Professor Smith comes to class ten minutes early for his lectures. He sets up the computer and clears his throat as he begins, the room going silent as the students each stop talking. The presentation set in front of the class reads "Beliefs in the Ancient Greek Civilization". Dean Smith teaches a course that touches mythology, religion, witchcraft and ancient civilizations at Stanford, a class which Sam Wesson eagerly picked in his first year of college.
This was the class Sam looked forward to the most. Every Monday and Wednesday from 12:30Pm until 2PM, he sits in the same spot, right in the middle of the second row. Not all the way at the front, no, that's nerdy. But it was close enough to make eye contact with his favourite professor. Sam paid special attention in this particular class for a couple reasons. He's always been fascinated by ancient civilizations, legends and the sort. In fact, he can't remember a book he's ever read that wasn't about something supernatural or mythical. He also just could not get enough of Professor Smith.
He takes any opportunity to see him in his office, whether it's to ask a question he already knows the answer to, or to hand in an assignment early, he's always thinking of ways to get the professor's attention. It paid off in the end. Dean knows him well enough as a student to mark his papers with extra care, writing him advice and long notes at the back. Sam reads them carefully, really considering the help and using those tips to improve his next assignment.
But this last paper seems to be perfect. Sam aced it and Professor Smith has no more advice to give him. "See me in my office at 8PM, please" it read at the back instead of the usual "Look out for your primary sources", "Make sure to cite each quote" or "Well written, but needs more examples".
Sam is in his dorm at 7, having something to eat and overthinking his meeting with his professor. He's trying really hard to think what it could be about, and he worries he's done something wrong. He thinks back to every lecture and every assignment he's handed in and thought really hard about each action he's made in the professor's presence. But he can't seem to recall anything. The only think he can think about is how maybe, just maybe, the professor somehow knew about the fantasies he's been having. Because every once in a while, a kid somewhere in the back of the class will share something stupid, something that doesn't make sense, and something Sam doesn't care about at all, so he takes this time to look intently at the professor standing in front of the class, pretending to actually consider whatever the kid is saying. He watches his facial expressions change, he looks at the light beard he has growing on his face and thinks about how it would feel to kiss him. He imagines failing an assignment and begging Professor Smith for a passing grade, giving him whatever he wants to please him. He thinks about his deep voice encouraging him as he takes his dick in his mouth, swirling his tongue in the way he likes when he's with a girl and making the professor moan in that voice of his that makes him so hard under the pressed binder on his lap.
Professor Smith is sat in his office chair at 7:30, thinking about how he was going to say what he plans to. Sam's a great kid, his favourite student these past couple years, but he still doesn't know how to confront him. The professor is marking late assignments when the clock reads 7:58. Sam peeks his head in through the half opened door and lightly knocks on the door. Professor Smith quickly gets up from his chair and urges Sam inside, closing the door behind him. "Have a seat", he motions to the chair across his wooden desk. The professor makes his way around back to his chair and adjusts himself comfortably. Sam's fiddling with his fingers and the zipper of his worn navy blue hoodie, waiting for the professor to say something. "How are you enjoying your first year at Stanford, Sam?" Professor Smith asks in hopes to break the awkward tension. "Uh, it's great" Sam replies nervously, not with the same confidence he answers questions during lectures. "Well, if you're doing as well in your other classes like you're doing in mine, you won't have any problems!" Dean reassures him. Sam nods, half smiles and looks back down at his fingers to avoid eye contact.
His shyness makes the professor blush. He doesn't really blush usually, he's very cool and collected all the time. The only time his face goes red is after the lights are out and he thinks about his favourite student. The one who sits in the middle of the second row, always so eager to participate in class and see him in his office afterwards. He thinks about Sam and how his eyes get brighter when the class discussion goes in a direction he likes. He thinks about how nice Sam looks when it's obvious he was drunk the night before and he's having trouble keeping his eyes open, but he tries so hard to pay attention. He thinks about fucking Sam with heavy eyes in the morning after a rough night together. Then his entire body heats up, all at once. He can feel himself growing in his loose boxers under the sheets. He knows how wrong it is, but Sam is just so pretty to him. He closes his eyes and slowly reaches under the warm bedding, caressing his body all the way down to his erected cock and plays with himself until he's shaking and whispering Sam's name to himself.
Dean is thinking of something to say, not wanting to sound bad but also not knowing how to make this not awkward. "You're doing very well in my class" he said, then realizing how incredibly ridiculous that sounds since that's basically exactly what he said two seconds ago. Sam looked back up from his hands and mustered a "thanks Professor". Dean straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Please, call me Dean!" Sam finally made eye contact with the professor as soon as he said this. "Professor sounds weird, especially since this isn't a professional meeting."
"Oh, uh, okay" Sam replied hesitantly. Dean finally picks up some courage and lifts himself from his chair, loosening his tie a little and making his way to the front of his desk right in front of Sam and leans against it. He crosses his arms against his chest and sighs. "You know, I've been thinking about you" he finally says frankly. His face is serious, no more trace of fear or nervousness. He's confident about what he's doing. Sam swallows hard at his blunt statement, but still not really understanding what Dean meant. "What… do you mean?" his voice cracked a little at the end, sounding more surprised than he wanted to.
Dean's been a professor long enough to know how to look confident even when you're not. He uncrossed his arms and reached for a pen on his desk to play with the clicker momentarily. He knows exactly what he's doing. "I think you know what I mean, Sam." He looked directly into his eyes and waited until Sam looked at the ground and chuckled as soon as he won this staring contest. "Your binder doesn't cover much, you know," he tilted his head to the left slightly, slowly lowering his eyes from Sam's face to his lap, "I know what you're hiding under it."
Sam's eyes widen. He can't believe this. He is so unbelievably shocked but not uncomfortable at all. Not until he felt himself getting very turned on by this. This is almost like those fantasies he's had. He can't believe it's really happening. And now that it is, he doesn't actually know what to do. It seemed so easy and natural in his mind when he was standing in the shower with the hot water hitting his skin as he tugs away the painful need he has for the professor.
A few seconds went by, Sam still hasn't said anything while Dean is just standing in front of him, still holding that pen. He throws it back on the desk and tries a different approach. "What have you been thinking about in my lectures?" he asks confidently. Sam, still too afraid to look up at Dean, mumbles "after lectures." But Dean could barely hear him. "What was that?" he asks, Sam looks up and stares Dean in the eyes, feeling a bit braver now that he knows he feels the same. "I said, I think about you after lectures." Dean nods, kind of understanding what he means. So he claps his hands together loudly making Sam jump a little. "Why don't you show me the kind of things you've been thinking about." He wasn't asking. He was fully confident that Sam would oblige. He isn't worried about making him feel uneasy, because he knows Sam is okay with this. He knows Sam wants this just as badly as he does. So Sam gets up and snakes his right arm around his professor. His height towers him and he waits a second before bringing his face close enough to lightly kiss Dean's lips.
But Dean wanted more. And he knows this isn't all Sam's been dreaming about. He leans into Sam and deepens the kiss, bringing his hand up to grab the back of Sam's neck to pull his brown locks, giving himself the perfect angle to shift his lips right under Sam's ear. Sam opens his mouth and lets out a low groan in pleasure. He can feel Dean getting hard against his thigh and lightly moves his hips to create some friction. He's driving Dean crazy with his slow movements, making him inpatient, making him want more. So Dean's tired of waiting. He pushes Sam back in his chair, unbuttons his black dress pants and pulls them down slightly. Sam doesn't need any more hints and he bravely leans forward to brush his hand over the front of Dean's tight white boxer-briefs and looks up at his professor with innocent eyes, making the man smile down at him. He tugs the undergarment down from the waistband agonizingly slow, still locking eyes with Dean and wraps a shaky hand around the completely erected cock in front of his face. Dean sighs happily at the contact and lets his head drop backwards. Sam concentrates on his movements, making sure he's giving Dean all the right feelings. After several strokes, he brings his mouth to Dean's tip. Sam opens his mouth and tries to fit as much of Dean in, but he didn't realize how hard it would be. He gags after a few seconds and pulls back, feeling like an idiot. His face is burning red and he's embarrassed by his inability to do this simple thing. Dean senses his sudden lack of confidence. "Hey," he touches Sam's face lightly, "it's okay. It felt good anyway." Sam tries again, breathing from his nose and sucking deeper than the first time. His eyes begin to water but he starts to bob his head instead of trying to go all the way down. Dean grabs a handful of Sam's hair and thrusts his hips, moans escaping his lips after each one. "Like that?" Sam asks with his puppy eyes, purposely driving Dean insane. His eyes close shut and he thrusts harder while gripping onto Sam's hair a bit tighter. "Stop, oh god, stop." Sam obeyed, almost worried Dean is having second thoughts. But he's surprised when Dean unbuttons his blue jeans for him and pulls them all the way down with his boxers. "I'm going to fuck your pretty little ass now."
Sam didn't really know how to reply, so he eagerly nods and his throat squeezes in excitement, releasing a sort of squeaky sound. Dean grabs him by the hips, turns him around and pushes him on the desk. Sam's upper body isn't laying on the wooden surface, but he's leaning comfortably on his elbows, just waiting for Dean's cock to be presses inside him. Sam grabs his own almost-hard shaft and slowly tugs himself. Dean's right hand is cupping Sam's ass, the other gripped around his dick. He brings his hips to Sam's behind, spreads his cheeks just enough to be able to push himself inside. Sam knew it would feel weird, but he wasn't expecting it to feel like he's getting ripped apart. He clenches his jaw shut to keep himself from screaming while Dean slowly keeps pushing forward. Sam's eyes close tightly and he brings his fist to his mouth to bite down on his knuckles. "You like it, Sammy?" Sam only groans in response. No one ever calls him that, and god, he fucking loves hearing it come out of Dean's mouth. "Yes professor" was all he could breathlessly squeeze out through his lips.
Dean's only beginning to push the rest of himself inside Sam. He's taking it slow and it makes him feel amazing. He can hear the change in Sam's throaty sounds. He can tell it's starting to feel good, so he pushes harder, going all the way in and then slowly pulling back. That was it for Sam. Dean hit that one spot. The one that made him lose total control over himself. Dean repeats the motions over and over again, continuously hitting that one spot. Sam starts to move his hips backwards, meeting Dean's halfway before each thrust. All the while, Sam is moving his hand up and down his cock matching Dean's rhythm. One final push, one final hit on that spot, and Sam was coming all over the front of Dean's desk. Dean's close, and he so desperately needs to feel this. But Sam pushes him back. He leans down and sucks Dean fast, stroking whatever he can't reach with his hand. Dean reaches forward and plays with Sam's ass, giving himself an excuse for not being able to stand straight from the sheer pleasure of this. Sam quickens his pace until finally, Dean's letting himself go all over Sam's face, down his neck and on the collar of his shirt.
Sam gets up and takes a good look at his professor, his lips sore and his pants still around his ankles. Dean's panting and his cheeks are red and his freckles are on full view. God, he looks so angelic. Neither of them know what to say. Neither of them thought it would ever go this far, so nothing was ever planned. So Sam just pulls his pants back up, zips his fly and kisses Dean on the cheek. "You're my favourite professor, you know that?"