The Sore us
By Kiernan Kelly
www.kiernankelly.com
"Rick? I'll need to see you after class."
Rick cringed, refraining from beating his head on the desk by only the slimmest of margins. He'd had plans for after class. Big plans. Plans that included a tube of lube, a condom, and a hot piece of ass named Jarod.
Now, he'd probably never get an erection again. Not after Professor Hawthorne had finished verbally castrating him. The man had a tongue that was as sharp as a katana blade and twice as lethal. Sometimes Rick thought he must be part scorpion – his barbed comments stung with all the venom of one.
That those comments were usually written in big, red block letters all over Rick's papers and pinned up to the class bulletin board didn't help ease the sting, either. Hawthorne had made Rick the "Don't Let This Happen To You" poster boy of Creative Writing 101.
Not to mention that the few times he'd volunteered an answer or contribution to discussion in class, Hawthorne had pounced on him like a hungry lion on an antelope. And had torn him apart, just as readily.
What had he done wrong this time? He'd completed the assignment on time, and had followed Hawthorne's instructions to the tee. Typed. Double-spaced. Indented. Checked it for spelling errors, ran it through the grammar check function twice, just to be safe. Headers and footnotes all in place. Full bibliography, and quoted sources. Hell, he'd even put it in a plastic protector.
Okay, so maybe he wasn't James Joyce. Maybe he wasn't even good enough to write proverbs for fortune cookies, but he damned sure had followed every one of Hawthorne's instructions to the letter. There was no reason for the old man to keep Rick after class. None.
As students filed out all around him, some offering a whispered, "Sorry dude," and "Nice knowing you, Rick," as they passed by, he began to get angry. His work was no worse than that of three quarters of the class, and better than some. At least he hadn't written a lame-ass story about a vampire accountant, like Will Hanes had. Will had gotten a C+ on that one – and no big, red, sarcastic comments written on it either, as Rick recalled.
No, only Rick was subjugated to the poison pen of Professor West Hawthorne. Who the hell named their kid after a point on the compass, anyway? Then again, to be perfectly honest, Rick had to admit that if it weren't for his caustic personality and perpetual hard-on for Rick, West Hawthorne might have been the subject of many a wet dream for Rick over the semester.
Hawthorne had a tall, broad-shouldered frame that tapered to narrow hips and long legs. Thick, glossy hair was gathered into a tail at the nape of his neck, its color nearly matching his chocolate brown eyes. With his cheeks darkened by a five o'clock shadow at two in the afternoon, Hawthorne looked as though he should be wearing leather, not tweed, and riding a Harley, not the lower-end Honda he drove.
Rick blinked, suddenly aware that the classroom had emptied of everyone but himself and Hawthorne.
Who, at the moment, was sitting at his desk, staring at Rick with one dark eyebrow arched.
"Rick? I would prefer not to shout across the room," Hawthorne said, crooking a finger at Rick.
Heaving himself out of his seat, feeling like a ten-year old boy instead of twenty-year old man, Rick dragged himself up the aisle to Hawthorne's desk. "What did I do wrong this time?" he asked. He stared at the blotter on Hawthorne's desk, not able to meet Hawthorne's eyes and see the derision he knew would be flickering in their dark depths.
"Nothing."
"What?" Rick asked, meeting Hawthorne's eyes against his will. "What did you make me stay for, if I didn't do anything wrong?"
"You realize that this was our last class before finals, don't you?"
"Yeah," Rick answered, still perplexed, but not able to keep the note of relief out of his voice. Finals, and then he was free. He'd never need to worry about Hawthorne again, although Rick knew that he'd haunt Rick's nightmares for years to come. Some folk had nightmares about being naked in class – Rick knew in his heart that he'd have them of Hawthorne's pointed, caustic comments.
"Close the door and pull the shade, Rick."
"What? Why?"
"Just do it, please. I've no wish for the rest of the student body to hear what I'm about to tell you, and I'm certain you won't, either."
Oh, shit. Hawthorne was going to flunk him! Even after being Hawthorne's verbal whipping boy for an entire semester, Rick hadn't considered the possibility that Hawthorne would fail him.
Rick would rather quit school and earn minimum wage for the rest of his life than have to subject himself to taking Hawthorne's class again. He'd change schools first. Hell, he'd change majors, first, even if it meant two or three more years before earning his degree.
Slowly, feeling as though his legs were filled with concrete, Rick moved to the door and shut it, pulling the shade down over the small window. Almost as an afterthought, he flipped the lock, not wanting to chance that someone would come in during what Rick was certain was going to be one of the low points in his academic career.
He returned to Hawthorne's desk, his stomach twisting into knots.
"Since the beginning of the term," Hawthorne began, his rich, velvety baritone rumbling through Rick's bones as well as his ears, "I've been…a little hard on you."
"A little?" Rick interrupted, unable to help himself. That was like saying that the ocean was a little wet.
To his shock, Hawthorne chuckled. Rick hadn't known that the man possessed the physical capability to crack a smile, never mind laugh.
"Maybe more than a little. But I knew that you had potential, Rick. Out of everyone in this class, I could tell that you had what it took to be a writer. But, you were lazy and undisciplined. Your work was rushed and sterile. It lacked passion. That's why I badgered you so much, forced you to work harder than anyone else. This last paper you've submitted proved that I was correct. It's outstanding, Rick. Publishable material."
Rick's jaw dropped. He could swear he heard it hitting the floor. A compliment? Was Hawthorne actually complimenting him? He resisted the urge to dig his fingers into his ears and clean out the wax. Surely, he must be misunderstanding Hawthorne's intent. Rick's work, publishable? And not on Bazooka bubble gum wrappers? How could this be?
It was a good thing the room didn't have windows. A good stiff breeze would have knocked Rick right over onto his ass.
"I…I…uh, thanks," Rick managed to spit out, his mind still reeling.
"I want you to know that I've never been this hard on a student before," Hawthorne continued, waving away Rick's stuttered thanks. "It actually went against my grain. I'm really a nice guy, believe it or not. But I knew that nice wasn't going to get you to produce. So I made a deal with myself at the beginning of the term. I would force myself to be as critical as possible of your work, downright nasty when necessary. And if I was successful, if you met or exceeded my expectations of your potential, then I would offer you a reward."
"A reward?" Rick asked, frowning. A passing grade would be the only reward Rick could ask of Hawthorne. Just enough to pass the course and get Rick the hell out Hawthorne's immediate vicinity.
"Yes. I've been…bad, Rick."
"Bad?"
"Yes, very bad. I was downright awful, at times. I deserve to be punished for it, don't you think?" There was a small tilt to Hawthorne's full lips as he spoke. A small, teasing, rather sexy tilt, Rick noticed. "Come on, Rick. Don't tell me that you didn't spend the last term imagining all kinds of horrible punishments for me."
Rick had the decency to blush, his cheeks firing up like a kiln. He had had occasion to think of a plethora of punishments, from torture to beheading, but considering that Hawthorne had just given him the highest compliment he'd ever received on his writing before – not to mention had still to give him a passing grade - he was loath to admit to them.
Rick took a step back as Hawthorne stood up, turned his back to Rick and, removing his tweed jacket, draped it carefully over the back of his chair.
The last thing Rick expected was for Hawthorne to deftly unbutton his neatly pressed khaki pants and drop them to his ankles. But that's exactly what Hawthorne did next.
Before Rick could do more than squeak, Hawthorne's jockeys joined his pants, and he leaned across his desk, presenting his ass to Rick in all its naked glory.
Plump and round, sprinkled with the same dark hair that crowned Hawthorne's head, it was enough to inspire an instant hard-on for Rick. His cock shot up behind the zipper of his jeans, hard and achy.
Hawthorne's balls, thickly furred and swollen, hung heavy between his legs. Rick couldn't see his cock, but he concluded that Hawthorne probably had an erection to match Rick's own.
"Uh…Professor… " Rick muttered, not able to take his eyes off the twin globes bared before him. Oh, God. He wanted to grab them, squeeze them, to dive in with both hands and his tongue.
"Punish me. Show me the error of my ways, Rick," Hawthorne said, his voice breathy and pleading. His butt wiggled a little, as if tempting Rick to give it a good, hard swat. "Come on! I called your work trite, amateurish, and the worst sort of drivel. Remember?"
"I remember!" Rick growled, finally responding to Hawthorne's insistence that punishment be meted out to Hawthorne's exposed and willing ass. "You said that I wouldn't know a pronoun from a prophylactic!"
Whack!
Rick brought the flat of his down in a wide arc, his palm striking the firm flesh of Hawthorne's ass so hard that the blow stung his hand. Rick's handprint raised in pink against the white skin of Hawthorne's ass cheek.
"You said that I couldn't write a coherent sentence if my life depended on it!"
Whack! Whack!
Hawthorne's sweet ass was beginning to turn cherry red, and it was turning Rick on so much that his erection had become painful. He took a moment to release his cock from the confines of his jeans.
"I was inept as a writer! Wouldn't be able to get a job writing anything more original than the ingredient labels on cereal boxes!"
Whack! Whack!
Hawthorne was moaning, his back arching every time Rick's hand made contact with his flesh. Rick noticed that his hand had slipped under his belly, and from the movement of his elbow, Rick knew Hawthorne was stroking himself.
Rick himself was close to spilling. He couldn't remember being so turned on before – it was almost worth an entire semester of torture for this chance at payback. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he wrenched his eyes away from Hawthorne's ass and his rapidly moving arm.
His eyes alit on Hawthorne's copy of Bartlett's Thesaurus lying on his desk.
Perfect.
"You said that there were dozens of synonyms for sex in Bartlett's, but I only seemed to know one of them. The one that started with the same letter as the grade you gave me! F!"
Grabbing the book with both hands, he brought it hard against Hawthorne's quivering buttocks. "How do you like your precious Bartlett's now, Professor? Huh?"
Each thwack of the book against Hawthorne's flesh reverberated through Rick's balls, until they swelled near to bursting. He dropped the book, ignoring the loud bang it made when it hit the floor, grabbing his cock.
Stepping up, he rubbed the head of his cock over the reddened flesh of Hawthorne's ass, stroking himself. Beneath him, Hawthorne grunted and stiffened, his ass cheeks clenching. Hawthorne was coming, Rick realized, and the notion that he'd had driven his sarcastic, abusive professor to an orgasm from spanking his bare ass over his own desk drove Rick to climax.
Groaning, gritting his teeth, Rick came hard, his semen stark white against Hawthorne's pinked cheeks.
Drained, his legs wobbly, Rick sank to the floor, unable to remain standing. Damn. He hadn't had a whopper like that since…well, since ever.
Hawthorne had managed to stand up, and was gingerly wiping his ass off with a tissue snagged from the box on his desk. "Once again," he said, a little breathlessly, "you've managed to exceed my expectations, Rick."
Rick only nodded, not finding the energy to speak. He was still trembling, feeling the aftershocks of his incredible orgasm.
"I'm going to need a grad student to work for me next year. Would you happen to be interested?" Hawthorne asked, sitting down in his chair - rather delicately, Rick noticed. "I'll need someone to grade papers for me, do some class prep work, the usual. Oh, and perhaps remind me of the errors of my ways, every now and then?" Hawthorne added with a wink.
"Uh…"
"Eloquent as ever, Rick."
"You'd better be careful, or the next time I'll use the Merriam-Webster dictionary on you. Unabridged," Rick grinned, giving Hawthorne his answer.
- End
Thanks for reading, there's more free reads at www.kiernankelly.com
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