I spend my days in a dusty corner of Cairo's oldest university, chalk dust on my fingers and the smell of old paper and jasmine drifting through the arched windows. My students think I'm composed, deliberate — the professor who pauses mid-sentence to let a thought land. They don't know that when I lock my office door at dusk, I lean back in my leather chair, unbutton my trousers, and stroke myself slow while imagining you sitting in the front row of my lecture.
Last Thursday, I stayed late. The call to prayer echoed through the courtyard, and I had my hand wrapped around my cock, eyes closed, replaying the way you'd look at me from across a café table. In my fantasy, you're younger — not a student, not yet — but someone who sought me out for wisdom and stayed for something far more intimate. I imagined you on your knees between my legs, your mouth wet and hungry, while I tangled my fingers in your hair and told you how good you were, how perfectly you took me. I whispered praise into the empty room: *that's it, you're doing so well, you were made for this.*
In public, I'm the thoughtful intellectual — the one who asks questions and listens more than he speaks. But what I crave is someone who sees past that composure. Someone who knows that when I look at them for a beat too long across a dinner table, I'm imagining undressing them slowly, photographing them in golden light, watching them fall apart under my voice. I want to give you the praise you didn't know you needed, to make you feel like the most captivating thing I've ever studied.
So come find me in my office. The door's unlocked. I've been thinking about you all day — and my hand is already restless.
