“McCallum? Oh, he’s the best. Honestly, he is! I had him for that class on Postmodernism, and he was great. I’m a finance major, y’know, so a lot of the shit we talked about in that class went right over my head, but he was one of those guys who really made the effort to make you understand. He’s always free during his office hours, and if you need more after that you can go to his house and he can teach you there…”

---

McCallum carefully stirred the mix of scotch and soda, the ice cubes in the glass only making a few rotations before coming to a stop. The Espeon, being in his own home and ever comfortable in his own skin, wasn’t wearing a shirt; the pair of black slacks that he wore to work still hugged his muscled legs and massive, beefy bubble butt, but the Pokemon’s chest was beautifully bare. His thick pecs, lusciously muscular yet slightly jiggly, were exposed to the fox; so was McCallum’s belly, rounded but still firm. He was a true musclegut, and based on the confident smirk he wore looking down upon the fox, he knew it, too.

“Oh, how rude of me,” McCallum said, his voice a rich, soothing baritone reminiscent of a leather-bound book. “I should have asked if you wanted something. Would you like a drink, Collins?”

Collins couldn’t say no to that. As a matter of fact, he couldn’t say yes to that, either; the young fox’s underwear made sure of that, shoved in his mouth and securely kept in place by a layer of duct tape around his lips. The naked vulpine merely looked up at McCallum, his blue eyes filled with nerves, fear, and lust.

Collins was short to begin with, only a couple of inches north of five and a half feet tall. Standing in front of the Espeon, who stood at an imposing six feet and eight inches, was intimidating; kneeling in front of him, naked with his wrists bound to his ankles behind his back, was completely nerve-wracking. And yet, the nude fox’s cock was hard as a rock, standing shamefully at attention. McCallum smiled.

“Well, if you’re quite sure,” he said. “If you get thirsty later, I can take your briefs out of your mouth and put in a funnel gag.” He laughed, the Espeon taking a sip from his glass before pulling a wooden chair in front of Collins. 

“From your comments in class,” McCallum said, “you’ve had a bit of difficulty wrapping your head around Invisible Cities. Now, that’s quite alright-I’m not the sort of man who would judge you for it.” Idly, as though it was as subconscious as absently drumming one’s fingers, the Espeon reached his big hands down, gently rubbing up and down Collins’ sides before focusing on his chest. “As a matter of fact, I considered using If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler instead. But I’m a little too fond of Invisible Cities to leave it off. It’s a bit sentimental of me, isn’t it?” McCallum chuckled, warmly; Collins felt himself relax a little.

“Now, just answer me this,” the professor continued. “Did you do the readings?” McCallum’s thumbs began to trace lazy circles around the fox’s pink nipples, making Collins squirm a little in his bonds. “And do keep in mind that I’m psychic, boy.” The red crystal on the Espeon’s forehead was enough to remind Collins of that much. He didn’t need to worry, anyway; Collins nodded, and McCallum smiled.

“I thought so,” he said. “Some students come to my house for extra help when they haven’t cracked open a single book all year.” The Espeon reached into his pocket. “That’s when I’d bring these out.” In his hand, he held a chain; on either end of that chain were two fierce nipple clamps, toothed and fearsome. Collins gave an involuntary whine through his gag at the sight of them.

“Don’t worry, now,” McCallum said. “If you did the reading, they won’t go on.” That smirk spread across his lips again. “Unless, of course, you’d like them to.” He replaced them in his pocket before taking another sip of his scotch and soda.

“As I’m sure you know by now,” he said, his voice slipping into that familiar professorial cadence, “those various wondrous cities that Marco Polo describes to Kublai Khan don’t exist.” His hands continued to work over the fox’s nipples, fondling them, teasing them, pinching them gently between the tips of his thumbs and the bases of his index fingers. “But then, of course, they do exist.”

The uncomprehending expression in Collins’ eyes made McCallum chuckle. “That’s the usual reaction of finance majors after reading this book,” he said, with enough good humor that the fox didn’t feel insulted. “You see, on a more literal level, these cities exist because they’re all based on a real city. And that city is…?”

The grin on McCallum’s face suggested that he was well aware Collins would have some difficulties communicating. The Espeon was psychic, sure, but it took a great deal of concentration to read people’s minds on a level more complex than gauging emotions or detecting lies. Still, the fox managed to say something through the gag. “Mmm-mmmmmf?”

“That’s right! Venice.” McCallum reached behind Collins’ head, giving him an affectionate, if deeply condescending, scratch behind the ears. “Do you know that I asked that of someone and they said ‘Rome’?” He laughed, sipping from his drink; the condensation from the glass made his right hand cold, and Collins shuddered as it went back to his nipples. “I suppose he knew that ‘Italo Calvino’ is an Italian name and took his best guess.” The Espeon glanced down at Collins’ cock to make sure it was still at attention; it was fully hard, and beads of pre dripped from the head.

“Sensitive nipples, hmmm?” Collins gave a whine through his gag and nodded. “I have them, too. I’d be in erotic bliss with nothing but a boy’s lips and tongue working my chest for hours.” The Espeon glanced down again; Collins’ cock gave a big twitch at that, still more pre leaking desperately from the tip.

“Well, then,” he said. “If we make progress today, I’ll have to keep that in mind, won’t I?” He cleared his throat. “But I’ve sidetracked myself. We were talking about Venice, weren’t we?”

He talked on, his lovely, velvety voice rumbling in Collins’ ears as he continued his teasing. “As I’m sure you know, Venice doesn’t have a city beneath it where dead people live, and it doesn’t consist entirely of outskirts.” Those hands kept up their work on Collins’ nipples, pinching them, groping them ever more firmly. “But there are bits and pieces of it in each city in the book. And what does that imply?” He looked down at the fox, waiting for an answer.

Christ, Collins’ nipples were practically hardwired to his dick; he was moaning through his gag, blue eyes wet from the constant slow burn of the teasing he was undergoing. He had a deep, desperate ache in his cock and balls, even though McCallum hadn’t laid a finger on them.

“Well? I’m waiting for an answer, boy.” The Espeon looked as calm and controlled as ever, in stark contrast to the fox kneeling bound in front of him. In his desperation to get out an answer, Collins gave a muffled stream of high-pitched noises through his gag, the poor vulpine quivering with need as he tried to get something out, so this teasing would end.

“Hmmmm…” McCallum thought for a moment, just to keep Collins on tenterhooks. “I don’t know if I’d accept that answer on a test,” he said. He couldn’t hold back his smirk at the crestfallen expression on Collins’ face. The Espeon’s fingers continued their agonizingly slow work upon the fox’s nipples, and his voice droned on. “Now, listen carefully, young man…”

---

“I took him for 20th Century Irish Playwrights, and I thought it was gonna be an easy A. Lemme just tell you right now that it’s really, really not; McCallum’s gonna make you work for it. But...well, hell, I got a lot more into it than I thought I would. He’s just one of those professors who really goes the extra mile for it. Now he’s my advisor for my senior thesis, and I’ll be writing about 20th century Irish playwrights! Who’d have thought, right? I’m meeting him later today to figure out exactly what I should be writing about…”

---

The office was neat; much neater than those of his colleagues in the English Department, whose offices ranged from controlled chaos to...well, uncontrolled chaos. The desk was neatly arranged; office supplies, like pens, Post-it notes and paper clips, were on the left, while whatever papers needed to be on were sorted to the right, by “To Do”, “In Process”, and “Done”. The bookshelves were organized alphabetically, which was good for anyone else using it; there so many books that it would be nigh-impossible to find what you were looking for otherwise.

There was a small shelf, too, next to the chair where office visitors would sit. There were about a dozen books on this shelf, and they had titles like:

She Never Let Them In: James Joyce, Ireland, and Religious Persecution

Or:

‘Make It New’ and You: A Beginner’s Guide to Modernism

All of these books were attributed to Owen J. McCallum.

The man himself sat behind his desk, green eyes peering through his glasses as he looked through the contents of a manila folder.

“Well, Duffy,” he said, “I think that any of the playwrights we’ve discussed in class would make a fine subject for your senior thesis. You’ve certainly got the analytical eye to tackle any of them.” McCallum glanced down. “Oh, if you could use a little less teeth? Don’t worry, lad, you’re doing wonderfully, but just a tad less.”

With a wet pop, Duffy’s lips left the tip of the Espeon’s dick, the young feline breathing heavily as he came up for air. He was on his knees before his professor, small hands resting on McCallum’s broad thighs, tongue lolling out from the taste of the Pokemon stud’s nine-inch dick.

“Yes, sir,” Duffy said, before setting right back to work. His lips wrapped around the tip of McCallum’s cock again, and he shut his eyes, bobbing his head downward and working more and more of that hefty shaft into his hot, wet mouth.

McCallum nodded. His expression was calm and thoughtful; one would have no idea that he was getting an enthusiastic blowjob from one of his students. He smiled and began to speak to Duffy again.

“I won’t forbid you from doing Beckett or Shaw,” he said, “but I’d ask you to think twice before you do.” McCallum picked up a green mug and took a long sip of the black coffee within. “In my forty-six years on the planet and my twenty-two years in academia, I’ve read...oh, about a billion theses on Beckett and Shaw.” Duffy, who had popped off of McCallum’s cock to lick up and down the shaft, giggled lightly.

“Many of those were finely written, to be sure,” McCallum continued, “but it comes to a point where it’s almost impossible to say anything new about their work.” He reached a hand down, running his fingers through the Duffy’s yellow headfur. “Don’t forget the balls, lad,” McCallum reminded, gently, and the young feline obliged.

Duffy grabbed McCallum’s thick cock like a handle, pulling it back and exposing those round, hefty, purple-furred nuts. Practically panting with desire, Duffy opened his mouth up, stretching his jaw to take in those thick nuts, closing his eyes as he wrapped his lips around them. As he wetly suckled, running his tongue over the sensitive orbs, McCallum continued talking.

“As I said, I’m not forbidding you from doing anything. Oooh, that’s phenomenal.” McCallum interrupted himself, biting his lip from pleasure as his nuts got the attention they deserved. “Where did you learn to do that, I wonder? Anyway, if you have something new to say about Beckett, I’d be delighted to see what you can do. But if-mmmmmf! If someone gives me another thesis about the religious significance of Godot, I’m going to dress up as Ophelia and wade into the Long Island Sound, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

A loud snort came from beneath McCallum, followed by a wet, choking cough. The feline opened up his mouth, letting those balls come out of his mouth as he giggled and snorted. “Now I’m going to have that in my mind’s eye when I’m deepthroating you, Dr. McCallum,” the twinkish cat said, teasing.

“I don’t mind what you think, so long as you do it,” McCallum responded; and with that, Duffy set back to work. He opened his mouth, swallowed the Espeon’s cock deeper and deeper still, shutting his eyes and working it down until the head of McCallum’s dick nudged against the back of his throat. Wet, slurping suckles came from beneath McCallum’s desk as the professor continued.

“If you’d like my opinion,” he said, “I’m quite fond of your insights on Marina Carr.”

“Mmmmm?” Duffy couldn’t speak with his mouth full, but he looked up to make sure the Espeon knew he was listening.

“That’s so. Most of my students get too hung up on the Greek influences, or the mother characters. You’re far too curious to settle for that.”

Duffy nodded, went to come up for air-before McCallum’s heavy hand pressed down firmly on the back of his head, holding him there. That velvety baritone played in Duffy’s ears.

“Breathe through your nose, boy,” McCallum said. “You’re not coming up until I come.”

The skinny feline gave a muffled groan around McCallum’s cock, fingers digging into the Espeon’s thick thighs, eyes shut and drool trickling from the corners of his mouth. He gave wet, hungry slurps, practically audible from the hallway from how desperately he was going at it. Shhhlllrrrp! Sllllp! Shhhrrrrrp. Shhhhhk. Sk sk sk sk Shhhhhhlllllp.

As McCallum’s cockhead tickled the back of his throat in just the right way, Duffy jerked sharply beneath the desk, giving a wet cough. “That’s right, lad,” the Espeon said, head leaning back from pleasure. “Gag on it. Choke it down, you’re almost there.”

Duffy’s nostrils flared as he was pinned on that dick, breathing in-and-out, in-and-out, bobbing his head as much as he was able, working his wet, yielding mouth, hand reaching down to fondle those balls, and then-

Five minutes later, Duffy left the office of Dr. McCallum, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a Kleenex, sucking on a breath mint.

---

“Yeah, he’s good, but listen: do not cheat in his class. Honestly, I don’t know why you even would considering he’s psychic, but he takes it really fucking seriously. My roommate in sophomore year tried it, and McCallum found out…”

---

McCallum’s fingers clicked along the keys of his sleek, silver-colored laptop, the  Espeon answering his emails before setting to work with the night’s grading. A student asking for an appointment for academic advice (next Tuesday at noon would work nicely), a colleague setting up a time and place for lunch tomorrow (12:15 at Wellspring), spam from some newsletter or another (delete, delete, delete). He sighed, pushing the bridge of his glasses backwards up his snout, before standing up.

“Thirsty again?” he asked, looking down at the monkey kneeling on the ground next to his desk.

The monkey was naked, his slim, toned body on display and his thin, short cock embarrassingly exposed. He wore only two things: a pair of metal handcuffs that fastened his wrists behind his back, and a urinal gag placed in his mouth, the black rubber receptacle jutting outwards. He looked up at McCallum, wide brown eyes moist and pleading. Three tally marks had been written in Sharpie on his forehead.

“It’s not even eight o’clock yet,” McCallum said, reaching his hand down to his fly and slowly unzipping, “and you’re already on your fourth drink. You should pace yourself going forward, Schaefer.”

Schaefer gave a low, guttural groan as he watched McCallum reach into his slacks, fishing out his dick and aiming it right into the center of his gag’s receptacle. The monkey wouldn’t admit it, of course, but there had been times in class when his thoughts drifted to the bulge in McCallum’s trousers, thoughts of greedily sucking on the Espeon’s hefty cock, thoughts of moaning and writhing as it roughly took him from behind. His thoughts had never included something like this; how could they?

It started with a thin, clear trickle leaking from the head of McCallum’s cock, dripping into the urinal gag and making Schaefer wince at the thought of more to come. It didn’t take long for the stream to reach full force; soon, the sound of piss pouring against the rubber of the gag turned into the sound of liquid dripping into liquid, exactly as though the Espeon was pissing into a normal toilet.

The monkey had his lips wrapped around the yellow nozzle that the liquid fed into, and he knew by now that once it started coming it wouldn’t stop. The first mouthful of piss was acidic and bitter in the mouth, making his face screw up in disgust, but once he managed to choke down that one another would come in its place, filling Schaefer’s mouth with the hot, sour yellow brew.

A series of loud, steady gulps came from the monkey, eyes squeezed shut. It wasn’t the taste that bothered him as much as it was the relentless nature of it; even now that the stream had stopped, it just kept coming, filling his mouth after each swallow. Schaefer’s throat burnt as though he had chugged a bottle of vodka, and his tongue tasted like he had licked the urinal in his dorm clean.

About three-quarters of the way through, the monkey’s stomach convulsed, and he gave a loud, disgusted heave. McCallum rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “If you didn’t want to deal with the consequences, you shouldn’t have cheated in the first place.” The Espeon watched with that imperious look of his while Schaefer slowly, tortuously choked down the rest of it.

When the gag was empty, the monkey moved his lips off of the nozzle, gasping desperately for air, panting as though he had run a marathon. He let out a wet, disgusted burp from the obscene liquid he had been chugging down by the pint throughout the night so far.

McCallum picked up a black Sharpie from his desk, bending over and holding Schaefer by the back of his head. Carefully, he marked a fourth tally on the monkey’s forehead, before sitting back at his desk. The monkey gave a sickened little moan as he went back to being ignored by the burly Espeon; McCallum just rolled his eyes.

“Pace yourself, boy,” he reminded Schaefer. “The night’s still young, after all.”

---

“I’m not too proud to say that I was a bit of a teacher’s pet when I was in his class. But really, can you blame me? I was something of a precocious reader when I was in high school, and I had a big dog-eared copy of his essays on Eliot. I was thrilled when I got into one of his classes, and when he became my advisor...mmmmmf!”

---

All six feet and eight inches of the professor lay upon the king-sized bed in his room, his nude form resting comfortable as he lay on his stomach. He rested his arms on a pillow, and peered over an open binder of papers.

“Excellent work,” McCallum said, smiling genially. “You have a better grasp of Eliot than some of the people I’ve seen at symposiums. Of course,” he added with a chuckle, “sometimes that’s not saying very much.” The Espeon adjusted his glasses, closing the binder. “But kidding aside, you’re a wonderfully bright young man. And I’d be saying that even if you weren’t tongue-deep in my asshole.”

The red panda rested in between McCallum’s legs, hands resting on the Espeon’s big, juicy ass cheeks as he nodded into the Pokemon’s crack. “Mmmmmghhhhmmmmf,” he said, sinking his fingers into that fatty flesh as he continued his work. McCallum sighed, shutting his eyes and relaxing as his student ate his ass as though he was starving for it.

“I couldn’t quite remember if you liked licking up my sweat,” McCallum said, “so I made sure to freshen up before you came over. I hope that’s alright with you, Wilkins.”

Wilkins pulled his face free from the Espeon’s cheeks (christ, it was like they had their own gravitational pull!) and gasped, his expression unfocused and almost drunk in its blissful stupor.

“S’alright,” he said, “but I fucking love your sweat, sir.” Wilkins’ tone, usually clipped and proper, was hazy and almost slurred with lust. McCallum just chuckled as the red panda dove his face back in, his tongue sticking back out and licking up and down the Espeon’s crack.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time, then,” McCallum said, musing aloud. “I could work out and use your tongue as my sweat rag. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind licking every inch of me, right, Wilkins?”

Wilkins was so muffled by the muscle-dappled flab of McCallum’s ass that his response was barely audible, but it was there. “Mmmmmmmmmmmm~” His tongue continued its frantic work, licking up and down the Espeon’s crack again before settling on that tight pink pucker. It flicked this way and that, swirling around the hole, teasing the entrance, suggesting that it was going to enter before once again returning to its unhurried ways. McCallum, despite himself, squirmed with please, biting his lip.

“Goodness, but you’ve got a tongue on you,” he murmured, breathing heavily. If Wilkins wasn’t so clearly comfortable where he was, McCallum had half a mind to flip him over and use him as his seat. But that would come in due time-it wasn’t as though he was never going to see the red panda again in his life, after all.

He let Wilkins continue this way for a good five minutes. The red panda would move his face up and down McCallum’s crack, dragging his nose along that lovely musky crevice, taking luxuriating sniffs of its scent before dragging his tongue along the surface. Wilkins hugged McCallums’ hips, pressing that ass against his face, hungrily eating and worshiping the musclegut Espeon daddy, as though, if left to his own devices, he would go on like this forever.

Of course, McCallum was never the sort to make things perfectly straightforward. He reached his hand back, holding Wilkins by the neck scruff and pulling him, gently but firmly, out of his ass crack. The red panda moaned as though he was a grade schooler being told that recess was cancelled.

“If I left you to your own devices, you’d pass out in my ass,” McCallum explained, with a wry smirk. But of course, he saw the desperation in Wilkins, saw the way his cock was standing at full attention, and obliged him. Well, a little teasing first.

“Do you want some more?” McCallum asked, holding Wilkins back by his scruff. The red panda eagerly nodded.

“Yes, sir!”

“Say that you love my ass, boy. Come on.”

“I love your ass!” Wilkins blurted this out, craning his head forward to try and press his lips against one of those doughy cheeks. No dice; McCallum’s grip was too firm.

“Do you want to kiss it?” McCallum’s voice sounded almost bored; an affectation to drive Wilkins wild, of course, but it had the desired effect all the same.

“YES! Yes, I want to kiss it, I want to lick it, I wanna sniff it I wanna eat it!” The red panda’s voice was a keening whine, now; the poor thing was liable to burst into tears if he didn’t get what he wanted. Mercifully, the Espeon relented.

“Very well. Keep going, boy.”

He let go of Wilkins’ scruff, and the red panda almost immediately shoved his face back into that deep, hefty ass crack, snuffling and snorting and slurping with depraved intensity. McCallum just closed his eyes, resting his head on the pillow, and smiled. 

What rewarding work this was!