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PART 2

The other students began to file out the exit on one side of the room after the professor had dismissed them. Mr. Whyte pushed out the door he had entered from on the other, his notebooks held loosely in hand, and after I'd stuffed my books and notes in my bag I followed. I could've gotten the assignment from one of the other students, but my brain was a-fizz, and I wanted to talk to him anyway.

He'd rounded a corner by the time I reached the hallway, and it took me a couple of minutes to figure out which way he'd gone. I nearly knocked over the water cooler in the hallway when my backpack thumped it, but I managed to keep it from falling. By the time I found his office door he was already inside, if the panel marked 'R. Whyte | Available' on the door could be believed. I turned the knob and stepped into a wave of even warmer air as I knocked. Without windows, the small office-space was a sauna.

"Excuse me, sir. I...err... Whoa." Which was when my brain caught up to my mouth and finally registered what I was seeing.

He'd taken off his shirt, and was sporting the sleeveless A-shirt he'd apparently worn under it. That dress-shirt did not do justice to his body; he was considerably leaner and more muscular than I'd thought, and that was saying something. I could see how the tank-top stretched across his chest, and even his abdominal muscles rippled the fabric. His arms and shoulders were sculpted to perfection, and I could've counted every single muscle if I'd wanted to.

That alone would've left me tongue-tied, but Professor Whyte was slumped in his office chair, looking pale and drained and disoriented, and panting weakly with the heat.

I tried to say something, but my throat was dry, and it took me a moment to get the juices flowing again. "Err...are you alright, Mr. Whyte?" I managed after a couple of tries. I think my eyes had popped back into their sockets; I'm not sure.

His head lolled weakly as I approached. The man still wasn't sweating, but he was obviously in distress now. Heat exhaustion? Or was it heat stroke? Wasn't one of the signs lack of perspiration? I ignored what my groin was doing as I reached out and felt his forehead. The skin was cold and clammy, but I could feel the heat blazing underneath. I checked his eyes, but they were rolled back into his head. This is what I'd seen back in the classroom, and I mentally kicked myself. He had to have been suffering back there, but he'd hidden it, and I just saw what I wanted to see. The swelter of the room must have just kicked him over the edge.

I grabbed the fan from the corner where it was oscillating uselessly, and propped it up on his desk, aimed his way. Wishing it was under different circumstances but feeling a surge of guilty pleasure regardless, I peeled the A-shirt he wore from his torso, pulled off his shoes and socks, unfastened the silver buckle with a wolf engraved on a mountain backdrop, and hauled on his pants until they were a black puddle on the floor. The guy was too delirious to either help me or stop me, and he weighed a ton, so it was difficult, but I managed. Naked but for his plain blue boxers -- I'm a briefs man, myself -- he was tanned evenly all over despite his pallid skin, trim and heavily muscled, his chest and belly concealed by thick curly white hair, a wet-dream come to life. But despite how stunning he was, I wasn't here for the view.

I ran out into the hallway, grabbed the five-gallon jug of water off the cooler I'd nearly knocked over earlier and hauled it back with me, all the while calling out for help that never materialized. I took the water jug and soaked his tank-top, then blotted it over his skin so the fan could do its thing. I propped his feet on the desk in front of the fan and doused them, too; they're good at radiating body-heat. Then I grabbed the empty coffee cup off his desk and managed to get some cool water into him.

I didn't own a cell, so I looked for a phone. I didn't see one -- maybe it was in the faculty lounge? He was a very large and muscular man, and I knew I couldn't carry him out. I looked at the chair, in case I could roll him outside, but the chair didn't have wheels. I couldn't leave him to get help, because he could die from heat-stroke while I was gone. I cursed silently, but kept him as wet and cool as I could manage after I'd found the heating vent and stuffed his pants into it to block that damned heater.

While I worked I visually explored his rather cluttered office, to get a sense of who this man was. Books were piled everywhere, as were stacks of papers. The air smelled of pine trees; probably due to all the wood cleaner used for dusting. The office had the accommodations that most offices do, like filing cabinets and an overstuffed black couch and a reasonably new laptop showing a starry screen-saver sitting on the corner of his mahogany desk, but I didn't care about those.

There was a large framed painting of a majestic-looking white wolf with ice-blue eyes remarkably like the professor's hung next to the door, easily viewable from the swiveling office chair. Photographs of other wolves of varying shades sat on the bookshelves next to books on mythology and superstition, with a few more on the desk. A strategic bump let me see that his computer's wallpaper was -- you guessed it -- wolves. My eyes narrowed as I looked more closely; several of the same wolves appeared to be in multiple photographs, but wolves mostly look the same to me, so I didn't know for sure. Even the pictures of scenery that didn't look to have wolves in them had suspiciously lupine shadows lurking there.

Maybe he was part of an Adopt-A-Pack Program or something.

I did see one picture amid all the others that didn't carry the same theme. It was an old family photo, with a younger boy and what had to be his mother behind him, both with that pale blond hair and blue eyes. They were both pretty in their own way, though the woman's skin had a Nordic paleness that went with the hair, which the boy hadn't inherited. Sitting beside the boy was a large dog, maybe a husky or malamute, or maybe it, too, was a wolf; I wasn't sure. The right half of the picture was torn off, as if there was someone standing there that had been forcibly removed, or maybe there'd been an accident that had torn the photograph. The tear looked angry, like a lot of emotion went into excising whoever was in the rest of the picture, but maybe that was just me projecting.

I looked from the boy in the picture to the man I was still blotting with water, and knew that it was definitely him. They both had a rugged look about them, the man beside me being the logical conclusion of a boy who spent most of his time outdoors. That white hair of his must've been from his mother, then, and his dark complexion from his father. It was certainly striking, especially with those eyes.

Damn; I wasn't used to crushing on someone this fast, or this badly. I felt bad for enjoying the rub-down I was giving him without his consent, even if it was to save his life. It felt kinda sleezy. But what else could I do?

Mr. Whyte groaned, and I turned back to tending him. I continued working for probably half an hour before he finally started coming around. His skin had slowly returned to his previously pleasant tan, and those eyes of his looked more lucid. He dropped his feet to the floor and hunched over, holding his head in his hands.

"I think...I'm gonna...be sick..." And true to his word, he was. The cleaning staff should be grateful: I grabbed the trashcan just in time. He was more or less fine after that; I guess the extra heat in his stomach escaped along with its contents. I still helped him keep cool for awhile and helped him drink some water, and he was weak and groggy, but he gradually got better.

When he was steady enough to make the journey, I helped him up onto the plush black couch that took up one wall of the room. His heavy arm around me made my body tighten. Thank the FSM for loose shorts. On the way, Mr. Whyte looked down with dazed alarm. "Why'm I naked?" he slurred.

"Heat exhaustion. You were out of it." I hoped he wouldn't hear the guilt in my voice. "You needed to get cool, and fast. I had to strip you down. Sorry."

He flopped heavily on the couch cushion, and I made sure he was comfortable. His boxers gaped for a moment, giving me a good eyeful whether I wanted it or not.

_ ...Wow._

Ahem.

He mumbled groggily, "Oh. Right. 'm not thinkin' too straight yet," before slumping to his back and falling into an exhausted slumber.

_ Not thinking straight. Hah._ I looked down at the unconscious man who had just become my favorite wet-dream, and thought to myself, Well neither am I, Mr. Whyte. Neither am I.

I wasn't able to talk to the good professor before I left to tell the campus nurse about the incident...the relevant parts, anyway. Turns out that when you're melting from heat-stroke it's difficult to focus on things like handing out homework assignments.

I returned to the social sciences building later that day. The AC was back in service, but Mr. Whyte was nowhere to be found. A note on the door stated that he was away and the class was cancelled for the rest of the week, though it never explained why.

That was two days ago.

My jaw creaked as I shuffled into my apartment after the day's classes; I couldn't get a certain Texan or Wednesday's adventure with him out of my head, and I was uneasy about the whole thing. I hadn't slept much the last two nights, and I'd been infecting others with my yawns like a communicable disease all day. Apparently Mr. Meyer, my Advanced Calculus professor, was rather unamused to find half his class displaying their molars for his viewing pleasure, and liked even less to be returning the favor.

At least I'd finally gotten the homework assignment from Bobby, though I had to wade through a conversation about his roleplaying exploits before I could tell him what I wanted. Yay. If I kept this up I'd be LARPing next. In chain-mail drag, no less.

I banished the horrors of my freshman year from my brain as I kicked my door shut and threw my book-bag on the floor, and then myself onto my couch. I replayed the incident in his office for the hundredth time as I glanced around at my familiar movie poster-covered walls, and shook my head to clear it.

I needed to get out, do something to take my mind off this mess. I was over twenty-one, but I didn't get drunk often. Maybe it was time to get plastered. And, if I got lucky, laid. It was Friday night, and I was in a college town, full of young college men and alcohol.

I eyed the lust-fest that was the 300 poster on the wall opposite the couch and grinned. Sounded like a winning combination to me.

©Lycanthromancer

10/14/2010