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The first two summer months were lived in a state of suspended animation. Like a refugee, waiting forlornly in a camp, I?d wondered about my fate with a hideous sense of doom. Despite the sunshine, the sea breeze and the lack of any meaningful schedule, I found no joy in my days. Instead, each sunrise seemed to bring the certainty that things would soon cut to black.Books that I?d meant to read were left on the shelves, my own writing trickled out with the scarcity of a desert creek. Eating was something I mostly forgot to do. Socially, I couldn?t get comfortable enough with my situation to risk staining someone else?s reputation. In short, I was owned by my blackmailer: leveraged by a single photo of some very bad behavior.As had become my sad custom, I was sitting on the porch of my rented carriage house, looking at the cultivated grounds of the larger estate and thinking about the futility of my situation. The beer I?d opened thirty minutes ago*sat sweating and untouched. My mind raced with scenarios of revenge, exposure, ruination and, very occasionally, unrivalled pleasure. The truth is, the act that had landed me in my dilemma haunted me as a jagged silver lining to the dark cloud I now lived under in its aftermath.Yes, fucking the mouth of my student was irresponsible on a galactic level. But*the scene in my office that day*would have sucked in the most scrupulous man (the pun is intended). On the rare occasions, I did laugh these days, it was almost always at the absurd notion of walking away from the opportunity I had found myself in. Of course, no one would ever understand that reality unless they?d been there or had the superpower of total honesty. In my academia, a dedication to mindful inquiry stopped well short of delving candidly into sexual matters between student and professor. Considering that the young women in question had been the instigators and very willing participants was not in the realm of possibility among the jury of my peers. In the age of #MeToo, my conviction and disgrace would be immediate, profound and very public. There is simply no way of explaining a coed blowing you in your office while her friend masturbated in a rather graphic way right in front of you.Next to the beer, my phone buzzed and kicked me out of my daily somnambulance. Almost without human contact these days, I picked up the device and turned it over with a bit of ?someone cares? in my chest. A message from a number I didn?t recognize promised an attachment and so I opened it. On Mr. Jobs? sleek screen, I appeared in digital glory, pants around my ankles, my manhood stuffed into the frothing mouth of young Jessica. The evidence that had put me on the rack for these two months now stared me in the face, electronically relayed through the wonder of modern technology;*it gripped my bowels with a prehistoric understanding of threat.Before I could manage the churn of my reaction, the phone buzzed again from the same number. This text read, ?Paying u a vst 2nite. Dirctions to cum.?There are many ways a a man like me could react to this kind of message. Perhaps belying my most authentic self, my dick leapt into battle station readiness. I must admit, on a cognitive level, this disappointed me. Where was almanbahis my discipline, sense of dignity, my appreciation for the very dangerous territory this behavior had landed me in?For weeks, I?d tried to figure out a way to extricate myself from it all but there simply was no reasonable way out. That picture of me, in anyone?s hands, would be my professional end. All I needed to do was cross its owner, Roberta, and ?poof!? I?d be gone from university life forever.So, why did it turn me on so much? Good God, if you could?ve seen that little snatch on Roberta or felt the eager pulls of Jessica?s mouth, no heterosexual man with a heartbeat could have walked away from all of that. Of this, I?m quite certain.But as the sun skimmed the tops of the oaks surrounding my little house, I wondered if this evening would bring new pleasure or some fresh hell. I grabbed the beer and took a long, needy swig.~~~~At 8:30, I had a single light on in my reading room and I was feigning interest in Faulkner?s, The Wild Palms. For the past five minutes, I?d been on a single paragraph, not all that surprising given the author but I was definitely unfocused. My dick had not stood down since that promise of company. There was no dinner, just a couple of beers and a brief straightening up of the place. Then*I felt silly prepping my home for a couple of kids a hair?s breath away from their teens (I hoped). So, I ?read.?With the shock of a cattle prod, the phone buzzed. ?Drs unlckd. Lites