Professor’s Rule 01 - Giving an Inch Read Free Page B

drug. Carson might take and take and take, but James in turn gave and gave and gave, and got off on it just as much.
    If he took that picture, he was going to do anything else Carson demanded of him. And it would be hot. No, not hot. Fucking incendiary. And for an hour or a day or however long, he would once again have that feeling that he could do anything, be anything. Anything wicked, anything superlative. Anything he wanted.
    Anything Carson wanted.
    But the crash after. Oh, God. That was the rub, in Hamlet’s words. Because if James was an addict and pleasing Carson a drug, well, the shame that came after, the terror of how far it would go—how far James would let it go—that was the hangover.
    And the withdrawals didn’t bear thinking of.
    Carson waited with what James knew was infinite patience. He wouldn’t text again. That was the thing about him: as much as James liked to tell himself that Carson was demanding and pushy and a Bad Influence, he always waited for James to come to him . Right from that very first encounter, when things had been an ethical nightmare (what with James being in Carson’s class and all), it had been James who’d made the first move.
    Of course, back then it had been about trying to fuck his way to a better grade, but the Professor sure had set him straight on that one. Be careful what you wish for, and all that. In the end, he’d worked for that grade. And not on his knees.
    The kneeling had come after the grade had been earned. A reward for a job well done. By that point, after weeks of study, James had been literally drooling for it. In fact, his mouth was a little wet now, thinking about it. The salt, the sweat, the weight of the Professor’s cock on his tongue, the pressure of it slamming down his throat.
    He looked himself in the mirror, focused the camera on the jutting shape of his cock tenting his boxers, and snapped the picture.
    My. That looks like it needs attention. Certainly enjoying your cage-free existence, aren’t you?
    Yep.
    And yet, he missed that cage, as much as he’d hated it at the time. Contradictions. He was drowning in them.
    Surely such a dire emergency justifies a call for assistance.
    No. He wasn’t going to cross that line. He wasn’t Carson’s plaything anymore, he was his own man, and playing by his own rules. James took guys like Satish out for coffee and cheesecake before they fucked, and when they did fuck, it was somewhere private. Like James’s dorm, or the other guy’s apartment, or a hotel room, or the back of a car . . .
    Not in a fucking dressing room, watching themselves in the floor-length mirror, trying to muffle their sounds . . .
    Fuck.
    Carson’s reply was terse: Well then, Mr. Determined-To-Defy-Me , can you take your head out of your arse long enough to show me that pretty cock of yours, or are you going to say no to that without good reason, too? And fuck James for responding to its tone not with anger, but with, well, wide-eyed eagerness.
    He stroked himself through the fabric of his boxers, just his first finger and thumb, hissing at the familiar slide of his foreskin over his shaft. So hard, and yes, he wanted to show Carson, wanted to hear Carson’s praise. Missed his praise, all the little compliments he showered James with, and the naughty requests that had flowed from them. He could make James feel sublime and beautiful one second and follow it up with something that made him feel abjectly whorish the next. My pretty boy, how obedient, I love the look of you hairless, what a lovely cock you have, can you lift your ass for me?
    He was going to come in his shorts before he ever had a chance to comply if he didn’t get a grip. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled off the trousers before he jabbed himself with a pin, and then drew his boxers down, tucked them under his cock and balls. Carson had always loved his balls. Loved how tight his sac was, loved the pink seam that bisected his perineum. Just thinking of how much he