Page 8 of Kismet

His profile picture is of him in front of the frat house. As far as I know, he’s been a pledge of ATU for a few years now. I was slightly shocked when I learned he was a frat guy—he doesn’t fit the typical bill. Not that I’m trying to stereotype, but he reminds me more of someone who would be in a punk rock band than a fraternity.

He has several pictures, but his most recent one has my jaw dropping and my body warming. The frat did a Speedo car wash last weekend for charity. I’m not sure why they had to be in Speedos, but I’m not complaining.

Cash isn’t quite as tall as I am. Probably two or three inches shorter, but he’s still a tall guy compared to most. There’re pictures of him—and videos—in this black, barely there, Speedo.His body is golden, muscles taut, a beaming smile on his handsome face.

My dick seems to like what we see, as it twitches in my slacks, politely asking to be set free and played with. I dig the heel of my palm into my crotch, attempting to give myself some relief, but failing. Thankfully, my computer dings with another email before I can get any filthy ideas involving his pictures and my hand.

Hey,

For you? Always. ;)

Sounds good. Should we take my car or yours? I’m fine either way, just let me know. I hope you aren’t a boring roadtripper. I should probably let you know—or warn you—I’m quite a fun car companion. So, I hope you’re ready.

Have a great night!

Cash

Is he flirting with me?!

There have been several instances over the last couple of years—more so now that he’s my aide—when I’ve questioned if he was flirting with me or just being nice. I’ve come to the general conclusion that Cash is a naturally flirty guy. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen him flirt with classmates, but it seemed completely innocent. It’s more than likely the same with me. Right?

Even though I know I probably shouldn’t, I hit reply, because I’m nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

Cash,

I’ll have you know; I am anexcellentroad trip companion. I’m talking snacks, music, singing, the whole nine. So, I hope you’re ready. ;)

Anyway, I’m about to retire for the evening. See you in class tomorrow.

Goodnight,

Professor Philips

Jesus Christ. Way to make myself sound like a fucking stuffy hundred-year-old professor.Retire for the evening?Who the fuck says that?

I shut my laptop before I’m tempted to sit around and wait for his reply. Sauntering out of my office and into the kitchen, I put my glass in the dishwasher, before taking the stairs two at a time. Walking through the master bedroom, my gaze lands on where Aida is sleeping on the bed. The TV is still on, as is her bedside lamp, but she’s passed out.

Despite sleeping in separate rooms, for some reason, all my stuff still remains in here. It’s almost like if I move it all out, it becomes more official. We’ve become professionals at shoving our shit under the rug and avoiding the giant, flailing elephant in the room. To the outside world, we’re still Mr. and Mrs. Philips, happily married high school sweethearts. Only, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Undoing my tie, I roll it up, and place it in the tie drawer, before flicking the button on my slacks, unzipping them, and letting them pool at my feet. Next, my fingers work the buttons on my shirt open, bringing it down my arms. Reaching down and grabbing my slacks and socks, I throw those and the shirt into the hamper before heading into the bathroom.

My hand reaches for the cool brass knob inside my shower, turning it almost all the way to the left, and letting the water heat. My thumbs make their way into my waistband, lowering my boxers down my thighs until they slide off, and tossing them in the bathroom hamper. On autopilot, with my mind in a million different places, I place a glob of the minty green toothpaste onto my toothbrush, scrubbing and cleaning. Once I’m done, I step into the shower, where the nearly scalding hot water beats down on my chest. It’s relaxing on my sore muscles, and I stand there for a moment before washing myself.

The shampoo comes first, lathering it in my hair and rinsing it out. Then I reach for my loofah, squirting body wash onto it, and massaging my body with it. My thoughts drift back to Cash’s email… how flirty it sounded. And all the other times he’s soundedflirtywith me. Then to his Instagram, those almost naked pictures. God, he’s a fucking beautiful man.

Hanging the loofah up, my soapy hand comes down to my cock, which is now completely hard. The groan that comes from my chest when I grip myself is involuntary, as is my head falling back on my shoulders. My eyes flutter closed as my fist works itself from root to tip slowly. Firmly. Images of Cash appear behind my closed lids.

Him in that Speedo, washing my car, soap covering his lean, bare chest. His big, dark, gold-filled eyes find mine, a glint of promise sparking within them.

This is so fucking wrong. I shouldn’t be jacking off to thoughts of my student. But it’s just me here… no one will ever know. And it’s just once.

My fist tightens around my length, speeding up the strokes, as the fantasy behind my eyes morphs. Cash is now on his knees in front of me, palms flat on his thighs. Pretty doe eyes looking up at me through those dark, thick eyelashes. He’s so obedient. Sogood. Waiting for my instruction. For my order.

“Tongue out, Bambi,” I would say, cock in hand, ready to shove inside his wet, hot, waiting mouth.

Like the docile student he is, his mouth falls open, pink tongue sticking out.

“What a good boy you are.”I would run my fingers through this hair, petting him with my praise. My cock would glide along the length of his tongue, before sliding toward the back of his throat. His full, kissed red lips would close around me, tongue lapping me up as he sucks like it was his birthright to do so.

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