A TASTE OF SIN WITH THE PROFESSOR

Hello my lovelies,

Thank you for picking up this story. I’m so glad to have you here and I hope you enjoy every twist and turn along the way.

Before we begin, a gentle heads-up: this is a boy love (BL) romance..

One male lead is dominant and the other one is more effeminate in manner and personality. If that pairing isn’t to your taste, please proceed with care or maybe save this one for later.

If you’re ready for emotional tension, chemistry, and a rollercoaster of feelings… let’s dive in.

....

BLAIR'S POV

"Man, you need to get laid before you go,"

"Everyone can see that. You're practically fricking radiating stress and obviously that stress is not academic or financial," Eric said, leaning back in his chair and waving his glass dramatically as the pulsing neon lights of the club washed over his face.

I felt my face burn as both my friends stared at me waiting for me to reply, their expectant expressions illuminated by the dim, flickering strobe. My palms were damp, and I rubbed them against my jeans, feeling the bass of the music vibrate through my chest like a second heartbeat.

"Uh... I'll- l... don't think I want to talk about this. Let me go, Rhea, help send my regards to Austin," I said, my voice stammering slightly, hoping that the mention of Austin would quickly steer them away from this very personal topic.

They both groaned. "See, you can't even speak like a normal person anymore! You have no social skills!" Rhea said, tossing her long braids over her shoulder as she fixed me with that mix of disappointment and amusement she always carried.

"Blair, we need this, we can help you get a girl here before you take your flight," Eric said, taking my shoulders and looking at me seriously. I laughed and shook my head in disbelief, the kind of laugh that was half amusement and half desperate attempt to escape the conversation.

"See you guys later," I said before heading out of the club and walking to my Uber. The night air hit me like a cool rush, a welcome change from the sweaty chaos inside.

"Wait, let me tell you something—" Eric ran over to me, his sneakers squeaking against the wet pavement.

"You're wasting your life!" he cried, throwing his hands in the air like he was delivering some life-altering revelation.

"By not getting drunk and grinding against random people I don't know before heading to a random guest room, well, if we're lucky enough for it to be a guest room, to do the dirty and possibly—actually probably get an STI I haven't even heard of?" I asked, raising my brows at him as the car’s headlights washed over us.

"'Do the dirty'?" Eric stared at me like I was some type of alien. "Are you guys sure he's male? Are you sure he's even human? Because I'm not," he said to our friends who had walked to me, his tone half-joking but sharp enough to sting.

"Neither are we." Rhea shook her head. She didn't sound like she was joking. Her lips curved into a faint smirk, but her eyes studied me in that way that made me feel like a stranger in my own skin.

"And we're highly starting to doubt it." I snorted, frowning at my friends. "Guys, I have an early flight, let me go." I spoke, my voice firmer now, my chest tightening as I thought about the weight of their words. Eric patted my back before Rhea hugged me, saying her goodbye.

"We are going to miss you," she murmured softly into my ear, and for a moment, despite their teasing, I felt the ache of leaving them behind. I hugged the others and I left.

---

The ride home was quiet, save for the hum of the tires against the road. I leaned my head against the window, staring out at the dark streets, the streetlights casting long shadows across the empty sidewalks. My mind wandered like it always did, to the whispers and comments that had followed me for years.

Ever since I turned 18, I’ve heard them say.

He doesn’t date girls. He must be gay.

He spends all his time painting and sketching, what kind of boy does that?

Even my own parents have sometimes said it, half in jest, half in quiet speculation over dinner. I had never cared much for the labels, but the rumors were too much.

I wasn’t gay; I just didn’t feel the need to prove my masculinity by chasing girls I didn’t actually care about. Art had always been my language, my sanctuary. It was where I could breathe when the world around me felt too loud. And now, traveling to another country for studies, I felt that pull even stronger, the need to protect that part of me they all misunderstood.

The Uber slowed in front of my house. I stepped out. The porch light buzzed faintly above me as I unlocked the door, the familiar scent of home wrapping around me.

Inside, the house was still, my parents already asleep. I padded softly down the hallway to my room then flicked on the lamp that sat on my desk. The warm glow fell across stacks of sketchbooks, canvases leaning against the wall, tubes of oil paint, and half-finished pencil drawings scattered across the bed.

I set my backpack down and took a long, steady breath. Tomorrow I would be leaving, flying across the ocean to start something new. But tonight, I wanted to take a piece of this with me.

One by one, I began to pack my artwork. I slipped each canvas carefully into protective sleeves, feeling the textures of dried paint under my fingertips. I gathered sketches that held memories, faces of strangers I had drawn in cafés, the skyline of the city at sunset, abstract bursts of color that had spilled out of me on nights when I couldn’t sleep.

I slid them into a portfolio, my heart swelling with a strange mix of pride and melancholy. These pieces weren’t just art—they were proof that I existed beyond the narrow boxes people tried to fit me into.

As I zipped the portfolio shut and set it gently beside my suitcase, I looked around my room one last time, taking in the stacks of brushes, the faint stains of paint on my desk, the small easel by the window. Soon I’d be gone, and maybe, just maybe somewhere else, people wouldn’t see my art or my quietness as a reason to question who I was.

For now, though, I kept packing, letting the steady rhythm of preparing for the journey calm the sting of my friends’ words. Tonight, it was just me, my dreams, and the art that felt more like home than anything else ever had.

I zipped up the bag, now thoroughly packed with my belongings, and that was when I received an email, the notification appearing on my phone's notification screen. I unlocked my device and opened the app; it was from one of the professors of the new school, Dr. Felix Reynolds. The subject was "Reading Materials - Art History Course 2021/2022." I opened the email, a little surprised that we were already receiving emails from professors.

Dear students,

For this Art History course, I expect you to arrive at every lecture having already read the assigned papers. All readings are available on the e‑learning platform. As you’ve probably noticed, the syllabus is broad and quite challenging. While some of you may be familiar with certain topics from previous classes, don’t expect this to be an easy ride.

During our very first session, I will be calling on students at random to discuss the first paper, and I’ll continue to do this for each lecture and each assigned reading. If you feel you won’t be able to meet these expectations, I strongly encourage you to reconsider now. There are many other classes where earning an easy A might be more realistic.

I look forward to seeing you all next Monday.

Dr. Reynolds.

My eyes widened at the email.

Who the hell was this Dr. Reynolds?

This was such an awful way to introduce himself to the class. He didn't have to be so intense, especially before meeting us in person.