Erotic short. One of the university gardeners gets a visit from a professor on his break.
1k, cis M/M, rated E. Anal, barebacking, rough sex, objectification and mild degradation, hole spanking.
“Eyes forward,” orders the prof in brisk, gruff tones, and Finn shivers and puts his hands flat on the wooden surface of the planting table, feels the soil under his palm, his fingers. He’s been working out here for two hours and there’s already sweat on his skin, so much that he feels the jeans he’s wearing slide over his skin. He looks forward, stares at the tomato plants running along the other wall, and he feels the summer heat on his skin, the weight of the sun-warmed air in the greenhouse, smells the ozone on the air and the peaty thickness of the soil, tastes it, tastes the chlorophyll, is filled up with it all, the leaves, the sun.
Professor Dane gives no warning, doesn’t even brush his fingers over Finn’s hole: he lines himself up and sinks in, and Finn whines.
The sound is too loud, hits against the glass panels walling and roofing the greenhouse, and Dane grumbles wordlessly before his hand claps hard over Finn’s mouth and he shoves him down.
Finn’s moan is muffled against the prof’s palm as his chest his hard against the table, his hands forced out from under him, and Dane’s hips slam hard into him, so hard that Finn is forced into the grip of his hand. It’s a sudden intrusion, overwhelming and too much at once, a stretch that’s too familiar to be painful, all made of heat and pressure. It drags at his insides, makes his cock throb underneath him, and he gasps in through his nose, not trying to open his mouth.
Professor Dane starts up a punishing rhythm, and it probably wouldn’t feel so good, but he’s been working all morning waiting for this, waiting for the prof to come out in the hour he has between his last lecture and his next tutorial, knowing he’d come in just like this.
It’s not about romance, not about seduction, not even particularly about FWB because he doesn’t think he could call Professor Dane a friend without getting a stern look if not a smack across the face.
He’s honestly not sure that Dane likes him at all except that he’s a warm, wet sleeve for him to put his cock in, and fuck if that doesn’t make it hotter, the idea that Dane comes out to the greenhouse and bends him over to fuck him as he pleases, the idea that Dane never thinks of him as potentially being busy, potentially not being here.
Dane thinks of him as —
A possession. A toy.
He’s fucking him like one too, and his body is bent over Finn’s, his breaths hot between Finn’s shoulder blades and he doesn’t kiss or bite or mouth at him because it doesn’t please him to; his hand is splayed on the counter beside Finn’s, and no matter that Finn is a fucking gardener and a field labourer, he’s a little guy, not like Dane, Dane with his big dinnerplate hands and his thick fingers and all the fucking strength he has even though he does nothing to keep hold of it except fuck Finn like he’s a rag doll.
Finn can’t breathe, can’t focus on anything except the slam of Dane’s cock into him, hips making an obscene slap with each movement, his balls knocking against Finn’s and Finn’s cock crushed hard against the table surface, sliding against it with each forward movement.
“Mm,” he tries to hum against Dane’s hand, and the hand on the surface of the table moves to slap him on the arse instead. His answering howl is muffled against Professor Dane’s palm, his arse tightening around the thrust of his cock, and he can’t help it, can’t help the way he is, can’t help coming from it and feeling it rock through him so hard he can’t stand it. He’s clenching around Dane, knows he is, and he thrills with heat and excitement and the wonderful rush of having pleased a man, because Dane moans low in his throat and starts fucking him harder.
It hurts, oversensitive and a little painful, but something about the way he’s clenching or whimpering or just the knowledge that it hurts must turn Dane on, because he’s grunting low as he keeps fucking him, and Finn feels like he’s on Cloud fucking Nine.
When Dane comes, it’s hot and wet and pulsing, and he groans at the feel of his cock pulsing, the slickness inside him, feels it drip down his balls and down his thigh when he pulls out — Finn is open and well-fucked, breathing heavily, and he looks back as Professor Dane stands up straight and pulls up his trousers, smoothing out his suit.
He barely even looks at Finn as he checks his reflection in a pane of nearby glass.
“What are you waiting for, for me to keep fucking you?” asks Dane coolly.
“Maybe I am,” says Finn, turning to meet his gaze, shivering when Dane gives him a cold, nasty look. “Maybe the other guys I fuck could go again.”
Dane steps closer, and his hand moves so fast that Finn almost doesn’t see it — his palm makes a popping, loud slap when it makes contact with Finn’s open hole, and the burning pain that follows makes him yelp and jump, feels himself tighten a bit. He gasps, shudders out a breath.
“Maybe the other lads I fuck could take a little slap on the arse,” murmurs Dane, his voice rich and dark in a way that’s just too good, too appealing, too hot.
“I could take it,” Finn mutters, grabbing at his waistband and pulling his jeans back up. “I could take a lot more than that.”
When he looks up at Dane’s face, the old man is smirking down at him, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something new that Finn hasn’t seen before, a light in them as his gaze roves over Finn’s face, his body. He stares after him as he slips out of the greenhouse and leaves Finn to go back to work with Dane’s come leaking out of him, and Finn wonders if these will be one of the rare days when Dane comes out to see him a second time, and sends Finn home full to the brim with bruises on his hips.
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