Loud, thumping music dragged me out of deep sleep at three o'clock. My dry eyes opened to a ray of afternoon sunlight piercing the gap in the curtains in my darkened bedroom. I was always slow to wake up, especially after an afternoon nap. It always took me a few minutes to remember where I was, and what day it was. The time and what was going on registered later. My thoughts were sluggish and jumbled as they struggled their way to coherence.

At twenty, maybe I was a little to be taking naps. But after a hard morning of struggling to catch up on the reading for English Lit, the coffee wore off and I'd drawn the curtains and collapsed on my bed.

I sat up and pounded on the shared living room wall. Dana always blasted the music the moment she got home from class, so it was her and not Vick out there. If she turned it off right away, I might get back to sleep.

"It's Thursday. Sorry, I didn't think you were home. Don't you have tutoring on Thursdays?" Her shouted words, filtered by the wall and embedded in the blaring dance music, took a moment to register. The music softened but didn't stop.

My stomach dropped. Shit! Spanish tutoring!

I jumped out of bed, the image of an angry Demetrio glaring at me in my mind. I'd been late once before, and he was pissed. His time was valuable, he'd said. Don't waste it. I glanced at my watch, afraid of what I might see. But it was just three o'clock, and tutoring was at three-thirty. The bike ride across campus to Demetrio's apartment took thirty minutes.

I could still make it. Relief flooded me, softening the sharp edges of my panic. I stumbled around on the clothes and books that littered the floor, pulling on my joggers and stepping into flip flops. Guilt flared as I realized that there was no time to finish the exercises he'd assigned me last week. I'd blown them off when more attractive opportunities beckoned. Tuesday night's party, for example. Last night's Netflix binge. Not having them done would piss him off more than being late.

He'd get that smoldering look, where his eyes went from deep brown to almost black beneath his thick, dark eyebrows. The last time I hadn't done his assignment, after his anger abated, he announced that we'd work on my accent instead. And it was a productive hour, at the end of which my 'rr's rolled more easily. But it was obvious he was still pissed at me.

He'd have to figure something out again this time to fill the hour. After all, I was paying him well for his services, with mom's help. She'd freaked when I told her I was getting a D in Spanish and sent me a chunk of money. Find a damn tutor, she'd said. After buying some weed and a case of my favorite IPA with some of the cash, I'd spent a few ours online looking for tutors and found Demetrio. Solid five-star reviews, and he looked like a movie star, too, with his five o'clock shadow and track athlete build.

I was lucky; he normally was completely booked, but a senior had dropped out, and I got her time slot.

I hated it when the guy was angry with me and promised myself to work harder so as not to disappoint him. That he was a great-looking guy in addition to being an excellent tutor made his approval even more valuable in some mysterious way.

I hurried across the living room, weaving my way through the scattered takeout containers that adorned the floor and the thick cloud of skunky pot smoke. Dana sat on the ratty couch with a fat joint, staring into space, head nodding with the beat of the music. She glanced at me with a wan smile, then went back to studying the wall. I was pissed that I'd been yanked out of a nice nap, but grateful that I wouldn't be late to tutoring, or, even worse, be a no-show.

Demetrio dropped no-shows. It wasn't about the money for him. It was about respect.

My backpack was light; just a notebook, my tablet, and a few pounds of guilt. What was the assignment, anyway? Something about the two annoyingly different past tenses, maybe. Or perhaps that incomprehensible subjunctive thing. Whatever. Being a quick study, I'd managed to wing a lot of things in high school and come out with good grades and ACT scores, and I figured that same strategy would carry me here at the university.

I'd been wrong.

Having two hard-partying roommates maybe wasn't helping. But I loved them and we had great times together. They were tolerant of my low need for home cleaning, proud to be fellow slobs, free of parental pressure to keep things neat, and they never protested when girls stayed the night.

In many ways, university was the opposite of high school. The academic work was a lot harder, and the sex was a helluva lot easier. It was freeing, and I loved it.

Maybe sometime during this college career I'd even have the chance to try something I dreamed about but kept well-hidden. Something no one knew or even suspected. I'd had this strong urge since puberty to play with other guys. Just oral. Nothing anal. And nothing romantic. I wasn't gay. Just ask the rising number of girls I'd slept with since coming here.

But I'd always had a secret fascination with sucking dick. Loved getting it from the ladies, watching their cute heads bob up and down on me. It was the best foreplay.

I wanted to try it myself on another man. No idea why, or where the urge came from. And if not try it while in college, then when? When I was happily married, a professional something-or other somewhere, with lots to lose if people found out?

No. Better to try it here, in the anonymity of a big university, with some random guy I'd never see again. Never to acknowledge that it had ever happened.

Probably, it'd be better just to keep it an exciting secret fantasy. Because even if I never saw the other guy again, I'd still have done it. And it was a little bit scary to think about what that might mean about me and who I thought I was. Actually, it was a lot scary.

Going out the front door to the covered porch, I shook my head to clear it and jumped on my bike. Time to forget about all that and focus on fast pedaling and shortcuts. I might show up at Demetrio's place sweating and winded, but I'd be a little bit early if I rode as fast as I could. Maybe I'd have time to glance at the assignment, and then tell him I'd tried to do some of the exercises but couldn't, proving it by talking about it in detail, and maybe we could do them together?

Naw, that sounded pathetic. Better to say I hadn't had the time, had a big test in XYZ class. No way would I say that my grandma had died and I had to go home for the funeral. I shuddered at the memory of the shame at being caught in that lie once in middle school.

I'd just man up and own it. Tell him I got busy, and it didn't get done.

Why was I so worried about Demetrio's approval, anyhow? He was just a grad student with a side hustle tutoring struggling undergrads, not someone with power over me. He was handsome, and fit, which mattered to me, and I wasn't sure why. But he wasn't a professor or academic advisor. I guess I just wanted to please him.

Go figure.

It was May and hot, probably eighty degrees, and I battled a headwind the whole way across campus. I cursed the wind for slowing my progress but thanked it for drying my sweat. Leaning the bike up against the railing of Demetrio's apartment building, I checked my watch as I gasped for breath. Three twenty-eight. Two minutes to spare. A brief surge of pride flared in me at accomplishing this small task.

As I was locking my bike up, I recognized the girl with the session before mine walking out of the building door, yakking into the cell phone plastered to her ear. She nodded at me, then lowered her voice a little. "He's so fucking hot. It's really too bad..."

At first I was flattered. Then I realized that she was talking about Demetrio, not me. That was unfortunate, because she was pretty damn hot herself.

I smiled inwardly at her appraisal of Demetrio's looks. It was funny that she'd said it in a hushed tone to keep it from my ears, as if it was some kind of secret.

But what was the 'too bad' part?

I stood outside the door, waiting for my breathing to get back to normal. Then I rang the bell and Demetrio buzzed me in.

Normally I bounded up the stairs to the third floor, but today I plodded, guilt at the incomplete assignment heavy in my mind. I took a deep breath at Demetrio's door before knocking. It would be okay. This happened sometimes. People got busy and missed things. After all, I carried a full course load and worked part-time at the student union cafeteria. It wasn't like I'd blown off every assignment, either. In the six months he'd been tutoring me, it'd only happened the one time before. And that was the week of my twentieth birthday, so give me a break.

Emboldened by my rationalizations, I knocked with sudden confidence. I'd meet him head on, with complete honesty, and we'd do whatever activity he judged would benefit me most.

The door opened and there he was, jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and sensitive mouth beneath a thin mustache. His eyes flicked over me, casual and almost bored. He wore a sleeveless shirt, and his bronzed shoulder muscles rippled as he gestured me inside.

"Hey, Roger. Come on in."

Demetrio's apartment was the opposite of my slovenly nest. A bookshelf underneath the window held books with spines displaying scholarly titles in English and Spanish. Next to it, a large dictionary on its own stand lay open, with a magnifying glass resting on the pages. A small table in the corner held trophies and ribbons from races he'd won. A carbon road bike hung from hooks in the ceiling against the far wall. The floor was clear of clutter and looked recently vacuumed. We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, and I shrugged off my backpack.

He looked at me with raised eyebrows. "How were the exercises? Did they help?" His voice wasn't high or low, just medium-pitched. A tenor, I supposed. He was Mexican-American and had grown up in southern California. Spanish was his language at home, and he spoke English perfectly, with no discernible accent.

I tried but failed to look him in the eye. "I, uh..." Where the hell had that confidence gone?

Silence stretched between us.

Finally, I blurted out the truth. "I didn't get them done. I'm really sorry. It was a crazy week."

He looked away, toward the window, and began tapping on the table with his index finger. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than thirty seconds, he sighed. "Roger. I'm worried about you. I see this a lot with undergrads. Unfortunately, the ones that do this a lot? They end up on academic probation or dropping out."

He stood and walked to the window, looking outside. "I hope that doesn't happen to you."

My face burned with embarrassment. I had let him down. Why was his disappointment hitting me so hard?

"It's only the second time," I said. Another moment of silence dragged on.

"I can come up with something to fill your time here today," he said. "Something you might even find valuable. But that's not why you hired me. Is it?"

He turned and we locked eyes. There it was, that smoldering, angry look I'd feared.

I looked down at the table, shame burning inside. "No. I hired you because I'm struggling with Spanish and needed help."

He nodded. "And how are your other classes going?"

It was really none of his damn business how my other classes were going. But at his question, I ran through my current grades in my head. English Lit: currently a D, with a paper due tomorrow that I hadn't started yet. College Algebra was at a C, so that was okay. Math was a strength. But Philosophy? An F. And he knew that Spanish was hovering at the edge of the abyss, too. I hadn't even been to Classical Music Appreciation lecture or discussion section in three weeks, so no need to guess at that grade. But it was easy, and I was pretty sure I could catch up without too much effort.

"Uh, well, not so great. But I plan to finish strong." My voice was defensive, but I was losing the inner battle with the truth about the academic corner I'd backed myself into.

He raised one eyebrow. "Finish strong. I see. And how are you going to do that? It's May. The semester's over in a little over four weeks."

Another silence bloomed between us.

"Roger," he said. "I care about my students. All of them. But especially you."

My cheeks grew hot and I looked down, hiding my awkward smile and shuffling my feet, uncomfortable sensations swimming in my chest. It felt good to hear him say that, but why should he care about me? I was just another struggling Spanish student to him, wasn't I? Another thirty bucks an hour once a week.

He paused, and his voice became hesitant, as if he was thinking carefully about each word before saying it. "You're special, Roger. You're not like most of the other students I work with. You've got enormous potential. You can be anything you want to be, do anything you want to do. Once in a great while, I get somebody like you. And I'd hate to see you ruin your chances here. You can be an academic star if you decide to do what it takes."

Why did it feel like I was personally letting Demetrio down? It was my life I was fucking up, not his. And why was he worried about me? How could he tell I was in trouble just by looking at me? By my not having completed one little tutoring assignment, he'd somehow been able to diagnose all my academic stumbles.

I should've just thanked him for his time, given him his money, and left. But something kept me sitting in that chair. I glanced up at his lean, fit body. Even beneath the sleeveless tee, his abs were prominent, like knotted ropes twisting down his flat belly before vanishing into his running shorts.

His questions and my answers excited me, and I had the urge to share more. Maybe it was the concern he expressed, maybe it was the fact that I'd been pretending everything was alright with me when I knew, deep down inside, that I was failing at this college thing. It was a relief, this confession of inadequacy.

But there was no reason for me to flunk out. I could get through this mess I'd gotten myself into. I had the intelligence. All that was missing was the routine, the good study habits. I just liked parties and girls more than I liked sitting for hours in a carrel at the library, staring at a laptop, or hanging out in one of those nerdy study groups that I'd been invited to.

But there was still time, wasn't there?

Horrified, it dawned on me for the first time that next year I might be at home, back in my childhood bedroom, living with my mom. The awful idea played like a bad movie in my head. 'Roger, clean your room!' mom would shout from the bottom of the stairs. I shuddered.

"Can you buckle down and do what it takes?" asked Demetrio. "To get through the semester?" He leaned toward me. "I really don't want to lose you."

Those words broke the dam.

"I don't know," I said, my voice cracking. Tears welled in my eyes.

Demetrio patted my arm, and sparks flew up and through me at the feel of his hand. He'd never touched me before. And I liked it.

"Let's take the afternoon off," he said. His voice was gentle. He got up and walked to his tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator, then came back to the table with two bottles of beer. "What's bugging you?" he asked, taking a sip.

My arm was still singing where he'd touched it. "I love it here. I don't want to drop out or get kicked out."

His look intensified just a tiny bit. "What parts do you love?"

I ran through all the things that made university so much fun. "The freedom, the girls, the being my own man."

"But you have to do the school part too, or it all goes away." His tone was light, the reproach gentle.

I sighed, shaking my head. "I know that. I mean, on a thinking level, I know." I looked back up at him. "But when you asked about my grades... it just hit me at the gut level. The reality of the mess I've gotten myself into with too much fun and not enough work." What a relief it was to put those honest words out there.

He smiled, and a little pressure lifted. "Does your girlfriend know how bad your grades are?" He took a sip of beer as he waited for my response. It was a cagey, presumptive question. Was it an innocent one? Or was it a subtle way to ply me for more information?

"I don't have a girlfriend." My cheeks grew hot again and I looked away.

"Really?" There was a hint of surprise in his tone. "I saw you as a real ladies' man. You're great looking, with those blue eyes and wavy blond hair. You've got a million-dollar smile, and I'll bet you break a lot of hearts."

I couldn't help but grin at his compliments. "I like girls, sure. And I've--well..." I shrugged.

"You've had a great year, like a lot of freshmen." He chuckled, and a warm, knowing smile spread across his face.

I grinned. "Yeah. A really great year, actually."

"None of them is a keeper, though, eh?"

I shook my head, then shurgged. "Not yet. I'm still looking around. Playing the field."

His eyes locked on mine and I couldn't look away. Electric waves washed over me. The questions were becoming a little bit dangerous. What was he seeing in me that gave him the guts to talk to me like this?

"So you've only been playing with girls? What I mean is, there haven't been any boys?"

The floor dropped out from under me. Why would he ask if he didn't suspect something about me? He must know about my secret desire. I must have given him some kind of sign without even being aware of it. Time for me to get up and leave. Right now. I was paying for a tutor, not...

Not whatever this was.

But I stayed in my seat, curiosity overcoming my fear and the powerful urge to flee this evolving conversation. Because it was definitely leading somewhere. And while the air was suddenly filled with exciting possibilities, it was a terrifying moment at the same time.

"Well, I..." I tore my eyes away from him and focused on the window. Late afternoon sun streamed through the gauzy curtains, and muffled sounds of student chatter drifted up from the sidewalk below. No one down there would have any idea that this awkward­--okay, intimate-- conversation was taking place up here in this neat, clean, third-floor apartment.

A conversation I was having with a very attractive grad student with a ripped physique. Actually, it was more of a confession than a conversation. And even though there was some pain at openly admitting to another person that I was failing at college, a weight lifted from my shoulders when I did.

And that part felt good.

But not nearly as good as Demetrio's attention. My mind flashed back to the girl leaving the session earlier. God, he's hot.

She was right.

Wait, what? Where had that thought come from? He'd gone from handsome to attractive to hot. And I couldn't take my eyes off him.

As if reading my mind, he stood and walked around the table to me. "You're full of stress," he said. His voice was soothing, and he stood behind me and began to massage my shoulders. "This will help."

Tingling sparks surged through every inch of me at the touch of his strong fingers.

His voice was soft and teasing. "Roger, you may have to fire me for this."

I tried to say something, but my throat froze and words came.

My academic session had become something deeply inappropriate for a tutor and his student. And now he was rubbing my shoulders and neck. Grounds for termination, for sure. But I said nothing, no protest, no

"Roger, I've noticed something about you. Something you try to hide. I pride myself at being very good at detecting things in my students. Inner thoughts. Nonverbal cues. In your case, over the months that I've been tutoring you, I've noticed that you're struggling in school. That's common and easy to see." He paused. "But I've also noticed that you have an attraction to men, and that you try to hide it. Now that--that isn't so easy to see. You hide it well. But the truth is there for those who seek it."

I stood up fast. His hands came off my shoulders, and I almost tipped my chair over. But I froze, just standing there, my feet glued to the floor. I liked what was happening way too much to leave now.

"I don't know about this," I whispered.

After a moment, he put his hands back on my shoulders. "I think you do." He leaned close, and his words were light and soft in my ear. "Please, sit. I'm just getting started."

With gentle pressure, he eased me back into the chair. "You're a student, and I'm your tutor. It's a power relationship. Sometimes the student, who is less powerful, has a need to please. That need came out today. Right? You're angry with yourself because you didn't do the assignment. And you worry that will displease me. Which you don't want to happen."

A clout of his faint musky smell teased my nostrils, and I breathed deep. Electric waves of excitement flowed from his hands, flooding through me to fingertips and toes, and my breath caught.

His hands were still. "Want me to stop? Does this feel wrong?"

"It feels great." My voice trembled. "But, I don't know..."

The thrilling massage started again.

"Listen," he said. "You just say the word, and I'll stop."

My heart pounded. "Don't stop. Please." My words and their hint of helpless begging were exhilarating to me. The feel of his strong, warm hands on my shoulders, his musky smell, and my simpering tone combined to explode my arousal. In my sweatpants, my cock grew hard, tingling as it brushed against the soft cotton fabric.

This was wrong. All wrong. It shouldn't be happening. And my God, I hoped it never stopped.

I started at the sound of voices in the hallway. Cold fear surged in my belly. Fear of being caught in this situation, being massaged by my tutor, a hard-on in my sweats like a long, fleshy tent pole.

"Don't worry," Demetrio soothed. "You're my last student today. No one's coming over."

His kneading continued, and then his hands moved down my arms, gliding. He squatted behind me and his lips brushed my ear. "You like this?" he whispered.

I shook with pleasure. "Love it," I said. My voice was all breath. "How did you know?"

"I don't think you even knew. Not really, anyway." He kissed my neck, and tingling sparks raced through me. Then his hand grazed my hard cock through the straining fabric of my sweats and I groaned with pleasure and lust.

"Sometimes it's like a seed in the ground," he said. "No one knows it's there. But add just the right amount of water and sunlight, and it starts to grow. Just like you're growing." His fingers stroked my cock beneath the sweatpants.

My breathing was hard and fast. "Just let me... Can I suck you?" I could barely utter the words through my excitement at this naughty, forbidden thing we were doing.

"Thought you'd never ask," he whispered.

He stood, and I got out of the chair and knelt in front of him, fumbling hands tearing at his shorts.

"Let me," he said. With reluctance, I sat back. He slipped his running shorts down and a gorgeous, thick cock sprang out. Veiny on the slightly curved, ribbed shaft, its dark brown skin contrasted with the swollen purplish head.

The smell reached me and I inhaled its deep blend of musk, locker room and sweat. His balls and groin were peppered with pubic hair stubs from a recent shave. I took it in my hand, marveling at its beauty, slowly stroking the smooth, thin skin over the inner hardness. Saliva pooled in my mouth and I licked my lips.

"Do it," Demetrio urged.

I leaned forward and took him in my mouth, savoring the sharp, sweaty taste. A moan of pleasure escaped through my nose, and I slid my lips down the shaft until the smooth head hit my throat.

"Ahh," said Demetrio, his cock throbbing in my mouth. "I've been thinking about you for a long time. You and this moment."

I began to pump with my hand, moving my mouth up and down, keeping the head inside at the end of each stroke. I stopped and licked the spot under the head back and forth and he stiffened, cock swelling and twitching.

"Good, yeah, just like that." His voice had grown husky, and it thrilled me to know that my lips and tongue were causing these reactions of pleasure. I was sucking a cock. Finally

And the real thing was so, so much better than any fantasy.

I stopped sucking and spent some time exploring it with my tongue, licking up from the balls to the tip on the underside, kissing the sides, all the time inhaling the intoxicating scent of it.

"Now suck it. Make me come," he said. The teacher/student undercurrent was strong. It was my job to please him, and I needed it.

I took him back in my mouth and sucked, hard and slow, as my hand jerked fast on the shaft. His cockhead swelled, and the shaft stiffened. His hips began to buck. I opened my mouth so that the tip hovered at my lips and looked up at him, teasing with my tongue underneath. We locked eyes and I begged him with mine, raising my eyebrows in a silent plea for his semen.

He gritted his teeth and moaned, and I opened wide. His cock spat a glob of cum into my mouth. It landed on my tongue and slid back and down, in the back of my mouth. His cock pulsed and another slug of it poured into my mouth and I swallowed with my mouth open, not wanting to miss the next shot, thrilling as the thick load oozed down my throat. His semen was warmer than his cock, and the taste was strong, a primal, animal taste, fertile and bitter and slimy.

I swallowed again, and felt it tracing a line down my throat.

My own cock throbbed and twitched, and I glanced down at the wet spot that was forming where the tip pressed against my sweats.

Demetrio's hips stopped bucking. "My turn!" His voice was hoarse, his half-lidded eyes loamy and soft. He pulled me up and kissed me, and our tongues writhed and slithered in my mouth, slick with his cum. He pulled down my sweats and sat me in the chair, then clamped his mouth it on my cock and began sucking. The pleasure was almost unbearable, and I came in just a few strokes, spasming, shaking, gripping the sides of the chair to keep from falling off. He swallowed after every shot, moaning and trembling, his hand milking my shaft for every drop.

After an eternity, my orgasm stopped, and my softening cock fell out of his mouth. He sat back and looked up at me. Those gorgeous eyes no longer smoldered. They glimmered with satisfaction and victory.

We were both breathing hard, and the room smelled of sweat and cum. The fading sunlight painted us in a soft glow that matched the warm glow seeping through me.

I'd done it.

And my God, was it good.

"You're fired," I sighed. The taste of his cum was still strong and acrid in my mouth.

He laughed, abs bobbing, cock swaying, and gave me a light, playful punch in the shoulder. "You can't fire me. I quit." He stood and pulled me to my feet, and we drew close, our faces inches apart. I could smell my semen on his breath.

"I've dreamed about you, Roger," he said. "But I never thought we'd really do it. And we don't ever have to do it again. But why the hell did we wait so long?"

It was perfect, what he said. There was an acknowledgement of our sex together, of how great it was, and of his hidden private yearning for me. I'd indulged my cocksucking fantasy and loved it. And there was the gentle, ambivalent message that this could be a one-off, or it could happen again.

His words were comforting and reassuring and, at the same time, teasing. 'Never have to do this again?' Really?

The mixed smells of our semen and the warm closeness of his gorgeous, ripped body were exerting their power over me. I glanced down at his cock, slick and glistening with his cum and my spit. What would it taste like now?

An electric thrill raced through my own cock, and it began to stiffen and grow.

I already wanted to do it again.