Professor’s Rule 01 - Giving an Inch Read Free

can’t comment on that, but I’m really pleased you’ve come so far. I’m proud of you.
    Jesus. Why did those words still have any meaning to him?
    Maybe because once upon a time, a screwed-up sophomore in danger of flunking out had turned his life around because of them. And in defiance of them. Like it or not, James owed Carson everything. God, those first few months, the way Carson had combined sexual and academic discipline . . . It had hurt when he’d failed and it had been heaven when he’d succeeded and he’d come to adore both, in their ways. The whole thing had been absolutely mind-blowing, life-changing, and boy had his grades improved.
    Carson had driven him until passing wasn’t good enough. He’d made James excel .
    Funny. Right about now, James could use a little of that reassurance that he could accomplish anything he set his mind to. And having someone to tutor him, guide him, give him a kick in the pants, yeah, all of that.
    He swallowed. Considered.
    Took the plunge.
    Thank you, Professor.
    Funny how their relationship had twisted the meanings of completely ordinary academic words. Discipline, of course. Study. Professor. James’s mouth was dry just thinking about it. Remembering himself saying “Yes, Professor” and “Thank you, Professor” as he wept with pain from a caning or swallowed a mouthful of foamy cum.
    The wait for the next text seemed to take forever.
    Go into one of the private changing rooms once your salesman gets back. Tell him you want to try a different pair of slacks. Text me when you’ve done so.
    Shit. Shit . Were they doing this? After two fucking years of no contact whatsoever? Were they really doing this again?
    James’s thumbs seemed to have a mind of their own.
    Yes, Professor .
    Satish returned with two different vests, and James didn’t have to know jack squat about fashion to know they would both look great on him. Which they did, bringing color to his face and making his eyes snap somehow.
    “See?” Satish murmured. “In a baggy, formless shirt, you may look like a not-that-short beanpole. But bring everything in, cinch it up a bit? You’re David Bowie in his prime. And I must say, the green check in this one brings out your eyes. Well, eye.”
    David Bowie, indeed. “Looking into my eyes, are you, Satish? And before you ask, yeah, they’re natural.” One brown eye, one green; James had been born with them, and although they’d gotten him teased as a kid, as an adult they’d proven a surprisingly good icebreaker. In fact, Carson had commented on them on that fateful day he’d summoned James to his office for a talking-to.
    “They’re great eyes,” Satish replied, unabashed. “Does your sister want to see a picture of these, too?”
    “Oh!” Shit, James had almost forgotten what he was here for. “Yeah, sure. Also, can I try these with a different pair of slacks?”
    “Of course. Just head back to the changeroom you were using before and I’ll bring you a couple more options. Careful of the pins, though.”
    When he was gone, James took another picture and sent it to Carson. A moment later, another message came in.
    Explain to me why I never put you in a corset .
    James blushed hard. B/C you aren’t into cross-dressing?
    Cheeky. And lying. We both know I’m “into” almost everything.
    That was most definitely true. Which, of course, had been their problem. But James didn’t want to bring that up just now. Didn’t even want to think about it, actually. He ducked into the changeroom and unfastened the fly of the slacks he was wearing.
    Try again. People always said you couldn’t determine tone from text alone, but James could hear the chastisement loud and clear.
    We didn’t get a chance , he typed back, perfectly honest. Baring himself to the Professor, yes, that was an old pattern, easy to fall into. Because of me , he didn’t add.
    Much better. You know, it doesn’t necessarily have to be accompanied by all the other feminine