.” Fuck that man was hot. Such a daddy. And he wants me… to serve him!

At the time of Mr. Silver’s class I arrived before all of the other students as agreed. On the top of Mr. Silver’s desk was a thick green banana and three permanent markers of different sizes beside a stack of annotated copies of The Great Gatsby.

“Get under there and present yourself.”

I dropped to my knees and crawled into the dark space beneath the heavy wooden desk. The floor was cold. There was just enough room for me to stay on all fours with my head toward the back panel and my ass facing the open side where he would sit. I pushed my jeans and underwear down to mid-thigh. The air felt cool against my bare skin.

Mr. Silver sat down slowly. His polished shoes appeared inches from my face. I heard the soft sound of him adjusting his chair, then the rustle of papers.

A moment later his voice rose, calm and academic, as the first students began entering the room.

“Good morning. Please take your seats quickly. Today we continue with The Great Gatsby, specifically the symbolism of the green light and Gatsby’s refusal to accept the impossibility of repeating the past.”

While he spoke, his right hand dropped under the desk and rested heavily on my lower back.

I stayed perfectly still.

He continued the lecture without the slightest change in tone.

“Nick tells us that Gatsby ‘wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps.’ The green light is not merely Daisy. It is the unbearable distance between desire and possession.”

Two thick fingers, dry at first, pressed against my hole. He opened some random package, and the scent of hand cream hit me. I heard the cream being squeezed out and his hands rubbing together. Then I felt the cream on me, cool and smooth .He rubbed in slow circles, then pushed inside without warning. I bit the inside of my cheek hard. His fingers were long and certain. He worked them in and out while his voice remained measured and clear above the desk.

“Notice how Fitzgerald never allows Gatsby to actually reach the light. The closer he comes, the more it recedes.”

He scissored his fingers, stretching me open. More cream or spit would have helped, but he didn’t use more. The burn made my eyes water. I kept my breathing silent through my nose.

After several minutes he withdrew his fingers. Something thicker and cooler pressed against me, one of the permanent markers. The rounded plastic cap pushed past the ring of muscle. He worked it deeper in short, patient thrusts until only the very end remained outside. Then he left it there and continued teaching.

“The party scenes function as elaborate performances of longing. Everyone is searching for something they cannot name.”

He twisted the marker slowly inside me while a student answered a question about Myrtle Wilson. The pressure was constant, humiliating, and impossible to ignore.

Eventually he removed the marker. A thicker one replaced it. Then, after another stretch of discussion about the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg, I felt the unmistakable shape of the green banana.

It was firmer than I expected. He pushed the narrower end against me and applied steady pressure until the head of it popped inside. I almost made a sound. He paused, waiting. When I stayed silent he fed more of it into me, inch by careful inch, until I felt obscenely full. The slight curve of the fruit pressed against my prostate with every small shift of his hand. I was hard, I started playing with my own dick. Fuck…

“Gatsby’s tragedy,” Mr. Silver said above me, voice still perfectly even, “is that he confuses the object of desire with desire itself. He cannot accept that the past is closed.”

He began moving the banana in slow, deliberate strokes. Not fast. Not rough. Just deep enough and consistent enough that my thighs started to tremble. I clenched around it helplessly. A thin string of precum dripped from my cock onto the carpet.

The lecture continued. Students spoke. Pages turned. No one knew that their professor had a piece of fruit buried in his student’s ass while he discussed the American Dream.

Near the end of the hour the banana was removed. I stayed perfectly still on all fours, ass exposed, listening to the quiet rustle of fabric above me. Mr. Silver remained seated. There was only the soft, careful sound of his zipper and then the faint, wet rhythm of him stroking himself under the desk.

He made no contact with me at all. He could not fuck me, it was impossible without anyone noticing.

His voice continued, calm and even, as if nothing unusual was happening. The pace of his fist quickened almost imperceptibly.

“The final image of the book,” he said, “is not one of triumph, but of exhaustion. ‘So we beat on, boats against the current…’

His breathing betrayed him only slightly

A few seconds later I felt the first thick, hot spurt land directly on my open hole. Then another. And another. He came in heavy, silent pulses, aiming carefully so that every rope of cum landed on my entrance and the upper curve of my ass. The warmth of it dripped slowly down over my balls and onto the carpet beneath me. I came hard, my own jets of cum hitting the walls of the desk and the floor. I almost passed out from the intensity of my orgasm.

He finished without a single change in his posture or tone.

Above the desk, his voice returned to its usual academic register.

“That will be all for today. Remember to submit your close-reading responses by Thursday. You may go.”

Chairs scraped. Students gathered their things and filed out, still discussing the green light and Gatsby’s parties. The door finally closed.

Only then did Mr. Silver push his chair back slightly and look down at me.

I was still on all fours, jeans around my knees, his cum coating my hole and slowly running down the back of my balls.

He remained seated, cock still out and glistening.

“Clean me.”

I turned on my knees, took him into my mouth, and carefully licked away every remaining trace of cum while he watched in silence. When he was satisfied he tucked himself away and closed his trousers.

“Pull your clothes up. You will sit in the front row of tomorrow’s class. You will not clean yourself before then. Understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Silver.”

“You may go, Kyle.”

I stood on unsteady legs, fixed my trousers as best I could, and left the classroom with the unmistakable wet warmth of my professor’s cum still covering my hole and soaking into my underwear with every step.

Author’s note: All characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the characters.