Academic Exploration

This story is fiction. Any resemblances to real persons/places are pure coincidence.

ACADEMIC EXPLORATION – 1 – THE VETTING PROCESS

Nothing is really special about me. I'm not the smartest, funniest, or strongest. My life is pretty routine, and I don't even care to add much spice. I work at a movie theatre, though, and sometimes I'll watch a movie three, four, five times in the span of a few days, just sitting behind the projector and sorting through things while the film plays. That's when I'll come up with some little dream.

Of course, they fizzle out quickly enough. I see a movie about space, and I think of buying a telescope. That sort of thing. Well this one movie just came out, and it's about a homeless guy who becomes a model after accidentally spilling his only meal of the day on some big-name designer on the street. They get to talking, and the homeless guy turns out to be beautiful after getting pampered, and, you get the idea. It's about how a lot of people have something special deep within, and they just never get the chance to showcase it. And, well, there is one thing that is just remotely special about me... And there's no clean way to say this, but, it's my huge dick. And, my girlfriend has told me on multiple occasions that I should try getting into modelling or even porn, since I have a decent physique too. She's given me explicit permission to go for it if anything of that sort falls into my lap. We'll probably get married soon, and we're really secure in our relationship. She says that she's not worried about something like this shaking us up.

Since this movie came out, I've been daydreaming about being a model. Obviously the movie wasn't only about becoming a model, but, it's pretty damn topical.

I looked up some easy, low-level modelling gigs near me, and found out that a local university is literally always looking for models for art classes. I wouldn't even necessarily have to pose nude! Which, that might be a step down the line, but I want to see how comfortable I am with the whole thing first.

I decided to go onto their campus and meet with a professor to discuss it. The listing said that they give me like 200 bucks just for posing for three hours, then I go home and never have to come back if I don't want to.

I pulled into the parking lot of the art building and wandered in. The first thing I notice is that these kids are seriously good. There was a bunch of every kind of medium of art in the lobby and hallways. Painting, charcoal, sculpture, just everything. As I walked around, taking everything in, a man came up to me.

"Hi," he said, "you must be Desmond, yes?"

I shake his hand. "That's me! Professor Vosta?"

"Yes, yes, lovely to meet you." His eyes scan me as he talks, sizing me up. His hand lingers in mine as he speaks. "Come to my office in the back, we can walk and talk."

We make our way around the corner and see even more art. "These are from my students last semester. I was teaching a class on oil painting, but they still practiced in pencil." Professor Vosta is referring to multiple sheets of paper hanging on the wall, each with the same model from a different perspective.

"Professor Vosta – I gather that the students sit or stand around me in a circle, then?"

"Yes," he says, "very observant."

I pause at one series of drawings of a muscular man, not too much unlike myself. He's captured from every angle. Some students emphasized the way his hair cascaded, others, the way his muscles sloped and curved. One student seems to have been sitting below him, and so there's a big focus on his legs. His thighs look massive, and the head of his cock seems to be staring right at the artist from this point-of-view. His abs ripple, and his pecs look so perky, almost like tits. The man is posed with his arms folded behind his head, so you really just get a look of absolutely everything.

"Michael, by the way."

"Huh?" The professor snaps me out of my momentary trance. I feel a bead of sweat forming on my back.

"My students call me Professor Vosta. You can just call me Michael," he says as he holds open his office door for me.

"Ah, gotcha. Well, you can call me Dez. That's what most people call me." I step inside. "Thanks, Michael."

He nods, and as I sit down, he closes the door behind him. Michael taps on the keyboard to his computer, and it comes to life. "Now, I just need you to answer a few questions for our database, then I'll conduct a brief examination, and then you'll pretty much be set to work with us. Sounds good?"

I don't necessarily know what an examination entails, but, sure. "Sounds good," I repeat.

"Now, Dez, just the basics. Full name, date of birth, contact info?"

"Desmond Elias Hart. Born January 2nd, 1989."

"Oh, happy late birthday!" Michael says.

"Thank you, just turned 35."

"Gosh, I'm getting old," he says. "But, y'know, everyone says 35 is a big one. Let me tell you? Don't worry about it. You've got plenty of time ahead of ya." He smiles at me.

"Hah, thanks," I reply. It strikes me that I can't pin down how old Michael is. He looks like he could be my age, except for his greying hair... Eh, probably in his mid-fifties. "Anyway, I'll write down my phone and email for you so you don't have to spell anything out or worry about a typo."

He slides me a pencil and a sticky note, and I jot down my info.

"Great." Michael punches it into the computer. "Now, have you modeled before?"

"I haven't," I say, putting my hands together. "I hope that's not a big issue."

"Not at all," Michael reassures me. "It's pretty easy, just standing in place mostly. Just means I'll be giving you some guidance. Here," he says as he gets up, "Stand and disrobe for me."

"Huh? Oh, I- is this mandatory today? Or c-could I come back?"

"Is there something wrong? You'll have to do this on the day you model too, y'know."

"No, I know. It's just that I'm not wearing any underwear, and..." I look behind me. "There's that giant window on your door..."

"Oh, no need to worry about that," he says.

The worry on my face is not dispelled.

"But if you're concerned about being modest, I have some spare clothes over here. There's probably undergarments too." The professor walks over to a cabinet and takes out a cardboard box. He rifles through it momentarily, sifting out oversized t-shirts and tulle. Then he produces a jockstrap.

"Ah. I know it's not perfect, but this should suffice, yes?" Michael says while stretching out the elastic of the waistband. "It's all we have in here other than the women's underwear..." He lifts translucent panties out of the box, then, to illustrate his point.

"No, no, it's fine," I say. "I played rugby in college; I'm used to something like this."

"Great," he says, and passes the jockstrap to me.

I take off my shoes, and then move to take off my shirt, but Michael says, "Socks too, please."

"But, the floor—"

"Trust me, I know how you might feel, but I clean it myself every week. It's perfectly fine, really."

I hesitate, but how big of a deal am I really going to make? I take off my socks and leave them in my shoes against the wall.

The floor is cold, and sends the smallest chill through my body. I get goosebumps along my legs and arms, and as I take off my shirt, the fabric rubs past my now hardened nipples. I wince ever so slightly, and I can tell that Professor Vosta – er, Michael, notices, as he stares at my chest.

Then I take off my belt, unbutton my jeans, and unzip my fly. As I fold back that top corner of my pants, I reveal dark, wiry hair above my crotch that trails off until it meets my belly button. I inhale before taking my pants off—I can't remember ever being nude in front of another man, other than at the doctor or in the locker room. But this is just a different environment. It feels more... personal? Serious? Intimate. I don't look up at Michael as I slide my pants down, but feel his eyes on me. When I lift one leg in the air to remove a pant leg, my ankle is caught, so I have to bounce to get it out. In the process, my dick flops around, back and forth like a pendulum. It smacks against my leg, and makes an indecent sort of sound, like fapping. I bounce four times, and as my dick dangles, I hear Michael kind of clear his throat. Maybe he's nervous or uncomfortable... I definitely am, so it makes sense I think. I finally bend all the way down and get both my legs out of my jeans. Then I quickly slide the jockstrap on to hide my tool.

Only problem is, the jock is kinda small... And my dick is not kinda small. The tip peeks out of the side of the jockstrap—actually, more than just the tip peeks out: at least two inches are visible out the left side. As well, my ass is squeezed by the straps on the back. I glance at it, and it's plumped up, and curves like a woman's would. I try to readjust myself to hide my cock better, but as I do, my dick begins to firm up. In a panic, I decide to just leave it as is, rather than creating a (literally) bigger problem for myself. In the end, my cock is completely hidden from view, unless you look at me from the side, because I bulge the jockstrap so much that it kind of tents and makes my entire pipe visible from an angle. I look back up at Michael after what must have been less than a 30 second ordeal, and see his face has turned a bit red. He glances away from my eye contact and nods.

Like I said, he must be just as uncomfortable as I am. I'm sure he doesn't enjoy this.

"Yes, well, now that you're settled, I can begin my examination." He picks up a clipboard and walks around his desk to stand next to me. "Now, Dez, I teach a sculpture class, so I hope you'll be okay with the students touching you as they try to understand anatomy and textures."

"Huh!?" I did not know that was part of it.

"Ah, so you didn't know. Well, you should also be happy to find out that my sculpture session pays models twice as much, and is only two and a half hours as opposed to the usual three. Plus, this particular class is only comprised of 21 students, so, not too bad all things considered, right?"

I mull it over. Honestly, the money is amazing, and it's not that inconvenient. Plus, if I'm really taking one of my little dreams seriously for once, I may as well get comfortable with this one, since it seems like my best bet. Although, is 21 small for a class of students? It feels like a lot of eyes watching me, as I glance down and look at my body wrapped up in this jockstrap that might as well be a thong.

"Yeah, okay. I'm alright with it," I say with restored confidence. "In fact, I'm looking forward to the experience."

"Brilliant! I'm just going to begin a video recording of my examination, if that's okay. Then, I'll be taking a few screenshots from that video to share with the class for after they've sculpted you. That way they get to look at how close they came, comparing their final product and the real thing. Sound good?

"All good with me," I say.

Michael sets up a camera on a tripod, and begins recording.

First his hands touch my neck. His fingers are soft, and not horribly cold, but cold enough to mention it. It's winter, so I don't blame him.

Michael jots something down. "Strong," he says. "You have great traps," he says, referring to the muscle group in and around my neck.

"Thanks," I say. "I work out a few times a week. Try to stay fit since I'm not exactly running around at work."

He puts a hand on my bicep and squeezes it. "What do you do?" He asks.

I notice that he traces a vein with his index finger. "I work at a movie theatre. The one on 9th, not too far from here."

"Oh, yes, I have been there myself actually, rather recently!" He writes something down while speaking.

"Oh, funny! Maybe we've seen each other in passing – a-ah!" I interrupt myself with an involuntary noise. Michael has started using his pencil to slowly force my right nipple up and down. The graphite moves passed the extruding part of it, flicking it in slow motion. It stays upright, parallel to the ground as he probes it.

"Hm? All good?" Michael asks, as if completely unaware of what he's doing. He doesn't stop while asking. The sensation is fuzzy... My girlfriend has never done something like this to me.

"Umm..." I stammer. "I, uh, yeah. Just..." I whisper, although I don't know why, since we're alone, "Sensitive. There."

"Oh, here?" Michael asks, seemingly non-plussed. It might be my mind tricking me, but he seems to increase his pace, just a little bit. "I'm sorry, but, honestly, the students will be doing something similar, so you'll have to get used to it. Still, y'know what? Here, I can approach it differently for you."

Michael sets down his pencil and clipboard and puts one index finger on each of my nipples. I inhale sharply as I can now say for certain, his hands are cold. He, excruciatingly slowly, draws small circles around my areolas, brushing the center of my nipple all the while.

"Hah... Ah, ah, hnnn-hnng... Ah..." I gasp and whine while he continues.

"Nearly done," he says plainly.

I go to say his name, but, it comes out of me strangely. "M-Michael..." I whine.

He glances at me, confused. He brings his thumbs to meet his fingers and gently pinches my nipples, tugging at them like he wants to lift them with forceps.

"Agh, Michael," I manage to say without stuttering or moaning, "why is this part necessary?"

While responding, he uses his thumbs to massage my pecs, but mostly focuses on pushing my nipples around. "I do my best to categorize every model we have for my students' portfolios. I also do my best to take measurements and describe their physiques in great detail. That way, they can reflect on the diversity of their muses, and look for more unique experiences in the future." Just as he ends that sentence, he pushes on my left nipple like it's a button.

No matter what the torment is, they stay straight and hard. Professor Vosta, er, that is, Michael uses his middle and ring finger to rub the entire nipple in a circle. I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle a moan.

"Ah-ah," Michael says disapprovingly, "you must not change your pose when we're modeling for real. Slight changes in your form might cause mistakes in my students' sculptures. Please return your arm to your side." I do so, and continue looking ahead while he plays with my chest.

Michael makes eye contact with me as he prods and rubs, prods and rubs. I feel my face contort—the inner corners of my eyebrows raise up, and my mouth hangs open as I lose my breath. Michael refuses to look away, and squints at me, as though he is conducting an experiment, collecting data.

"Hah... Ah... Agh..." I moan.

Michael is forceful now as he presses his thumb into his index finger, and basically begins strumming my nipple like a guitar.

"P-plea... ahhhhnnn, nnhhhg, ah, ah, mm, mmh, ah!" I'm actually whimpering after full minutes have passed. Then, without warning, Michael drops my nipples and turns to write something down on his clipboard.

I'm panting like I just ran a mile. I can't catch my breath as Michael now innocently walks around me in a circle, simply feeling my back muscles and abs with a flat, delicate palm. Still, even now, my nipples stand at attention... And I notice my dick has completely hardened at this point. The jockstrap is borderline pointless as I look down and can see the majority of my shaft is exposed, and since the jock is white, my uncut head is slightly visible while it pushes against the gauzy fabric. It doesn't help that I seem to have leaked some precum making the exact spot where my tip meets the underwear more and more transparent.

Why is this happening? A man's touch shouldn't get me hard, even if he's touching places that normally only a woman would touch.

"Ahem. Well, anyway, um, I should begin with measurements," Michael says.

I shake my head, then nod. "Hah... No, yeah, sure..." I say, still breathless. I want to cover my dick with my hands, even though I'm technically still concealed by the jock. But it's not doing much of a job anymore. The parts of me that aren't exposed by the tenting fabric are revealed by the transparency from sweat and precum.

Michael produces a measuring tape from nowhere when he turns around from his desk. He begins with my shoulders, stretching the measuring tape across the top of my back. Then from my shoulders to my fingertips. He has me lift my arms and measures my chest. The measuring tape brushes past my nipples as he does so—I do my best to pretend not to notice.

He squats down and moves on to my waist, and kind of pauses as he wraps the measuring tape around me. Michael has to actively avoid touching my cock in an unnatural way as he uncomfortably maneuvers his arms around my crotch. I just try to stand as still as possible. Then he measures my legs, and finally my feet.

A sense of relief washes over me as he writes down the last measurement. I've been catalogued from head to toe, so he surely must be done. But he remains squatted below me.

I adjust my posture as he starts feeling my leg muscles. "Massive," he says to no one while staring at my thighs. I shift my weight back and forth, still breathing through my mouth as I struggle to catch my breath, and nervous about poking his eye out with my hard cock. His face is close to my crotch—it's almost strange that he doesn't acknowledge it, or back up. Instead he just pretends it isn't there. This guy must be really professional.

Not that I'm hoping he'll acknowledge it. I have a girlfriend, after all. And, and, this guy, he's old. This is just a job. Just for money.

Then he abruptly feels my thighs by wrapping his hand, as much as is possible, around my legs. "Damn tree trunks!" He says, and to my surprise, he wraps the measuring tape around my thighs and writes down the measurement. "Spin please?" He says, looking up at me. Awkwardly, my raised dick hides most of his face from view. I spin without a word—not responding for fear of what my voice would sound like right now.

Michael does not lift his hands while I spin. Instead, he keeps his hand on my upper thigh, and as I turn around, he slips some fingers under the jockstrap. He massages my asscheeks. He's gentle, but sure enough, he pushes them up and down.

The jockstrap is effectively a push-up bra for my ass. I don't normally have a bubble butt, but right now I can tell that there's a lot to work with. As he feels around, he pipes up: "Unbelievable glutes you have." He holds the measuring tape against my ass vertically. I don't even know what kind of measurement you would call that...

"Huge." Michael says.

"Um, hah, thanks." I say, my voice still shaking a bit. For some reason, my damn dick won't calm down, and the coarse fabric of the jock is not helping.

"Huge..." He repeats, almost in awe. Then he slaps my ass—really, rather hard.

"Ah!" I say.

Michael jots something down on his clipboard. At this point, I just can't ask.

He slides his hands down my legs, caressing my calves, and rubbing my heels with his thumbs. Michael rubs the entire length of my legs—from ass to heel—three times, before finally resting his hands on my ass. His hands are pointed towards each other, and my cheeks rest in his palms as he cups them. Abruptly, he pulls me apart, revealing my hole to cold air.

I think I—involuntarily, of course—tighten up. Tighten my asshole. As he does that. As he exposes it.

"Ah..." Michael says.

"Er! I um, why...?" I don't know what I want to say. I don't know why Michael is doing that.

"Don't worry, just routine," he says evenly. He inches closer to it, and I feel every finger as he separates my cheeks and applies pressure. Then he lifts his index finger and slides it right over the opening.

"Agh!" I inhale, alarmed.

"Do you feel that?" He asks, again, monotonously.

"I—" I stop speaking. I realize that I am checkmated, a bit. If I say I do feel it, then it kinda concedes that he's affecting me in some kind of erotic way. If I say I don't feel it, who knows how he'll proceed...

I take a gamble. "No, I don't feel a thing..." I say, not even really convincing myself.

"Ah, curious!" Michael says. He keeps playing with my anus, gliding a finger over it repeatedly. Every touch launches a shock through my body. At this point, he must know that I feel it, because my legs are trembling. I'm relieved that I thoroughly showered before coming here...

"Hah... Ahnnnn..." Noises are coming out of me again.

And he has another card to play. All at once, and yet somehow gently, he inserts a knuckle into me.

"Aha, ahn, I! You, I, Professor Vosta..." is all I can coherently get out.

"So you felt that, then?" Is he mocking me? It's like he's trying to win at something.

I decide not to concede. "N-nothing! I don't, um, no. N-no..." I gasp for breath between words. No way he's buying it. But of course, at this point, I've taunted him.

"You don't feel this?" He asks, wriggling inside of me.

I try to respond, but I can only say gibberish: "I—ooohhh, wha... Ah..." I feel every exact movement, every millimeter of his finger.

"Turn around," he says.

I hesitate, but then do my best to turn. He reaches his arm as I do, so that his finger never comes out of me. Leaning forward to maintain the placement of his arm, he moves his head to the side of my dick, and his ear is parallel to my thigh. My dick is stands eagerly in front of his eyes, only veiled by this jockstrap that's on the verge of being utterly useless. He comes close to touching my cock with his nose...

"There's another measurement I need to take, but..." he says, trailing off.

"Whatever, sure—go ahead and take any measurement you need. But, Professor Vosta," I pause, unsure of myself and feeling strange, "Why is THIS part necessary?"

He doesn't answer my question when he says, "Any measurement I need?"

I reluctantly nod.

We hold eye contact for a mere moment. Then he full-sends his finger into my hole.

"AH! AH! Ah!" My volume is out of control, but then he starts moving back and forth inside of me. I can't contain myself as I moan, "Oh, fuck, ah, ah, ah, fuck, oh fuck me!" My back arches involuntarily, and I freeze before falling backwards and planting two hands on his desk. "You-you're, Professor, you're... something is..."

"Do you feel this?" His fingers rub against my insides, up and down, back and forth.

"Ahn! Nnnnn! Ah, hah, ha, fuck!" I growl from the back of my throat, biting my lower lip.

I don't see his face as my jockstrap's tent blocks him from sight, but I think he may be smiling? That can't be right, right?

He continues, not needing the proper response. "No moving when you're modelling." His finger deep inside me, he moves back and forth ever so slightly, practically petting this spot that launches pleasure through my whole body.

"Nnngh, haaahh!" I close my eyes as I fail to keep from raising my voice. I had no idea a man could make another man feel this way... And with just a finger, at that. Imagine if—

I mean. No. Don't imagine anything else. But even as I try to mentally resist, I find myself angling my ass towards him.

I slide my back onto his desk and raise my hole into the air while he downright finger fucks me, like as if I—as if I had a pussy.

Professor Vosta is just doing what he must for his students... Isn't that right? Am I supposed to believe that this is...? No. It can't be. And here I am, losing my composure, sprawled out on his desk, practically screaming. "Ahn, ah... oh fuck... Professor... Nnn!" My back arches, and I tense every muscle in my body as I lift my hips and let my feet fall to the floor. And if I thought I was being unprofessional already, this doesn't help: as I stretch and move, my jockstrap—my mini, fucking, five sizes too small jockstrap—it begins to rip. The wettest part, right at the tip of my dick; I look down and see that there's a small tear beginning to form. The fabric that separates my manhood from Professor Vosta's face is disintegrating.

I clumsily move my hands, currently gripping the edge of the desk, over my dick to conceal myself. At that, Professor Vosta stops his movements.

"Something wrong, Dez?" His voice is so genuine. His fingers are still inside of me, warm.

"P-professor..."

"Michael! It's Michael, please."

"Right, I – ah! – I think I need new underwear... do you have a bigger size?"

The jockstrap's tenting fabric is completely lifted off of the skin of my crotch, my dick suspending it in the air. As a result, even as I use my hands to cover the rip in the fabric, the base of my shaft is completely visible. My balls aren't even in the question—just completely on display.

Michael leans down to look beneath my hands, and sees exactly this problem. He moves his free hand beneath my jockstrap and my hands, even though I try to block him as I shift around. But he wraps his index finger and thumb around the exposed part of my cock.

"Profess – Michael! Don't...!"

He ignores me. "Is this the problem?" He pauses. "Show me."

Using just his index finger and thumb, he moves up and down the length of it, but not reaching the top as I keep my hands in place to cover my parts.

"It's in-ah... ppropriate..." I moan as he fondles me. My legs involuntarily kick a bit, and my neck twists about. I feel myself getting so hot. And, as I thrash, I accidentally create friction between my hands and the tip of my dick. The jockstrap continues to tear.

"Ah! You-you're, Michael, you're making it worse!"

Michael is moving quickly now, and using his other hand to pump his fingers in and out of my ass at the same time. I can't tell how much of the jockstrap's fabric is left, but I feel my hands getting wetter and wetter while trying to hide my privates.

"Hnn! You're... You're fucking me, Michael... Aaahhhn...!"

Then, a loud rip sound. Craning my neck off of his desk, I look down and watch the jockstrap's fabric fall, and slap against my crotch. My balls are gently smushed beneath the elastic, and I realize that now my hands are the only thing left to conceal my cock.

Wordlessly, Michael slides his hand out from beneath the jockstrap, but keeps his other hand in my ass. He uses his free hand to pry my hands off the head of my dick, but I resist. All the while, his hand forces my hands to slide around, creating friction. We do this back and forth for a moment until a dirty sound escapes from my throat. "Hnn!" It's high-pitched.

Michael seems to realize that he's still causing me pleasure, playing with me like a joystick. Then he goes back to rubbing my insides—I'm caught.

"Hah! Hah! Agh! You! Hahn!" I grind my teeth, but lose my strength, almost like what happens when you're overcome with laughter.

Michael ultimately wins. He peels my hands away, and my cock is launched out from under our fighting hands and revealed to the cold air. It ping-pongs back and forth, swinging like a metronome, until it comes to a stop and stands like a flagpole above me.

In that moment, it leaks. A lot.

I slap a hand over my eyes and say, "Professor, I'm so, so sorry! I should've known my dick was too big for the jock you gave me. I'm so sorry to be exposed like this. Not that it's your fault whatsoever, I, I, I—"

He takes his finger—finally—out of my ass, and puts a hand up in the air to cut me off. Then, wordlessly, he takes the measuring tape and holds it against the base of my dick. I wish I had shaved a bit, as my pubes just look so unseemly.

"I'm so sorry..." I repeat, whispering. I put both my hands on my forehead, pushing my hair back in stress.

He looks up at me, and says, "Dez, no need to apologize. This is standard procedure! But I just want to know before I write this down—is this as big as it gets?"

I'm stunned into silence. I hesitate, and then say, "I have no idea how big it gets."

Professor Vosta nods. He puts the measuring tape down. Then he peels back my foreskin.

"Ah! P-Profe – nn! Please, you're gonna make me—"

"I just need to make sure I'm getting the most accurate measurement possible."

He uses his thumb to rub the underside of my head in slow circles.

"AHAAAAANNGG!" My hands ball up into fists on their own. The feeling he creates is like pure electricity. My back arches again and I push my dick into his hand. My body shakes.

Then Professor Vosta says, "eleven inches. Remarkable."

I glance down at him, and sure enough, the measuring tape reads almost exactly eleven inches. I didn't know I was that big. I mean, I knew I was big, but that's huge. Isn't it?

"Enormous," Professor Vosta says, confirming my suspicion. He continues idly rubbing the head of my cock as he writes down the measurement. He even licks the head.

"Nnn! Ah..."

"Dez," he starts, "since you said I could take ANY measurement I need..."

I don't respond. My breathing is loud and heavy in the space where I should say something. Professor Vosta is now stroking my dick from top to bottom and holding the head in his mouth, and I grip the edge of the desk with both hands straining. He does not move slowly, and his pace is consistent.

He continues, "I was hoping to get another, but, I can't easily reach it. Would it be okay if I used another, ah... implement? To properly get your measurements?" He speaks between licks and kisses.

I'm panting. "You can't reach it...?" I ask, confused. What part of my body would be so inaccessible? Especially when I'm in this position...

"Well," he says, "I can reach it, but not sufficiently. You'll understand, won't you?"

My head falls back, and hangs off the other side of his desk. I'm lying completely exposed, with the snapped jockstrap being the only garment on my body. My dick practically vibrates on his tongue.

I close my eyes. "Go ahead. Whatever y-you gotta do." I resign myself to his appetite... Excitedly. Even if I hate to admit it. I'm curious what comes next.

But I don't have to wait to find out. I hear an unzipping sound, and before I know it, Professor Vosta's fully erect dick is hanging out of his pants.

"W-wait, why are YOU hard, Professor?"

He doesn't respond as he holds the measuring tape against his cock, and makes markings on it with a marker. Nine marks, ten marks, eleven marks... The professor's dick looks to be just as big as mine...!

"Up," he says, commanding me.

"I—" I begin, but he stops me.

"No speaking now, model. Be like a statue. And let me shape you. That okay?"

I nod instead of speaking, and stand up.

"Kneel."

I kneel. "Professo—?"

As I speak, he jams his dick into my open mouth. I make a sound of shock, but it's muted by his shaft. And I nearly bite down on it as I was mid-sentence, but I stop myself. His head rests on my tongue.

Then he slides it, slowly, deeper into my mouth.

"Three," he says, looking down at the point where his dick disappears between my lips.

As he keeps going, I find myself not disgusted. He tastes of sweat and, frankly, musk, like a man with underwear that's too tight. His dick tastes the way dick smells. But something about it, it's not so...

"Five," he says.

I realize that he's counting inches. How many inches can he go back in my throat.

"Seven."

His dick pulses inside of my mouth. And it's girthy. I'm struggling, at this point, to keep it all in. I don't know where to put my tongue...

"Eight."

Then I gag. My throat constricts, and my tongue flicks his cock. Professor Vosta – god, I mean, Michael – immediately begins to withdraw his dick. But as he does so, I lick his head. It tastes... well. Good.

He moans, and I become embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," I say, not looking up at him. He leans forward, picks up a pencil, and writes again on his clipboard. As he does so, his penis leans on my face. I don't move, and let it sit there.

Realizing this, he begins to move up and down, sliding it on my nose and cheek. I become wet with my own saliva.

He clears his throat. "Up."

I stand.

"Table."

I sit on the table, dick still pointing straight ahead.

He grabs my left nipple with his index finger and thumb, and rubs and tugs it mercilessly. I grind my teeth, but then he puts a hand on the center of my chest and pushes me back. I lie down, and he lifts my legs, one thigh in each hand.

"Last measurement," Michael says.

I already feel his head on my hole. "P-professor, I – surely this isn't necessary..."

He pushes, but then hesitates. "Do you want to quit?"

"Huh?" I look at him. He holds my legs, and my dick stands at attention, and I have slobber all over me. I can only imagine how I seem from his perspective.

"We don't have to do this. Do you want to go home?"

I glance at the window to his office to make sure no one is there. "Would I keep the modeling gig for this Friday?"

"No," he says plainly. He pretends to look emotionless, but I can tell he's hiding a smile.

"There's no way you do this with all your models," I say pointedly.

"Course not," Michael says. "This isn't necessary. It's desired."

I stutter. "Ah—I, I..."

"Do you want this?" He asks.

I nod, moving my head as little as possible, once.

"Say it so I know for sure."

I drop my head back onto the table, and it thuds. I close my eyes. "I want it."

"Want what?" He asks.

I open my eyes again and glare at him. "Michael!" I insist, resisting.

"That's Professor Vosta to you."

I sigh, and do my best to relax. "I want your monster dick inside of me."

"Say please," he says.

"PLEASE! Please fuck me – AH!"

He finally puts it in. It feels fast, but it's probably slow. I'm writhing and shaking as he puts it deeper and deeper, feeling every bit of my insides with his cock. It really is enormous.

Then, that spot again. "AHNG! FFFFUCK! OH, FUCK!"

Professor Vosta is panting too, now, and says, "That's your prostate, Dez. As I – nn! – rub against it with – agh! – with my cock, you'll feel pleasure. Hmm! Hah! Get it?"

"Shut up..." I whine. "Faster!"

"Hah..." Professor Vosta takes that to heart. He slides into me more quickly, and it's unbelievably painful.

"You're so warm... so tight... Aahhh..." he moans. "And, that's all eleven."

"Nnnnngh... hah," is all that comes out of me. It takes everything in my power to not shed tears.

He stops moving, and just sits still inside of me. "This is what it feels like to have a dick as big as yours inside of you." Then, he slides almost all the way out, then slams back in.

"FUCK!" It does hurt, actually, even though I'm overwhelmed with pleasure. The sensation is so confusing. It's addicting...

"And this is what it feels like to get fucked by it!"

He moves like a piston, hard and fast, in and out, over and over again. As he continues, he puts my legs on his shoulders, tightening the entrance and sliding between more of my cheeks, which are still overflowing over the straps of the jockstrap. Then, with his hands freed, he positions himself like he's doing push-ups vertically, and humps me with full control of his core.

"Fuuuck! Fuck! Oh my god, I feel it Professor Vosta! I f-feel it, y-you're—" I cry out, both in agony and in pure ecstasy.

"Feel my pipe? How big is it?" He says, taunting me.

"T-t-too big! Huge! Nn! Fuck! Agh, hn, nnah, you're so fucking mmmmmm!"

Every thrust launches another jolt through me, and feels new again, like I hadn't just felt it a moment ago.

"Hah, haaaa..." Michael begins to make noises. "You're tightening up...!"

"I, I, hah, ah, ahn, fuck, I can't! FUCK! MICHAEL, AGHHH, NNNN!" I scream.

I cum in giant spurts, launching semen like a cannon all over myself, Michael's desk, and even the floor on the other side of the desk as my dick points straight up.

In that moment, he slides out of me. I feel empty, and cold for a long moment. But then Michael grabs my dick with two hands, and slides his dick in between his hands alongside it. He continues thrusting, and the sensation on my cock is overkill. I'm completely spent, and can only noisily pant as he moves. But then he yells.

"FFFFFFUCK!" He cums too, then, and shoots his own jizz all over me in the same places. But his reaches my neck, and face. One shot even lands on my lips. I greedily lick it up in an instant—but then remember myself, and don't even know why I did that.

He leans forward, letting my legs fall, and presses our dicks together as he kisses me. This is the part that surprises me the most.

Of course it was all pleasurable, but, I guess I hadn't considered that this might be... Romantic? That's not the right word. But, still. A kiss feels reserved to another realm, even if it's silly to think so. Still, I kiss him back, and our tongues push against one another as I am lost in his smell, his warmth, his feeling. The explosion that was this man inside of me.

He pulls away, our lips sticking with saliva and cum between them. He says, "You took all eleven inches, by the way." He winks. "Consider yourself fully measured."

My face is hot and sweaty, but still, I somehow blush harder than whatever degree of redness I was already showing before.

He grabs a tissue and wipes the head of his dick clean, then zips up his cock. He puts his hands on his hips, still panting.

"W-what about me?" I say, breathless. I realize that Michael was just about fully clothed that entire time, whereas I lie here completely naked.

Wordlessly, he slides me a pack of tissues from the corner of his desk. We both take some and begin cleaning my body. When I'm mostly dry—at least, dry enough to go home and shower—I realize my clothes are bunched up on the ground, ALSO covered in our mess.

I stand up, dick still parallel to the ground, and hold my shirt out in front of me. It's literally soaked in semen. My pants are even worse. It seems every drop of cum that didn't land on my body landed on my clothes...

"Ah..." Michael says, seeing the conundrum. "Well, there is the box of spare clothes, but there's not much that'll fit someone as large as you..."

"Anything has to be better than this, right?" I postulate.

I'm quickly proven wrong. There are very few garments that will LITERALLY physically fit my body. I put on a gargantuan black shirt that faintly smells of BO, and, of the bottoms, there are almost exclusively women's clothes. I'm stuck between cut-off grey baggy sweat shorts, and skirts.

First I try on a skirt, thinking to myself that the shorts won't even conceal anything. Unfortunately, the skirts leave very little to the imagination, too, and if anything, draw more attention to me. So I put on the shorts, but again, they're simply too tight. My dick is all but vacuum-sealed into them, leaving me with an enormous and completely obvious bulge that runs down my thigh. The head of my cock comes to meet the exact end of the shorts, so I'm technically covered up, but if someone were to get on the ground and look up at me, they'd see just about everything.

"I'm sorry I don't have anything more suitable," Professor Vosta says with a coy smile.

"Please. You've already played your cards – I know this is amusing to you." I adjust my clothes as I speak, shifting the shorts down as much as possible, but inadvertently creating friction that keeps my cock hard. I can't seem to move without making more incidental pleasure for myself...

"Caught me," he says, putting his hands up. "Anyway, it's not like it's a long walk to the parking lot. And I'll clean your clothes and get them back to you on Friday."

I nod. "Okay. Um. Well, see you then. And," I hesitate, "thanks." I awkwardly extend my hand for a handshake. "I guess," I mutter.

He shakes my hand and smiles. He says, "Good luck."

Walking back through the hallways, my dick refuses to go soft. I think I'm subconsciously finding it exciting to be aroused in public. Or, maybe it's simply the insane experience I just had. I peek my head around the corner to make sure the coast is clear. I see no one, so I make a break for it. It's not like I'm naked, so I really don't technically have anything to worry about—that's what I tell myself. Looking down at my shorts—they may as well not exist. My dick is all but out, as the sweat short material reveals how thick it is, how long it is, it even outlines my cut head.

I look back up, and just as I get to the doors, a tour group of parents and accepted students are about to walk in. I start to jog to get past them, but my shorts ride up and my dick peeks out for a moment. Panicked, I quickly fix it, and resign myself to stand turned away from them as they stand in the entranceway.

The tour group comes in, and the student tour guide prattles on about the facilities and opportunities and the like. I bide my time just turned away from them, nervously tapping my foot. Then, a student comes down the hallway that I just came from, holding a bunch of supplies in his hands. Fortuitously, or UNfortuitously, he drops a pencil that rolls right in front of my feet. I think to myself that, if he bends down to pick it up, he might get a glimpse of my dick. So before he can, I bend over to pick it up for him.

"Here you go," I whisper.

"Thanks," he says.

He does not hide how clearly he stares at my crotch.

Embarrassed, I spin around and decide to just leave. But just then, the tour group has started moving my way, and I bump directly into one of the dads of the tour group. I feel the entire length of my cock press into his leg, and I know he feels it too because he immediately looks down in shock and awe.

Stifling myself, I don't make a sound and just run past him, straight out of the building. I cover my dick with my hands, even though I'm literally clothed, and jump into my car as quickly as I can.

Finally sitting down, I cover my face with my hands and lean into my steering wheel. What a mortifying experience... That I might have to endure again this Friday.

Thank you for reading. I invite you to send comments and (kindly worded) feedback!