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As usual, comments, speculations, predictions, and suggestions welcome. The more join in, the merrier!

I flew halfway across the country this past weekend and moved into a new place, so that's why this one's a little late. This weekend, I'm packing and moving once again to start school that Sunday, so might be another week where there's not a Sunday update.

Also--I am quite interested in commissioning art of Sean, if anyone would be willing to draw the guy. Mail me ([email protected]), tweet at me (@Orvayn), or note me on here or FA if interested.

---

"Why the fuck won't you just go see him?"

Jake caught himself in the act of chewing his pencil. He looked over at Joel, splayed back in the couch with his feet perched on top of the footrest. Audience laughter from the latest flavor-of-the-month sitcom sounded from the television.

The centerpiece of your average apartment was a television. The center of Jake and Joel's apartment was the whiteboard, mounted on the wall behind the loveseat. A single equation had occupied the whiteboard for the past four hours, each minute of which Jake had spent staring at the offending mass of symbols and killing markers trying to solve the problem.

"I should be able to figure this out," Jake said. But that wasn't the whole story. He'd spent whole days on single problems before, but usually he at least made progress. Today he'd made none. The truth was: he was fucking clueless and didn't know where to start. And he knew no amount of fiddling around with the symbols would fix that. He'd normally ask his classmates for help, but this was the honors problem, and Jake was the only student in the honors section.

The solution: bug the professor in his office. But, there was a problem: the professor, of course, was Sean--no, Dr. Mitchel. Going to see him would mean heading into his office in the morning office hours and spending a good twenty minutes alone with the rottweiler's earthy scent and grainy baritone and big cock and hot musk and oh god that knot. And he could barely even entertain that thought.

The coyote finished chugging his beer and let out a burp. "Why the fuck did you take that class honors, anyway?"

Every physics major chose a concentration, whether it be mathematics (Joel), particle physics (Pramod, he thought with a wince), optics (Andrea), or any one of the too-many-to-name branches. Jake's was astrophysics, and he wanted to get into grad school, so the answer to that question was somewhat obvious.

Jake grunted. "Why the fuck can't you say anything without using the word fuck?"

"Shut up, fucker," Joel said, and crumpled the beercan.

Surprisingly, he and Joel got along great. It started as the bond two rare canid species shared, with no members of their own species around to gravitate to. At first, Joel's dry humor had bugged him, but now, he found it amusing.

Joel was the kind of guy who was smug about being humble. When asked about his physics-math double major, his rote response was: "Yeah, I fukkin hate math. You know all those retards who say they hate math, but never took calculus? Yeah, I double-majored in math just so I could feel good about saying I fukkin hate it." The first time Jake heard that story, he thought the coyote had been joking or lying, but now he knew it to be true.

Jake wanted to beat his head against the desk. "I recognized that the square root term is just a second-degree Taylor expansion of an inverse vector norm function," the dingo said, but he was just saying words to say them. Any idiot could see that at first glance. He tried working backwards to retrieve the original function, but it hadn't helped--in fact, it'd made the problem messier.

Joel pulled a fresh can of beer out the fridge and popped the top. "Gotta hate those problems where they make you work backwards." He took a noisy sip. "Just go fukkin see him, dude. What's the big deal?"

Jake gritted his teeth and scribbled some more on the board. He could feel Joel watching him. He should've known better than to think ignoring the coyote would shut him up.

Another loud sip. "I mean. Seems like a pretty cool guy to me. Probably the best professor this semester, 'cept maybe Dr. Pu."

"You only like Pu because you laugh every time someone says his name. And every time he breaks his chalk."

"He's got talent for that, I tell ya." Joel settled down into his chair again, and once more lost himself in the comedy shows he never laughed to.

Jake looked at the board and sighed. Yeah, he wasn't going to make any more progress tonight. It was just the first honors problem of the course, dispensed on the first day of class, and yet he couldn't even begin to tackle it. He'd wasted a whole Sunday rereading the text over and over, trying to get past the first few lines of math.

He groaned. There was only one option.

--

Dr. Mitchel's door hung open an inch.

Jake bit his lip. His paw rested on the hard wood surface of the thing, but just touching the door made him feel like he were doing something so incredibly wrong. He reminded himself that he was only doing this to get homework help, and that he and the rottweiler had already shown they could hold a private conversation without too much awkwardness... except for when Jake's tongue escaped him and he made a complete fool of himself (Is there anything you need from me?). Doubt crept up and before he could convince himself to leave, he paid tribute to Joel, thought, fukkit, and knocked twice on the door.

"Door's open," a deep voice called from inside. Jake took a deep, deep breath and let himself in, turning around and prolonging the process of easing the door shut to delay looking over at the... professor.

Sean was seated at his computer--an ostentacious iMac--with his back to the door. Jake cleared his throat. His fight-or-flight instinct told him to go with flight, but he forced himself to fight. "Hi, Dr. Mitchel. I just... ah, had a quick question about the assignment."

Hearing the dingo's voice made the rottweiler's ears perk in what could have been alarm. He swiveled his chair around to face Jake, and folded his paws over each other in his lap. The motion caught Jake's eyes, and he realized he could be mistaken for looking at the male's crotch, and ripped his eyes up.

He didn't know where to look on the guy. It hit him that in the five months since their encounter, he'd probably fantasized about every single part of the male's body. Every inch of him was a guilty pleasure that wasn't appropriate in a professional setting like this. Why couldn't the professor be some old guy with gray fur and a hunched back and a loving wife?

The contrast between then and now astounded him. Then, he'd pushed his muzzle between the rottweiler's legs with nary a second thought. Now, he couldn't dream of even looking between the dog's legs--hell, just thinking that thought made him feel like a terrible person.

"You can look at me," Sean--no, no, Dr. Mitchel--said. Jake's ears lay flat, burning. He thought hearing the rottweiler's voice would agitate him, but its deep tones were oh-so-very soothing. "Tell me about your problem." I have to say you're one handsome dingo.

"Well... it's the honors problem."

"Yeah?" Sean leaned back a little in his chair. "It is a difficult one, isn't it?"

Jake didn't speak for a while. He realized with a start that, since he was the only one taking the honors section, Dr. Mitchel was effectively given freedom to design a course just for him. Each problem he assigned or put on a test would have a sole audience of Jake. So when he encountered a difficult problem, it would be because Dr. Mitchel thought he could handle it... or, worst case scenario, couldn't.

"Y-yeah," he said.

"Now, now." Sean scooted his chair forward, to rest his elbows on his desk, now facing Jake. "Everything you need to know for this course is contained in the standard section. The honors section covers more content, but the primary goal is just to stretch your understanding and challenge you with some more advanced concepts." He smiled. "You needn't concern yourself with the difficulty. Apply yourself. Explain your thought process. If you do, you will get credit for the homeworks. If you understand the homeworks, you will do fine on the tests. There will be an additional honors problem on each."

Jake tilted his head. As long as the professor kept talking, he'd be fine. "But I won't have extra time on exams."

"Correct. The real difficulty in taking the honors section will be the extra work and thought you will have to put in the homeworks, and working a good twenty percent faster than your peers on exams." The rottweiler stroked his chin. There was a pause between when he opened his mouth and when the next words came out, as if he were contemplating whether or not to say them. "I meant what I said earlier. I am excited to teach you. The word around the department about you has been... very positive. As an honors student, you'll get a good deal of my attention, and I anticipate us both learning quite a bit from this."

Jake's jaw dropped. Word around the department? About him? And that last part... was that an advance? Of course it wasn't, you fukkin idiot. "Ah... thanks a lot, Dr. Mitchel."

Sean stood. "Now... why don't we take a look at that radiation problem?"

The offices in Jefferson Hall had two old-fashioned slate blackboards stacked side-by-side, not newfangled shiny whiteboards. Despite the overabundance of chalk dust, Jake somehow preferred them. Sean picked up a piece of chalk. "Why don't you tell me what you've thought so far?"

Nothing, Jake thought, afraid Dr. Mitchel was completely overestimating him. "Hm. Okay. So, I noticed..."

As he explained his thought process and wrote his steps out on the chalkboard, his paws shook and he broke the chalk twice. His voice shook, too. He expected Sean to let out a frustrated sigh of disappointment, and for all his plans for a mutual learning experience to go out the window.

He stopped mid-sentence when a heavy paw descended on his shoulder. The warmth of Sean's touch felt greater than Newton's Law of Cooling permitted. "Hey." Sean's gentle tone melted anxiety like greenhouse gases melted icecaps. He became very aware of the rottweiler's maddening scent. "You're doing great, okay?" The rottweiler's paw squeezed his shoulder, producing a wave of warmth. "Your thoughts are all in the right direction. You've got all the pieces; you just don't know how to put them together, yet. You don't have the necessary tools in your toolbox, yet, but once you do, it's not difficult. And I can show you."

Jake stepped aside and let Sean take over the board. The dog's work extended from one slab of slate to the other. Jake followed. He actually followed, and he followed well.

"That... makes sense," he said, a little shocked.

"Yeah." Sean set the chalk back in the tray and rubbed his paws together to rid them of chalkdust. "You can probably figure the rest of it out." He crossed his arms. "The next few parts require a bit of cleverness, but it's nothing you haven't seen before."

Jake nodded. "Okay." He liked this. It was a challenge, but it wasn't impossible. Dr. Mitchel hadn't made it easy, but he'd made it doable. It'd been a long time since he'd gotten this kind of a feeling from a class.

"Well. If that's all, then, I suppose I'll be seeing you in class tomorrow?" The rottweiler grinned.

"Yeah." The words Hey, look, about April... formed on his tongue and died before he could speak them. He had to have answers, at some point; it wouldn't be possible to go through the entire semester with regular office visits and not think about what had happened five months ago. It wouldn't be posible for a small part of him to want a repeat of the same event--and he couldn't help but wonder if, in the heavy silence of the office just then, Sean was ruminating over the same thing he was.

Jake couldn't take it. "I'll... ah, you know, you really don't seem like the bar type."

Sean's eyebrows raised. A silence passed in which Jake wondered if the rottweiler were about to just shove him out the door. "I don't think my office is the appropriate place to discuss this," the rottweiler said. Jake's heart sank. "But, since you asked..." The rottweiler crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "I'll answer your question with another." He rested his paws on his desk, and leaned partially onto it. "You don't really seem like the bar type, either."

"I'm not!" Jake's quieted his voice, which was a touch too loud. "That was my first time. Hell, it had to be, since I'd just turned 21. And I haven't been back there, since."

"I've been back," Sean said, eyes slightly averted.

"Have..." Jake bit his lip. They shouldn't even be talking about this, and he shouldn't ask what he was about to ask. "Have you brought someone back? You don't have to answer that. I'm sorry if I'm prying."

"As I said," Sean started, "I don't make a habit of it. There are some old-fashioned people who still go to bars to get drinks. It's rare a man like me is approached, and singularly rare that I accept the offer."

Jake's ears flicked. Singularly rare? "I'm the same way," he blurted. "I just... wanted to have the experience. you know?" He let out a humorless bark of laughter. "Can you believe I've never been to a party? Not a single one."

"You don't have to justify yourself," the rottweiler said. "We did what we did, and I'm fairly certain we both enjoyed it. But now that you know what I know, surely you understand why I reacted the way I did when you told me your major. I am an educator foremost, and nothing shall interfere with my ability to educate."

Jake tilted his head. "I am a student foremost, and nothing shall interfere with my ability to learn."

Sean grunted. "Then we're on the same page."

Jake stared at the streaks of chalk left on the board and the collected residue of dust in the chalk tray. "I wish you weren't my professor. But so far, you've been such a good professor that it would be a waste if you weren't. So, I'm not really sure how I feel."

"Interesting." Jake looked up, and for the first time, was able to meet the rottweiler's hazel eyes. "You articulated my thoughts better than I could have."

It was an odd feeling: for an infinitesimally small moment, the picture of himself between the rottweiler's legs flashed in his mind's eye. It was like a delta function, an infinitely small, infinitely large stimulus that made his sheath grow and pulse far more than it should have. He stood there, silently aware of the growing bulge in his pants and his growing desire to press his face into Sean's sheath, unable to stop it despite his best attempts. He converted binary to decimal in his head, though about butch lesbians, thought about topping someone in bed... all those tricks usually worked, but now, they didn't, and he knew things were about to get extremely awkward extremely soon.

His nose reported a scent that made the dingo emit a barely-audible but still embarrassing groan. Sean was aroused. He could smell it. And damn if the first thought in Jake's head was: which part of the dingo was he thinking about? His paws? His mouth? His rear? His mouth watered, recalling of its own volition the way it'd felt when Sean's girthy length stretched his lips and flooded his mouth with gooey stickiness. He wanted to look down, and see the extent to which the rottweiler's pants were bulging right now, but knew that if he did that, he might not be able to stop himself from examining it with more than just his eyes.

Jake gave a somewhat forced smile that Sean mimicked. "I'll see you later," he said too quickly, and headed out the door.

A glance down told him his pants were bulging lewdly. Shit. Sean had to have noticed that. He couldn't walk down the halls like this. Panting nervously, he headed into the bathroom.

Luckily, at this time of day, no one was here; he knew he'd have peace. He'd just wait here until it went down. He threw open the door to the one stall in the small, run-down bathroom, and sat down on the commode, fully clothed, waiting. But the strain in his pants was almost painful, and he had to relieve the pressure.

He let out a soft grunt in relief when his pants came off, and out sprang a fully-engorged erection, leaking at the tip. He watched it throb and shoot a string of pre up, only for it to dribble back down his pulsing red shaft.

It was a public bathroom. The building was quiet this time of day, but theoretically, someone could walk in at any time. The voice of caution wasn't enough to stop Jake.

He collected precum on his finger, and brought it to his mouth, sucking it clean. Guiltily, he imagined instead that it was the rottweiler's. He heard himself moan, and felt himself suck harder. He did it again, transfering precum from his own red shaft into his mouth.

He dimly realized that he was sucking on two fingers, moving them in and out of his mouth. In his mind, he had something much thicker and messier spreading his lips. He could hear the hard, wet strokes his own paw made on his shaft. He was getting carried away, and he shouldn't be doing this, in a public place, thinking about his professor, but it just felt so good that he couldn't stop.

In his mind, the professor walked into the bathroom, peered through the small crack between the stall door and the wall, and watched. Told him to keep going. Slowly undid his pants...

Jake bit back a much of a roar of a groan. White gushed down the sides of his shaft, then fountained from his tip in time with a tremendous gasp.

Jake sat there for a minute, trying to catch his breath, and feeling just a little pathetic. He tore off sheets of toilet paper from the dispenser and wiped up his mess, then sprayed the place with the scent-eliminator kept as standard on top of the dispenser. Ears down, Jake sighed.

Five months ago, they'd just been two horny guys rubbing each others' dicks in the car. Now, despite the sexual chemistry between them, Sean seemed completely out of his league. God only knew how many papers he'd published and how much more he knew than Jake did.

But sex is weird like that. No matter if you're homeless on the streets of the city, a student at a state science school, or a globally respected researcher and professor, everyone is the same in sex. Sure, if you have a big cock or a pretty face, in the eyes of many you'll have more sex appeal, but when it gets down to the act, everyone is the same. Everyone feels the same yearning, everyone grunts and pants when release is imminent, everyone's tried their hand at dirty talk (and failed at it hilariously), and everyone's liked someone they probably shouldn't.

He pulled on his pants, then reached into his pocket and yanked out his phone. He typed in a number he hadn't used in months, and sent a solitary text.

Hey. I need an ear. Can we talk?