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“Alright, can you hear me?” Mr. Bassett’s voice was barely audible through the speakers of the MacBook. Lane was adjusting the screen, and he nodded in response. I was sitting, quietly, on the sofa, fiddling with my hands. This was horrifying, yet slightly exhilarating. I didn’t know what to think.

Lane finally turned around, away from the laptop, and crawled up on the sofa next to me. He was messing with his short, brown hair as he adjusted himself by my side. He was breathing heavily, through his teeth. I was still and hardly breathing, due to my nerves.

“Matthew?” Mr. Bassett said through the speakers. “Can you hear me as well?”

I nodded, not moving my body.

“Good. Fix Lane’s hair, please.”

I turned over and faced Lane. We were closer than we’d ever been before, just a few inches away from each other. I lifted my hand up and brushed his hair out of his face, revealing his bright green eyes. I leaned in and patted down stray hairs around the back of his head, and I noticed that he closed his eyes tightly when I did this. He turned his face away from me when I pulled my hand back to my side.

“Is it cold in there?” Bassett asked. Lane shook his head. “Then stop the timidity, Lane. That’s not your place.”

Neither of us moved for a few minutes, and Bassett didn’t say anything. Finally, Lane raised his hand to touch my hair in a similar way to how I’d touched his. He pulled back almost instantly, cringing.

“I-I… Don’t know if I can-” Lane’s voice cracked while he tried to speak.

“You can.” Bassett cut off Lane’s plea, sternly. I couldn’t imagine why Lane was having second thoughts anyway. We were already in this, there was no going back.

I would’ve made the first move, but I could hear Bassett’s voice in the back of my head, reciting his rules: “You will play the role of the weak. You will not be persistent or dominating in any way, whatsoever.” I was to follow my rule, as Lane was to follow his.

We sat for another few minutes, Lane’s breathing getting louder with every inhale and exhale. I didn’t move, but looked away from Lane. He was fucking up our first session! How could he be such a prick?

“Lane, you know what will happen if you back out now.” Bassett warned through the MacBook. The intensity of his voice sent chills down my spine.

I looked over at Lane. He was stiff and his eyes were the size of golf balls. He needed something to break the ice, that was just his personality.

I decided to speak, “Can I just do something? I think it’s necessary to break the ice, and I don’t know if Lane is cut out for it.” I attempted to throw a hint of shade at the cowering boy to my side.

“No!” Bassett shouted. “Lane is playing the strong role, and you are playing the weak! You will not switch the roles I’ve-”

But I didn’t hear Bassett’s last few words, because Lane suddenly decided to grab ahold of my face and pull it into his, locking our lips. I let out a cry of surprise, but the sound was muffled against his mouth. He was so forceful all of the sudden, and I was lost in the power of his lips against my own. When he slipped his tongue into my mouth, I sank into his arms, succumbing to the bubbly feeling his touch created in me.

He pulled his body over mine, forcing me on my back, without even removing Cebeci Escort his lips from mine. I sucked on his lower lip as he adjusted his body over me. Once he was adjusted, he ran his hands along my neck, sending chills down my body. He removed his lips from mine for a second and I let out a gasp for air, but the air was quickly replaced with Lane’s mouth once again. I felt his hair in my hands as I ran my fingers through it. He moaned into my mouth when he thrusted ever so slightly against me.

“Remove his shirt, Lane,” Bassett’s firm voice suddenly made an appearance. I’d almost forgotten that he was watching us. How could I have forgotten that he was watching us?

Lane obeyed, taking ahold of the bottom of my T-shirt and pulling it up, over my head, revealing my chest. Lane went back to kissing me, this time, running his fingers across the bare skin of my chest. I let out an uncontrolled moan of satisfaction at this. I opened my eyes to see Lane’s wide grin. He was enjoying this!

“Feel his crotch.” Bassett ordered, and Lane was about to obey, but was interrupted by— “No, Matthew. This is yours.” I had to wait a couple seconds to understand his words.

I lowered my hands down towards the button of Lane’s jeans. Once a hand was in place, I took ahold of Lane’s apparent bulge, stroking it as best as my ability permitted. Lane opened his mouth and let out a moan, which I silenced with my lips. I continued to rub my hand against Lane’s crotch, and he sucked on my face as I did so.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt such an exhilaration.


Lane sat up, away from my mouth and striped off his shirt, revealing his muscular upper body. He was as fit as a Hollister model, and his abs were so goddamn apparent. I couldn’t control myself drooling.

“Get up off of the sofa.” Bassett ordered.

Lane had to get off first, because he was still on top of me, and I followed. We stood in front of the MacBook, shirtless, breathing heavily, and sporting messy hair. We must’ve been a sight, because neither of us could stop from grinning childishly.

Chapter I:

“I can’t believe you’re even considering this.” I said to Lane as we walked down the college hallway, side-by-side. He hadn’t talked to me since we met up, back at the front entry, and it was starting to get unnerving. We needed to have some kind of conversation.

“Why else would you be meeting with him, Matt?” Oh, now I was getting words. “If you aren’t considering it, then why are we even going?”

He had a point. Up until this moment, I’d been telling myself that we are strictly going to discuss what exactly the proposition was, and that I had no intention of saying yes to whatever was offered in the end. Maybe there was something at the back of my mind that wanted to change what I’d been doing up until now. Maybe my inner consciousness wanted what was put up for grabs.

I decided that talking wasn’t the best idea in the world, and kept to myself for the rest of the walk.

Room E243—Mr. Bassett (dean of student’s), the small sign read directly in front of us. Lane was a few paces ahead of me. He reached the door and stopped right in front of it, hesitantly. This was the first time we were seeing him together. Up until now, Kolej Escort the instructions had seemed simply anonymous, but now they were as real and upfront as anything.

“Go on.” I pressured him forward, not wanting to be the person who had to open the door. God knows what lies beyond.

Lane took a deep breath, and so did I. He finally opened the door.

It was dark. No lights on. Shit, he’s moving faster than I expected. I almost turned around to bail on Lane, but decided that there was no going back from this point on. If all of Mr. Bassett’s instructions had been a stick-up, intending to catch students in the act of defiling their academic rights, then me and Lane failed. Haven’t we, though?

As soon as we were a few steps into the room, the automatic lights flashed on, scaring the shit out of both Lane and me. The lights illuminated the room, which consisted of a long, wooden desk; two chairs in front of it; and one chair behind it. The chair that was behind the desk was facing opposite the door, and rocking ever so slightly.

“Mr. Bassett?” Lane’s voice cracked when he attempted to speak. I didn’t dare try to do the same. Why was he in here in the dark? Creepy.

“Lane Dawson. Nineteen. Associate of Arts. Minimal football scholarship. Debt, out of the ballpark… Are these correct?” he was listing out Lane’s information. He must’ve been holding his file.

“Yes…” Lane replied, suddenly chewing on his fingernails. “Yes, those are correct.”

“And are you with anyone?”

“Yes, sir, I am. Matt is—” Lane was cut off.

“Matthew French. Eighteen. Associate of Arts. No scholarship information. Debt, hardly noted… and are these correct for you, Matthew?”

I couldn’t move, but just opened my mouth and tried to let the words form themselves. “Yes.” is all I came up with.

“There’s no need to be nervous, boys.” His attempt at being comforting was hardly noticeable. “You are safe to complete and utter secrecy here with me.”

I didn’t know if I believed him.

Suddenly the chair spun around, revealing our interrogator. Mr. Bassett was easily the most attractive older-figure of this entire college. His stubble-covered jawline and bright green eyes were the subject to many freshman girl’s fantasies. He was always dressed in expensive suits, ties, and black leather shoes. His aura was that of a fantasy creature, far away from humanity. Maybe that’s why I was so surprised to see his name in my email inbox, two weeks back.

“I have a feeling we will all become very acquainted in the next few days.”


Three days earlier.

I was sitting on my bed, typing away drastically on a paper for comp class, when an email notification popped up on the right hand side of my screen. The sender was what caught my eye initially, before I had even looked at the contents.

Robert Bassett (dean of student’s). Notification (1)

I clicked on the icon, which pulled up my school email. I basically only had random notices from the school, indicating weather reports, upcoming educational events, filling my inbox. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d received an email from a teacher, let alone the Dean. What in the world could he want?

The message was even more peculiar than the sender. Yenimahalle Escort Just four sentences, hardly comprehendible.

From: Robert Bassett (dean of student’s)

To: Matthew French

Subject: (untitled)

Our days are short, filled with particular activities that will someday define who we are. Why do we, in our lives, succumb to the pressures and eventual destruction that this world has to offer? Why isn’t there something more?

Maybe there is.


I read and reread the message over and over again, trying to understand what the hell I was reading. Was that a phone number at the end? With every attempt at comprehension, I grew even more confused. So I —as any sane person wouldn’t have— decided to reply. I was going to demand answers.

From: Matthew French

To: Robert Bassett (dean of students)

Subject: Re: (untitled)

Hello there, Mr. Bassett. My name is Matthew French, and I was simply wondering why you messaged me just now. I believe you sent a few sentences of poetry, that was probably meant for someone else, as we have never met. I assume that it was a mistake, but if it wasn’t, I would like for you to explain what you meant by these words.

Sorry if I’m a bother, but I just felt that I should clear up any confusion.

Thank you very much for all you do for this school. I admired your work with the Honors Composition class last semester on the paper that was sent to the state legislator. Great work.


I sent the message, and then quickly returned to my comp project. Writing was suddenly more difficult, mostly because I couldn’t stop thinking about the emails.

Was it some kind of poetry? I asked myself, after accidentally typing the word “why” six times in a row in my project. Poetry that didn’t rhyme or have much meaning?

But there did seem to be a meaning, but it was one that I couldn’t understand. The email was like something that came from a person who was contemplating decisions made earlier in their life. Like they’d realized how utterly wasted their efforts had been up until that moment.

But that didn’t sound right for Mr. Bassett, the most powerful person at Delta Central College. He was rich, successful, and intelligent. He wasn’t too old either, around his upper thirties. This disappointment, it just couldn’t be his.

My words on the screen were starting to ultimately blend together in a mess of letters, and my frustration got the better of me. I scrapped the entire project and slammed the laptop shut, satisfactorily.

I stood up, pulled my iPhone out of my pocket, and read the notifications.

Snapchat: Heather (1)

Snapchat: Kyle (2)

Text message. Sidney (1), Unknown Number (5).

Jesus, why do I have so many messages from an unknown number? I slid my finger across the Unknown Number notification, opening my text messages.


(1) Hey, this is Lane Dawson. I just got the weirdest email from my dean of students, and this number was posted at the bottom of it.

(2) I just decided to message the number to see who it was.

(3) I’m really weirded out right now, and just wanted at least some answers.

(4) I thought this number could give me some.

(5) Sorry if I’m bothering you.

I was utterly confused, so I opened up Mr. Bassett’s email once more and read it through. This time, I spotted the numbers at the bottom of the page and matched them up with the number that was texting me. This Lane person was in a similar situation as me, but he’d taken more notice to the number at the bottom of the email.

What was going on?

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