Crump's Revenge

Professor Edwin Crump sat hunched in his dimly lit study, the stale air thick with mildew, the must of old paper, and a faint trace of bourbon that clung to the worn armrests of his leather chair. Bookshelves bowed under the weight of his own works—novels, essays, and critical studies that had once garnered him a modest foothold in the literary world. Now, their cracked spines and faded covers seemed to leer at him from the shadows, relics of a sharper mind and a younger man. Edwin, at sixty-three, had surrendered most of his hair, leaving only a few stubborn gray strands that clung to his scalp like reluctant passengers on a sinking ship. His jawline had softened into a sagging pouch, and his once-proud tweed jacket, elbows frayed and fabric threadbare, strained against a paunch that had crept up unnoticed over the years.

The letter lay on his desk, the creased paper vibrating with the weight of its contents in his mind. Margaret. After thirty-two years of marriage, she had left him. Not just for anyone, but for him—the insufferable son of the college’s benefactor. Julian Whitaker. Edwin could almost hear the name sneering in his thoughts. Julian, with his floppy hair and tailored blazers, his trust fund arrogance and that grating habit of quoting Nietzsche at dinner parties. Julian, who had once been expelled from the very college his father funded for an escapade involving a stolen car and, inexplicably, a goat. And now, Julian had seduced Margaret. Margaret, who Edwin had long believed too sensible, too monotonous to ever court such scandal.

And yet, somehow, this preening dilettante had managed to seduce Margaret. His Margaret, who Edwin had long considered too grounded, too mundane to ever be the source of any real drama. The revelation gnawed at him, not because he mourned her loss, but because it fractured the image he’d built of their life together. She had been the reliable constant, the backdrop to his many small triumphs and larger failures. He had assumed she was content with her role, or at least indifferent enough to tolerate his dalliances with secretaries, graduate students, and the occasional visiting poet. He’d always believed her too sensible to act on any resentment, too restrained to seek revenge. But now, as he stared at the letter, he realized that he had misunderstood her entirely.

His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the decanter on the side table. The bourbon poured unevenly, splashing against the rim of the glass before settling into a sullen amber pool. He took a long, deliberate sip, letting the burn trail down his throat before he exhaled sharply. The laugh that followed was dry, bitter, as brittle as the pages of his oldest books.

“Conquests,” he murmured to the room, his voice roughened by drink and self-loathing. The word hung in the stale air, echoing back at him with a mockery that felt almost sentient. He thought of the secretaries, the graduate students, the occasional visiting poet—all those women who had flattered his ego and inflated his sense of himself as a literary lion. He had always assumed Margaret didn’t know. Or, if she did, that she didn’t care. But now, as he reread her letter, he realized she had known all along. And she had cared. Just not enough to leave him—until now.

With a sudden, jerky motion, Edwin crumpled Margaret’s letter into a tight ball and lobbed it toward the wastebasket, where it landed atop a growing mound of rejection slips from publishers who no longer saw value in his work. He stared at the heap, his lips tightening into a thin line. Bloody hell, he thought, though the words barely made it past his teeth

For weeks, Edwin stewed in his study, his days marked by the rise and fall of futile revenge fantasies and the slow, persistent depletion of his bourbon supply. He imagined confronting Julian in the middle of a faculty gala, exposing him as the degenerate he was. He plotted sending anonymous letters to his father, Reginald Whitaker, peppered with sordid details—real or imagined—about his son’s misdeeds. He even flirted with the idea of penning a scathing, thinly veiled novel, immortalizing Julian as a literary villain. But each scheme unraveled under the weight of its own pettiness or implausibility, leaving Edwin no closer to satisfaction than before.  

It was a chance encounter that shifted the course of his brooding. One dreary afternoon, while shuffling through the quad, Edwin overheard two junior faculty members whispering near the library steps. They spoke of Reginald Whitaker’s recent visits to campus, noting the old man’s newfound fondness for the arts and his unexpected generosity toward the college’s dwindling humanities department. Edwin paused, hidden by a pillar, as they chuckled about how Reginald seemed especially receptive to "charm" these days—particularly from those who flattered his intellect and indulged his nostalgia for a more cultured era.

That night, back in his study, the idea began to crystallize, absurd at first, then intoxicating in its audacity. If Julian could steal Margaret, why couldn’t Edwin turn the tables? What if he could charm, seduce even, the very man who held Julian’s future—and fortune—in his gnarled hands? Reginald, a widower well into his seventies, with a face like a crumpled bulldog and a personality to match, was hardly Edwin’s idea of a romantic conquest. Nor, Edwin suspected, would he be Reginald’s. But the prospect of dismantling Julian’s inheritance, of leaving him penniless and burdened with Margaret’s midlife rebellion, had a delicious symmetry to it.

The plan unfolded like a plot from one of his own novels—though, in his prime, he would’ve dismissed it as too far-fetched or stupid for publication. But if the world had decided to embrace absurdity, Edwin thought, swirling the last of his bourbon, why shouldn’t he?

Edwin adjusted the knot of his tie in the cracked mirror by the door, the harsh overhead light highlighting the deep creases around his mouth and eyes. The faculty holiday party wasn’t an event he usually anticipated, but tonight was different. Tonight, he had a mission. The halls of the college’s old reception building were already echoing with forced laughter and the clink of glasses when he arrived. Wreaths and garlands tried to mask the building’s age, but the cracked plaster and scuffed floors betrayed the effort.

Reginald Whitaker stood near the grand fireplace, his frame stiff, his expression somewhere between boredom and disdain. Edwin recognized that look—it was the same one he wore during tedious faculty meetings. But the benefactor’s presence was a rare opportunity. Edwin grabbed a glass of punch from a passing tray, forcing himself to glide through the crowd with something resembling grace.

“Reginald,” Edwin began, his voice pitched with a practiced warmth as he approached. “Edwin Crump, Literature Department. I’ve long admired your contributions to—”

Reginald cut him off with a curt wave of his hand, his gaze barely flickering toward Edwin. “Yes, yes. The Humanities. Always clamoring for more funding,” he muttered, his voice gravelly, as if each word cost him effort. “Call Marcia. She handles my schedule.” And with that, he turned away, already engaged in another conversation, leaving Edwin holding his untouched punch like a fool.

The rejection stung more than he’d anticipated. Edwin stood there for a moment, the party’s hum pressing against his temples, before he drained the punch in one bitter gulp. He was about to retreat to the bar for something stronger when a familiar laugh—light, almost musical—caught his attention.

Jean. 

He hadn’t seen her in years. She stood near the dessert table, her auburn hair now streaked with silver but still framing her face with that effortless elegance. She was speaking to someone, but her eyes drifted over, catching his. A flicker of recognition passed between them, followed by something else—pity, maybe.

Moments later, she approached him, her smile polite but cautious. “Edwin Crump. Well, isn’t this a surprise?”

“Jean,” he replied, his voice low, tinged with something that might’ve been nostalgia if it weren’t so bitter. “It’s been a while.”

They exchanged the usual pleasantries, the kind people do when there’s too much unsaid between them. She asked about Margaret, her tone gentle, almost sympathetic when he mentioned the separation. He played it off with a shrug and a joke, but Jean’s eyes softened in a way that suggested she saw right through it.

By the end of the evening, after enough drinks to dull his pride, Edwin found himself inviting her over. She hesitated, but something in her expression—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe just a desire to escape her own tedious evening—led her to agree.

When Jean arrived later that night, the apartment felt colder than Edwin remembered. He’d tried to tidy up, but the faint scent of mildew and stale bourbon clung stubbornly to the air. They made small talk, skimming over their shared history like stones over water—never quite diving into the deeper, messier parts.

But when they finally moved to the bedroom, Jean’s eyes swept over Edwin’s undressed form, pausing at the soft folds of flesh that had settled around his middle. She offered a tentative smile, trying to mask her surprise at how much he had changed. “You’ve, uh, filled out a bit, Edwin,” she said, her voice as delicate as the porcelain figurines on the dusty mantel.

Edwin managed a self-deprecating chuckle, but as he lay beside her, the room spinning from a mix of nerves and alcohol, he felt his body betray him. He tried to ignore the panic as his penis remained stubbornly flaccid, refusing to rise to the occasion despite his furious willing. He took a deep, shaky breath and rolled onto his side, feigning a sudden need to adjust his position. The silence between them grew heavy, charged with the unspoken awkwardness that comes from a shared understanding of failure.

“It’s been a while for me too, you know,” he said, hoping to lighten the mood, but his voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

Jean’s hand found his, her touch warm and comforting. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her eyes kind. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not feeling up to it.”

For a moment, Edwin felt the weight of his humiliation lift. Maybe this was just a bad night, a fluke. He could always try again tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep and a clear head. But as he lay there, his mind racing with thoughts of Margaret, Julian, and the absurdity of his life’s twists, he knew he needed more than a simple pep talk to conquer his impotence. He needed a victory, a way to prove to himself—and to the world—that he wasn’t a has-been, that he was still capable of taking what he wanted, of being desired. And so, his thoughts turned to his newfound mission with renewed determination. He would win back more than just his manhood; he would reclaim his dignity and, perhaps, even his place in the academic hierarchy.

After a few awkward moments, Jean sighed softly, sitting up and gathering her clothes with quiet efficiency. “It’s all right, Edwin,” she said gently, as if comforting a wounded animal. She didn’t stay for more apologies, didn’t linger in the doorway for a dramatic farewell. She simply left, her perfume lingering longer than her presence.

Now, alone in his dim study, Edwin Crump sat hunched in his chair, the night pressing in around him like a judgment. The bourbon glass sweated on the desk beside him, untouched. The crumpled letter from Margaret still lay in the wastebasket, a silent monument to his failures.

Driven by a restless, bitter energy, he decided to take a walk.

The community park was shrouded in darkness, the dim glow of the streetlights casting long, twisted shadows across the paths. The cold bit at his cheeks, but Edwin welcomed the discomfort. It felt honest. As he wandered aimlessly, his mind churning over thoughts of Margaret and Julian, he began to notice figures moving through the park—single men, loitering with a purpose that seemed at odds with the late hour.

It wasn’t long before Edwin recognized a few of them. Students, some from his lectures, others familiar from faculty mixers. The realization struck him like a slap—he was in a gay cruising area.

At first, the absurdity of it amused him. Here he was, Professor Edwin Crump, literary scholar and cuckold, wandering through a clandestine carnival of clandestine liaisons. But his amusement curdled into something more complex when he spotted a familiar figure: Dr. Walker, the history professor. A man of similar age and build to Edwin, Dr. Walker’s portly frame and balding head were unmistakable even in the dim light.

Curiosity, mingled with a strange sense of superiority, got the better of Edwin. He kept his distance, following Dr. Walker as he meandered through the park. It wasn’t long before Dr. Walker met up with a stranger—a middle-aged townie with a ruddy complexion and a weathered face. The two exchanged a few hushed words before slipping into a more secluded area behind a dense thicket of bushes.

Edwin’s heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and disbelief. What on earth did they think they were doing? Driven by a morbid fascination, he crept closer, peeking through the foliage Edwin watched from his hiding spot as Dr. Walker and the townie embraced with a passion that seemed to defy the cold night air. Their kisses grew more urgent, their hands more exploratory, as they fumbled with the buttons and zippers of their clothes. The sight of their bare skin, stark in the moonlight, sent a shiver down Edwin’s spine—part shock, part…. Arousal?. 

Dr. Walker’s chest heaved, his soft belly jiggling with each panted breath, as the townie’s mouth traveled down his body. When the man’s erect penis was finally revealed, Edwin felt a strange kinship with the desperate, furtive figures before him. The townie took it in hand, stroking it with a hunger that seemed almost desperate. Then, with surprising agility, he bent Walker over a nearby bench, and Edwin could see the silhouette of the man’s penis disappearing between the other’s muscular buttocks. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the night, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the occasional distant car passing by on the street. Walker’s muffled gasps grew louder, his body shaking with each thrust. The sight was at once repugnant and fascinating to Edwin, who felt his own hand creep towards his pants, his mind racing with the thought of what it would take to feel such raw, unbridled desire again.

Edwin had never seen Dr. Walker, the stoic historian with the meticulously tailored suits and the faint lilt of an Oxford accent, in such an animalistic state before. The man's bare skin gleamed with sweat and moonlight, his body moving with a primal urgency that seemed to defy his usual stodgy demeanor. The townie's hands were everywhere, grabbing, kneading, pulling, as he claimed Walker's body with a ferocity that was both shocking and strangely mesmerizing. The sound of their breaths, ragged and desperate, filled the quiet park like a cacophony of secrets spilling out into the open. 

The sight of their illicit union was as raw and unvarnished as the emotions roiling within Edwin himself. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut: here was passion, here was desire, laid bare for all to see—if only one knew where to look. And as he watched Dr. Walker's body spasm and the townie's hips slow to a halt, the stark reality of his own life's coldness settled over him like a shroud. He had never felt such a visceral connection to anyone—not his wife, not his mistresses, not even himself.  The scene didn’t elicit the smug satisfaction Edwin had anticipated. Instead, a prickling irritation settled in his chest. Here was Dr. Walker, a fat, pudgy man with no more charm or grace than Edwin himself, finding immediate, carnal satisfaction in the arms of a stranger. And Edwin? He couldn’t even muster an erection in the privacy of his own home, let alone entertain the thought of such reckless abandon.

Their clandestine encounter reached its peak with the townie's final, powerful thrusts, and Dr. Walker's body quivered as he was filled with the man's hot, thick seed. The townie's grunts grew louder, echoing through the deserted park, and Edwin felt his own hand quicken, the pressure building inside of him as he watched the other man's release. As the sounds of their passion faded away into the night, Edwin realized with a start that he had just witnessed something more intimate than he had ever shared with Margaret, and his own hand grew still as the reality of his life's new, strange turn settled heavily upon him.

 

Unfortunately, the nearby wail of police sirens decided to interfere with the park’s gay revellers. Dr. Walker and his companion scrambled to dress, their panic palpable as they dispersed into the shadows but not before they shared one final kiss. Edwin remained hidden, his breath visible in the cold air, his annoyance deepening into something more bitter and resolute. 

By the time he returned home, his initial humiliation had fermented into a seething determination. If Margaret could humiliate him, and Dr. Walker could find satisfaction in the dark corners of the park, then Edwin would have his revenge—not just on Margaret, but on Julian as well.

The next morning, with a hangover pounding at his temples, Edwin reached for the telephone. His fingers hovered over the dial for a moment before he punched in the number with deliberate force.

“Marcia,” he said when the secretary answered. “I’d like to schedule a meeting with Reginald. The final appointment of the day on Friday, if you please.”

His voice was steady, his resolve sharpened by the events of the previous night. As he hung up the phone, a thin smile crept across his face. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The week crawled by with agonizing slowness. Edwin found himself restless, pacing his small apartment, rehearsing what he might say to Reginald Whitaker. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more—the dream or the unsettling connection he felt with Victor and Roger. The letter in his pocket felt heavier with each passing day.

Friday finally arrived. Edwin dressed in his dignified best: a charcoal gray suit, crisply pressed, with a tie that added just a hint of subdued color. He examined himself in the mirror, trying to project confidence. His reflection stared back, uncertain.

When he arrived at Reginald Whitaker’s imposing townhouse, the grandeur of the building only heightened his anxiety. The butler, an older man with an expression carved from stone, ushered Edwin into a lavish waiting room. Heavy velvet curtains filtered the sunlight, casting the room in a muted glow. The clock ticked with an exaggerated slowness, each second a reminder of his growing discomfort.

Twenty minutes crawled by before a sharp voice echoed down the hall. Reginald Whitaker stormed into view, his face flushed, a sleek phone clamped to his ear.

"I don’t give a damn about the projections!" he barked. "If they can't deliver, find someone who can." A pause—just long enough to suggest the poor soul on the other end dared to protest—then Whitaker cut in, voice sharp enough to slice glass. "Then fix it, or you're out. Understood?"

With a final jab at the screen, he ended the call, his icy blue eyes snapping to Edwin. The weight of his gaze pinned him in place—dissecting, calculating, like a hawk sizing up a wounded rabbit. A long, suffocating silence settled between them.

Edwin opened his mouth, but Whitaker waved him off with a flick of his hand, dismissive as brushing lint from a sleeve.

"I know what you want," he said, his tone clipped and cold. "I’m hungry."

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall, leaving Edwin standing in his wake, dumbfounded. After a beat of hesitation, Edwin followed, his shoes clicking against the marble floor, each step echoing louder than the last.

The dining room loomed ahead—a cavernous space drenched in opulence. A lavish meal sprawled across the long mahogany table, silver gleaming under an ornate chandelier that looked like it hadn’t been dusted in decades but still managed to sparkle. Whitaker claimed the head of the table, gesturing curtly for Edwin to sit.

Edwin sank into the hard, high-backed chair, feeling as though he’d just strapped himself into an electric chair. A butler materialized, poured claret into their glasses with clinical precision, and vanished, leaving behind only the faintest scent of starch and old money.

Whitaker didn’t bother with pleasantries. "If this is about your wife and my son, rest assured, I’m just as furious as you are." His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Julian has always been a disappointment."

Edwin blinked, caught off guard. "Has he?"

"Relentlessly." Whitaker waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting at a bothersome fly. "The goat incident, the Marxist coup attempt during his student council days, his brief, nude foray into performance art in Paris—each more humiliating than the last."

Edwin’s eyebrows shot up. "Nude?"

"Quite." Whitaker’s mouth twisted with disdain. "Takes after his mother’s side. Flamboyant." The word dripped with contempt, as though it tasted foul in his mouth.

Something unexpected flickered in Edwin—a twisted camaraderie, perhaps. Loathing Julian was easy, but finding common ground with his cold, domineering father? That was dangerous territory.

Whitaker leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table. "But tell me, Dr. Crump," he said, his voice dropping to a low, cutting register. "Are you certain your wife left you solely for my son’s charms?" His eyes glittered, sharp as a blade. "I’m surprised Margaret tolerated your antics for as long as she did."

Edwin stiffened, a flush creeping up his neck. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come now," Whitaker chuckled, dark and humorless. "You think faculty gossip doesn’t reach me? The graduate students, the secretaries… the faculty wives." He savored the last word like a fine vintage.

Edwin’s mouth went dry. "I—I hardly think—"

"Spare me the denials, Crump," Whitaker snapped, his patience evaporating. "I’ve funded that university long enough to know where the bodies are buried—and where the beds have been warmed."

The room tilted slightly. Edwin reached for his claret, his hand trembling. The rich, velvety wine coated his tongue but did nothing to steady him. He set the glass down with more force than necessary.

"I didn’t come here to discuss my… indiscretions," Edwin said, forcing his voice into something resembling firmness. He met Whitaker’s icy gaze head-on. "I came to discuss us."

Whitaker leaned back in his chair, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Us?" he echoed, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

Edwin swallowed hard, realizing too late that he was in far deeper than he’d anticipated. The room seemed to close in, the opulence suffocating rather than comforting.

Whitaker raised an eyebrow, waiting. The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable.

"I wanted to…" Edwin hesitated, the words sticking in his throat like dry bread. "Seduce you," he blurted, the confession hanging in the air like smoke. He rushed on, outlining his ill-conceived plan to get revenge on Margaret and Julian, each word feeling more absurd than the last. When he finally ran out of breath—and nerve—he stood, ready to flee.

"Sit down," Whitaker commanded, his voice a whip-crack.

Edwin froze, then slowly obeyed, his heart pounding in his chest.

For a moment, Whitaker said nothing. He simply stared, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a smirk curled at the corners of his mouth.

"You’re bold," he murmured. "But why would I be interested in you? Your history at the university suggests you’re not like that queer Walker." He spat the name like a curse. "Professor Crump…balding, chubby men are hardly my type."

The words stung, but Edwin refused to flinch. A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with tension.

"Very well," Whitaker said at last, his voice low and dangerous. "Seduce me."

Edwin swallowed his pride and desperation in equal measure, feeling them like a bitter pill lodged in his throat. "I witnessed something intriguing last week," he began, his voice tremulous at first but gaining strength and clarity with each passing word. "I saw Dr. Walker in the park, wrapped in the intimate embrace of another man. Their connection was electric, a living current that seemed to pulse in the very air around them. They were utterly lost in each other's presence, as if the rest of the world had fallen away." He paused, feeling a warm flush spread across his cheeks, yet his eyes gleamed with a newfound courage that lit up his face. "It stirred something deep within me, an emotion I’ve never felt with Margaret or anyone else." He locked his gaze onto Whitaker's, his eyes brimming with a longing that was almost tangible. "And I can't help but wonder… haven't you ever yearned for that kind of passion too?"

Whitaker’s face remained an unreadable mask, but in his eyes, something shifted—a glint that was sharp, calculating, and intensely curious.

"Pleasure, you say?" His voice was soft, laced with a mocking undertone. "You believe that indulging in such… acts could somehow surpass my son?"

Edwin nodded, his desperation evolving into something raw and achingly honest. As he recalled watching Walker that night, his priorities underwent a transformation. This was no longer about mere revenge. Edwin craved what Walker had experienced for those fleeting moments in the park. He yearned to be touched, to feel validated, to surrender himself completely to another person. And at this moment, that person was the cantankerous, corpulent man standing before him. A suspicion crept into Edwin’s mind that perhaps Whitaker desired this too.

"I didn’t think this through," Edwin confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "But you don’t strike me as the kind to dismiss the idea outright. And you’re certainly not one to solicit this from just anyone."

Whitaker’s laughter was a low, dangerous rumble, though it didn’t quite reach the depths of his eyes. "You’re full of surprises, Dr. Crump. But the question is, can you deliver? Or is this just your wounded pride speaking?"

Edwin felt a flicker of anger simmer beneath his skin, but he forced it down. "I’ve got nothing to lose," he whispered, the words hanging in the charged air. "Do you?"

Whitaker regarded him in silence, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air. Then, slowly, recognition dawned in his eyes—a shared understanding, a mirrored need neither could deny.

"Very well," he said finally, his voice like velvet over steel. He picked up the phone, his eyes never leaving Edwin’s. "Charles, a bottle of bourbon in the bedroom, please."

Edwin and Reginald entered the opulent bedroom, the walls lined with velvet and the floor soft with plush carpet. The heavy scent of leather and cologne hung in the air, a stark contrast to the musty study Edwin was used to. The bed, a grand four-poster affair, loomed large in the center of the room. The butler, Charles, delivered the bottle of bourbon and two crystal tumblers with the precision of a man who had done this dance before. He retreated with a silent nod, leaving the two men alone with their shared thirst for something more than liquor. 

The whiskey burned as it slid down their throats, warming them from the inside out. The ice in their drinks clinked against the glass, echoing the unspoken tension that filled the room. Edwin began to speak of his failures, the way his once-celebrated writing career had stalled, leaving him adrift in a sea of forgotten words and forgotten conquests. His voice grew thick with regret as he recounted the endless stream of secretaries and students who had come and gone, never filling the void in his life—or his bed.

Reginald, his own face a map of disappointment and disillusionment, spoke of Julian’s rebellious streak, the way his son had squandered every opportunity thrown at him, choosing instead to embrace a lifestyle that was the antithesis of the one he’d been born into. The resentment between father and son was palpable, a chasm that seemed unbridgeable. Yet, as Edwin listened, he heard something else—a longing for understanding, a need for connection that mirrored his own.

Their conversation grew increasingly intimate, the air thick with shared pain and longing. And then, as if by silent agreement, the space between them closed. Edwin reached out, tentative at first, and touched the back of Reginald’s hand with his own. The skin was cool, the veins prominent. The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of excitement and dread.

Reginald didn’t pull away. He looked up at Edwin, his expression unreadable, and Edwin felt the gravity of the moment. His heart hammered in his chest as he leaned in, the alcohol giving him the courage to do what his pride had never allowed before—to seek solace in the arms of another man. Their lips met with surprising softness, a gentle brush that grew bolder as the seconds ticked by. The kiss grew deeper, hungrier, as if they were both starving for a connection that had eluded them for so long.

For Edwin, it was a revelation—his first kiss with a man, and it held a power that his past encounters with women never had. It was raw, it was real, and it was everything he had been missing. And for a brief, dizzying moment, as he felt the warmth of Reginald’s tongue against his, he knew that this was what he wanted. This was the victory that would silence the whispers of his inadequacies.

Their hands roamed, exploring each other’s bodies with a curiosity that belied their ages. Edwin felt the stirring in his pants, the first stirring of arousal he’d felt in months. It was as if he had been reborn, his desires laid bare and suddenly, shockingly, achievable. He broke the kiss, panting, and stared into the old man’s eyes.

Edwin and Reginald continued to undress, their eyes locked in a silent challenge, a mutual acknowledgment that this was no longer about themselves, but about the other. Their bodies, soft and unfamiliar with the intimate touch of another man, revealed the years of neglect. Yet, as they stood naked, their penises stood firm, nipples erect with anticipation. They approached each other with a newfound hunger, driven not by lust for themselves, but to give the other pleasure 

Their hands moved with a tentative confidence, exploring the uncharted territories of their doughy frames. Fingers danced over each other’s skin, tracing the contours of their bodies as if learning Braille. They kissed again, this time with a feral passion, their tongues dueling in a dance of dominance and submission. The touches grew bolder, more insistent, as they sought to unlock the secrets of male desire that had eluded them both for so long.

They tumbled onto the bed, their movements fueled by instinct rather than experience. Hands grasped at flesh, teeth sank into soft skin, and moans filled the room. Their bodies were a canvas of sensation, each touch, each kiss a stroke of color in a painting of unexpected beauty.

Edwin found himself kneeling before Reginald, his heart racing as he took the older man's penis into his mouth. It was a gesture that seemed almost blasphemous in the face of his lifelong heteronormative existence, yet it thrummed with an intensity that surpassed any encounter he'd had with a woman. The shaft was firm in his mouth, as Edwin’s head bobbed rhythmically up and down, his tongue swirling and flicking against the velvety head of Reginald’s penis. The salty tang of the old man’s arousal filled his mouth, a stark contrast to the minty taste of his own. The coarse pubic hairs brushed against his cheeks, a reminder of the intimate dance they’d embarked upon. His eyes watered slightly, but he pushed through the discomfort, driven by the desire to conquer his inhibitions and prove himself. 

Each groan from above him was like a drop of sweet nectar, urging him to go deeper, to explore every inch of this uncharted terrain. His cheeks hollowed as he took more of the shaft in, the muscles in his throat contracting to accommodate the unfamiliar intrusion. Reginald’s fingers tightened in Edwin’s hair, his breathing growing ragged. until Reginald told him to stop....he needed to feel Edwin inside him

Reginald lay back on the bed, his legs spread and his body quivering with a mix of trepidation and excitement. The idea of being penetrated by another man was something he had never considered before, but he saw it as a necessary. Reginald, his breathing heavy with anticipation, watched as Edwin searched through the medicine cabinet for the small tube of KY Jelly. Edwin’s trembling hand found the lube and brought it back to the bed, his own arousal now a pulsing need. 

As Edwin hovered above him, Reginald could feel the his cock pressing against his opening. With a deep breath, he nodded his consent, and Edwin pushed forward, breaching the barrier. The sensation was foreign, a stretching and burning that made him gasp, his fists clenching the bedclothes. Edwin’s movements grew more assured, his hips driving into him with a steady rhythm that seemed to resonate through the very bones of the house. The pain ebbed, replaced by a building pressure that was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Despite his initial resistance, Reginald found himself arching up to meet each thrust, his body betraying his mind’s reservations. 

The older man’s hands gripped the sheets, his knuckles white as he took Edwin’s full length. Edwin began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that grew more urgent with each passing second. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breaths. And as they moved together, their eyes never wavered.

With a newfound sense of urgency, Reginald and Edwin repositioned themselves on the bed, their bodies aligning in a way that spoke of desperation and mutual craving. They settled into a 69 position, their legs entangled, each man eager to both give and receive pleasure. Edwin's mouth found Reginald's penis once more, taking it in with a renewed hunger that seemed to reflect the urgency in his own loins. The old man's grip tightened on the bedpost as he felt the wet warmth of Edwin's mouth, his hips bucking slightly with each deep suck. Meanwhile, Edwin's own erection was nestled between Reginald's plump, hairy thighs, and the man's mouth closed around it, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he took Edwin in with surprising enthusiasm.

Their moans mingled, a symphony of passion that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the room. Each man's breath grew ragged, their movements becoming more frenetic as they approached the edge. Edwin could feel Reginald's tongue swirling around the tip of his cock, his mouth moving in time with the thrusts he delivered into the old man's mouth. And as he did, he could feel the tremors building in the body beneath him, the muscles in Reginald's thighs tightening as he neared climax.

The tension grew unbearable, a coil of need that wound tighter with each passing second. Edwin's mouth worked furiously, his tongue sliding along the length of Reginald's shaft, his cheeks hollowed with the effort. And then, with a muffled roar, Reginald's body convulsed, his cock pulsing as he released himself into Edwin's eager mouth. The taste of the old man's seed was surprisingly sweet, a tang that sent shockwaves of pleasure through Edwin's own body. He swallowed greedily, feeling the warmth spread down his throat, even as his own climax built.

The sensation of the other man’s mouth on him was too much to bear, and with a final, desperate thrust, Edwin reached his peak, his cock spurting hotly against the back of Reginald's throat. The old man took it all, his eyes squeezed shut as he savored the bitterness of victory. They remained like that for a moment, panting and trembling, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

Finally, they disentangled themselves, collapsing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. Their chests heaved with exertion, the rhythm of their breaths loud in the thick, post-coital silence. The only other sound was the faint, obscene drip of spent desire, echoing in the dimly lit room like an unspoken confession. The velvet-covered walls seemed to absorb the heat and tension, leaving the two men adrift in the hazy aftermath of their forbidden union.

Reginald was the first to break the silence, his voice a low, gravelly murmur. "Well," he rasped, his throat dry from more than just exertion, "I suppose we've both learned something new tonight."

Edwin let out a breathless chuckle, the absurdity of their situation dawning on him like a surreal dream from which he had no desire to wake. "Indeed," he replied, his voice still shaky but tinged with amusement. "Though I doubt it's what either of us had in mind when this evening began."

Their quiet laughter filled the room, a soft, unexpected harmony that dissolved the final remnants of tension lingering between them. As they lay side by side, staring up at the ornate ceiling with its fading frescoes, Edwin felt an unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest—a strange, begrudging camaraderie with the man he had once loathed. Somehow, in the chaos of desire and defiance, they had stumbled upon something neither of them had realized they were searching for: connection, however fleeting, and the intoxicating freedom of defying expectations.  

In the weeks that followed, the repercussions of that night rippled through their lives in subtle, unexpected ways. Reginald, once the embodiment of cold authority at the university, became a less fearsome presence. His lectures, though still sharp and authoritative, carried a newfound nuance, a flicker of vulnerability that intrigued his students and colleagues alike. Even his strained relationship with his son, Julian, began to thaw, their conversations no longer brimming with the same brittle tension. 

Edwin, on the other hand, found himself confronting the ghosts of his past with an honesty that unsettled him. He reflected on his treatment of women, particularly his ex-wife, Margaret, realizing how his selfishness and arrogance had poisoned their marriage. He still felt Julian was a simpleton but if he made her happy..fine.  Also. for the first time in years, Edwin felt the stirrings of inspiration—an idea for a new book, one that delved into the murky complexities of power, desire, and redemption.

One fateful evening, Margaret decided to visit the estate, intending to wait for Julian after a faculty dinner. The grand hallways, dimly lit by flickering sconces, seemed to whisper secrets as she moved through them, her heels muffled by the thick Persian carpets. Drawn by the low hum of male voices, she followed the sound down a corridor she hadn't ventured into before.

She paused at a slightly ajar door, the rich mahogany frame cool under her fingertips. Curiosity got the better of her, and she nudged it open just enough to peer inside.

What she saw rooted her to the spot.

 

Edwin, his body slick with sweat and flushed from exertion, was straddling Reginald, who lay beneath him, his normally stern face softened by something startlingly intimate—pleasure, yes, but also a raw vulnerability that Margaret would never have associated with the imperious man. The scent of sex hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cigar smoke and aged brandy.

 

For a heartbeat, Margaret could only gape, her mind struggling to reconcile the scene before her. Then Edwin, sensing a shift in the room's energy, glanced up.

His eyes met hers, wide and startled, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with exertion this time.

"Uh..." Edwin's voice cracked, the single syllable hanging awkwardly in the charged air. He managed a sheepish, almost boyish smile. "Hi, Margaret."