Professor Magnus’s alumnus encounter

by BRK   

An ex-magic adept turned law student runs into his old professor, kindling a few revelations about himself and his future.

If the ass-busting courseload and the company of stuck-up entitled scions made me wistfully rue my reckless decision to switch majors from transformation magic to prelaw two years into my undergraduate progress at Brannon College way back when, actually interning at a top-flight partnership my first year in the Chapel Hill constitutional law program engendered genuine, sleepless-nights-and-acid-reflux remorse.

Sure, I fit in. I looked the part: dark-haired and Celtic cute, and fit enough to join in a pick-up game of rugby or pull off the odd sleeveless tee, but not so muscular people wondered if I spent too much time pumping iron. Lately, though, I wasn’t feeling it.

I’d been drawn to constitutional law particularly because in theory it dealt with the protection of ideals and putting into practice the fundamental principles of a structured community, but ten weeks pulling precedents and awaiting orders in conference rooms while the partners discussed their current caseload had ripped away the blindfold and cast everything I’d learned in a sickly, green-tinged light. Deal after deal, brief after brief, bathroom convo after bathroom convo had consistently reinforced, almost by design, a fundamental truth all interns must learn: that lawyers devote their lives and souls to protecting the current distribution of power, not the rights or security of the sovereign citizenry.

I wasn’t so sure I could be a part of that.

I missed transformation magic. And—okay, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was missing a certain very attractive professor who happened to be a leading light in the field of transformation arts.

Brannon was your typical upper-mid-tier liberal arts college, nestled in your standard leafy Midwest town pretty much dominated by the school it hosted. Most of the students milling around its quads and sweating through its midterms weren’t even aware of the extremely selective and entirely clandestine B.Thau. program. Only those with innate magic could even apply, and everyone who did, successful or not—mostly not—were bound by spectral handshake with the High Thaumaturge (a.k.a. Dr. Fred Fredericks, the balding and genial, if fearsomely countenanced, department chair) not to speak of its existence or secrets with the mundanes. People with magic tend to keep mum about such things anyway. And then there’s the enforcement daemonry—but that’s another subject altogether. The pintr is, the mundanes we had our regular classes with had frickin’ no idea.

(No, we don’t use the word muggle, and not just because it was made up by an author with occasionally questionable social views. If you look at the etymology, it pretty clearly meets the standard for in-universe hate speech with respect to the general population of nonmagical humans. Admittedly it made for a lot of very intense discussions around the turn of the century, but the consensus in the end was that it was inappropriate for real-world use.)

I was a little surprised I hadn’t been subtly mind-wiped when I prematurely exited of the B.Thau. program. I hadn’t washed out, exactly. My grades had been good, and I’d rolled a three in Prof. Magnus’s famous intro-lecture exercise, gifting me with a few extra fingers and toes (and, weirdly, a third testicle the prof had seemed unaware of my having thus acquired at the time); that had signified a strong bond with t-magic, I was told, and later studies confirmed it. I was promising, as callow undergraduates went. I just wasn’t committing myself strongly enough to be the stellar student I needed myself to be.

I left almost by default, honestly. Dr. Fred sent me on my way with a smile, a pat on the shoulder, and a final handshake… and by the time I’d tumbled out of Lightlion Hall and into the teeming quad I was already questioning my decision.

Now here I was, three years later, at the quadrennial Mid-Atlantic Conference on Constitutional and International Law—otherwise known as the Wilmington Junket—representing (read: toting things around for) my internly masters at Diamond, Durant, and Bragg and trying not to worry about my first-year finals looming over me from the proximate distance of three weeks away. Yay, me! Like infinitely improved.

I was hurrying across the convention center’s huge circular lobby, hauling one of those bulky box-like briefcases in one hand and the laptop and case one of the partners, Constance Du Pont, needed for her presentation on the baselessness of constitutional privacy law in the other(she actually called it “privacy law,” air quotes and all), when I nearly bumped into pretty much the last human I expected to encounter at a confected gabfest for the legal elite: none other than my erstwhile instructor in the intricate manipulation of the hidden layers of organic reality, Dr. Marcus Hieronomus Magnus.

I stumbled back in alarm, barely remembering in time that I was carrying items that probably should not be dropped on a hard surface. “Professor!” I said, biting back the “What are you doing here?” that almost followed as I steadied myself.

In contrast to my corporate drag—shirt, tie, and dress pants, though at least the shirt was burgundy and the tie a rich navy blue—Magnus was dressed simply, in a loose four-armed extra-long rugby shirt and new-looking jeans. The prof’s face had been frowning and preoccupied, but on seeing me his expression transformed with delight, making me blush and start to get hard almost instantly.

This was the problem with Professor Magnus: he was too goddamn sexy. Especially to me.

First, Magnus was ridiculously handsome, in a way that suited itself to all my triggers and seemed to seep into my deepest hedonism registers and sensuously caress their sensitive taints. He had a sharp jaw, perfect cheekbones, dark brows, and eyes the color of burnished copper. His blond hair was slightly wavy and pleasingly long, falling across young, muscular shoulders that were only the highest reaches of an alluring, thin-waisted gymnast’s physique only slightly more perfect than could be achieved by normal means. His skin was smooth, golden-brown, and not entirely hairless, with little swaths of light-colored fuzz appearing whenever he rolled up his cuffs or wore short-sleeved shirts, like he was doing now.

What really did it for me, though, was the fact that he was the finest specimen of boytaurdom I ever saw at Brennan. His legs were long and in close proximity, and just seeing them shoved into those jeans I felt a rush of need pouring into in my lower thorax. Frankly, all of the proportions of his eight-limbed form were so attuned to the fundamentals of male beauty, so provocatively proportioned seemingly by design, that I managed to get achingly hard pretty much every time I thought about him, and absolutely every time I encountered him in the flesh.

Every time. Like now, for instance.

It wasn’t just that he was uncannily attractive and consistently bonerific. He exuded confidence—and not the punchable kind I was so familiar with in my current career cohort, but a grounded, unaffected, unimpeachable surety, the kind of élan that comes from experience, training, patience, empathy, and a rock-solid inborn strength of will. He knew the truths of transformation magic and could invoke changes to the world at will, but had the wisdom to use those truths sagely and sparingly. To me, that was at least as hot as his four long, lithe legs and those rippling ten-pack abs I wanted to mouth thin drizzles of salty caramel off of.

As a man he was also subtly intimidating, though not in the way you might think. The bottom line was, if I were honest with myself, I knew that it was my personal belief that I could never live up to Magnus as a practitioner that had caused me to drop out of a program I’d loved. He was how it was done, and I was not on his level. I couldn’t be.

And yet, here he was, beaming at me like I was his best student.

“Gino Langley!” he said, sounding genuinely delighted as random strangers walked to and fro in the background around us like extras in our little serendipitous encounter. He offered me one of his right hands, and I took it, still blushing.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. I recognized the look he was giving me—I’d seen it on him before. He’d given me an odd glance in class, sometimes, like he’d sensed something in me he didn’t quite understand. That’s the vibe I was getting now, under the genuine pleasure at literally running into me.

We shook. “Likewise, Professor.” Inwardly, I cringed. Likewise? Did people say “likewise” in actual conversation?

Magnus arched in slightly, his smile confiding. “So,” he said, “how are those extra digits treating you in your new calling?”

I bent my head, willing myself not to blush. Like his extra limbs, my surfeit of fingers was noticed by the mundanes, sort of; but the magic suppressed the mental “click” that made you realize it was something unusual or to be remarked upon. Instead, the normies joked about my extra-firm handshakes and “kung fu grip,” whatever that was.

As it turned out, multifingers tended to read as strength of hand in most mundanes, just like boytaurs were assumed to be high-speed endurance runners; though I’d read somewhere that how magic deflected perception of extras varied from culture to culture. There was always a sexual undertow, too, though that was also traditionally varied by place and class.

“Oh, uh, no problems,” I fumbled. “Someone in HR asked me if I needed a special keyboard? I think they were worried about ensuring accessibility.”

“Heh, that’s a new one,” he said.

Leaning forward a little more he added, “And your more… intimate extra?”

Shit, he had to go there. It was like breaking a membrane between us.

I was getting so aroused, right here in the center’s rotunda-like lobby. Like, incandescently aroused. You could probably see my arousal from space. What did he want me to tell him, that I was randy as hell and my orgasms were five times a day and copious enough that after I came my torso looked like a jizz-filled balloon had been dropped on me?

Worse, his bringing it up meant I was thinking about his junk and how nothing he wore could ever hide how huge his cocks and balls were, and, fuck, I was suddenly so close to giving him a demonstration of my own capacity to cum, right here in front of all these random people and the big bronze statue of founding father John Dickinson, that I found myself desperately wishing I’d learned a reliable teleport spell during my two years of abortive magical training.

“Erm,” I squeaked, throat feeling a little tight. “Wh-what brings you here, Professor?”

“Call me Magnus,” he said smoothly. He gave me a knowing smirk that was not without commiseration, but he allowed me to change the subject. “I was on my way to Philly for a meeting to discuss vacancies on the junior council, and one of the seers I was traveling with scried that there was a potential candidate here in Wilmington I might want to meet with.”

He eyed me speculatively, his bright-copper eyes so acute I felt like I was being undressed. “Maybe it’s you,” he added, sounding intrigued. “How strong would you say your commitment to the mundane life is these days, Gino?”

I stared at him. I tried to answer, but it was a hell of question and I was finding it hard to focus. We had never been this physically close, and it was triggering something in me beyond the wild, raging lust coursing through my arteries, nerves, and probably my very bones. My hands were still full—I hadn’t even put down the big, heavy briefcase—leaving me no way to adjust the long, fat hard-on that felt insolently huge and insistent in my stretchy half-poly trousers. My heart tripped in my chest, and my skin felt like it was on fire from my needy, throat-tightening lust. My muscles were tight and straining.

I should have been reduced to my usual pre-climax sex-zombie state. Fascinatingly, though, as if my heated blood and extreme arousal had on this occasion somehow heightened my mental acuity rather than destroying it, in that moment everything in my life suddenly kaleidoscoped into perfect perspective. I’d run away from magic because I could never be Magnus; but I certainly could never be one of the entitled, elitist assholes I was working for, either. That was not who I was, and it was not a milieu I thrived in. I had loved practicing magic, with the same passion with which I was coming to hate what the law meant to the people who worked in it.

I bit my lip. “Tepid?” I answered honestly. Trying for humor I added, “Sometimes there’s so much grunt work I almost wish there were two of me.”

Magnus smiled, even as his eyes seemed to burn with heat to match my own. Surely I had to be imagining that part, though. “I have an independent study student who might be able to help you with that,” he said. “You miss it?”

“Yes,” I said instantly. My breathing was shallow, and my dick was so hard it was pushing past my waistband, desperate to escape its confines by any means.

I told myself I should get away from this conversation, find a men’s room, and blow my load all over one of the stalls. And yet—I couldn’t break eye contact with Magnus, and I could feel in my chi-reservoir that there was something going on about this meeting that had… portent.

I moved closer to him, feeling his heat. Strangers still passed by us going this way and that, totally oblivious, but none of them registered. It was just us—me, my hardon, and his sexy, sexy body.

Magnus was closer, too, close enough the difference in our heights was causing me to tilt my head back. There were still a gap of separation, an inch or two maybe, but the potency of the feeling between us was insane. Honestly, the only thing to say that we weren’t fucking in that moment was the fact that our clothes were on and my dick wasn’t literally deep inside his tight, furnace-hot ass.

“What did you say about a council?” I heard myself ask, though only the gods knew how I was paying attention. I sure didn’t.

“Junior council,” Magnus corrected, his voice seeming to resonate in the depth of my chest and gonads. “Each magic college has an apprentice who serves as an occasional liaison to the high council. They like people with a mix of magical and real-world experience,” he added meaningfully.

His face—his eyes—were all I could see, but my body felt every inch of him. “Apprentice?” I breathed. “Who would I be apprenticed to?” Even as I said it, my lips curved in a slight smile.

His eyes bore into mine. “I don’t know what your magic is doing to me, Gino, but it’s driving mine almost out of control.” He licked his lips, then growled in a low voice, “I don’t think I could bear for you to be under anyone but me.”

My body tightened like a bowstring, and my eyes widened. Fuck, I was gonna blow, right here, right now. “Magnus, I—!”

“Kiss me,” he said urgently. Without waiting for a response he cupped my cheeks and brought our mouths together. I responded immediately, opening for him and letting his long, powerful tongue slide against mine. No sooner had I experienced this deep oral penetration than I was cumming spectacularly, shooting the biggest, highest-pressure load I could ever recall blowing right in my pa—

In my—

Fuck, I was cumming in his mouth. My tongue was shooting all the cum I had down his eager throat, instead of my dick making a huge mess in my pants. I’d never heard of this spell—maybe Magnus had just invented it—but I loved it. Dropping my burdens like they were old junk, I grabbed his hard, tapered flanks and skated my eager hands along his lats, letting him feel all those multi fingertips as I reveled in the touch of him. He continued to hold my face in his warm, strong hands even as his other hands made contact with my overheated body, sliding along my arms and shoulders. I shuddered, cumming endlessly, and then he was cumming too, spraying massive amounts of hot, bitterly delicious jizz down my throat from his long, meaty tongue.

I pulled us closer, pressing our torsos together in a desperate craving for physical contact, and when his arms wrapped tightly around me, letting me feel his heat and strength even through our clothes, I suppressed a moan and started cumming even harder—as if only this was my true orgasm.

We were like that for a while, wrapped up in each other and making out like it was the secret of life itself even after our orgasms tapered off. Finally we broke for air, resting our sweaty foreheads together. A glance around showed no shocked spectators or angry cops ready to haul us away, so the spell must have shielded how… comprehensive that kiss had been. There were a few people filming us with big smiles on their faces as they watched us on their screens, enjoying the simple sight of two hot guys sharing a passionate snog in public. I caught the eye of one of the young women and she blushed and scampered off, the others quickly following.

Panting lightly, I rolled my forehead back to face Magnus. A few unfamiliar sensations were scratching on the edges of my awareness… like the fact that, for one, Magnus wasn’t having to stoop to rest his brow against mine. I also seemed to have more feet crammed into too-narrow dress shoes than I was used to. And my massive wrist-wide cocks were still hard and clamoring for more, with my swollen multi balls in full agreement that we had barely scratched the surface of how much pleasure and cum I was capable of producing that day.

Despite the too-close proximity I tried to meet Magnus’s eyes. That blur of bright copper still drove into me and nudged me right in the nuts. “What did you do, Magnus?” I breathed.

He brushed his smile against mine. “I told you my magic was haywire around you,” he said. I felt his four hands stroking my arms and torso, taking stock. “We can, you know, undo things. If you want,” he suggested seriously. It didn’t sound like he was talking only about my accidental physical augmentation.

I wasn’t having any of that. I pushed my mouth against his, kissing him sweet and deep for a few moments before pulling back to say, “Not a chance.”

I remained a lawyer-in-training long enough to drop off the laptop and briefs with Constance and tell her and the firm they could take a hike. Then, finding Magnus again and pulling him into a secluded room we could finally have all to ourselves, I properly sealed my apprenticeship and my renewed magical life with a long, deep fuck that lasted, metaphorically or otherwise, for many, many years to come.

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