The Neighbour's Son Pt. 03

The Cambridge Cup: Class Dynamics

Right. So. I had a threesome last night. With the neighbour's son and some chav girl from the Arbury Estate, that rough council bit of Cambridge the uni pretends doesn't exist. How the bloody hell did I end up there? Let me back up a bit.

This particular mess began with Elliot backing me against my office desk, his lips hungry on mine, hands already roaming up my stockinged legs.

'So this Gemma girl,' he murmured, his fingers finding the bare skin above my stockings. 'She's definitely up for joining us.'

The thought alone sent a surprising warmth spreading through my knickers. 'What's she like?'

'Works at Wetherspoons.' His eyes darkened. 'Got this tongue piercing that'll make you see stars. Shagged her against the wall behind the pub after her shift last week. Skirt still on, knickers pushed aside.'

He pushed me back onto the desk, his kiss deep and demanding. When he broke away, his fingers traced the lace tops of my stockings where they met my suspenders.

'Cross-class experimentation,' he murmured against my neck, leaving a mark I'd need to hide tomorrow.

My hips pushed subtly against him. 'Is that all you care about? The bloody score?'

'Not all,' he smirked, hands sliding higher, pushing my skirt up. 'But don't pretend you're not thinking about Helen. What are you on now? Forty-something?'

'Forty-five,' I gasped as his fingers slipped beneath the silk. The Cambridge Cup, Elliot's twisted game, had been going since he first started 'consulting' with female faculty. What he had conceived as a strategic game of one-upmanship had evolved into his elaborate scoring system of increasingly taboo encounters. 'Helen's on thirty-five after that visiting professor from Berkeley. How do you even know about our score?'

His eyes gleamed with mischief. 'My score? I track everyone's progress, Professor. Yours is particularly... promising. Helen's been making good strides too, but I gave her bonus points for creativity with that Berkeley professor. She told me all about your little rivalry.'

'You fucking didn't!' Outrage flared, hot and sharp, quickly mingling with a potent cocktail of arousal that made my cunt clench around his fingers. 'You shagged Helen too?'

'Course I did,' he shrugged, smug as his finger circled my clit with devastating precision. 'Told her you taste better. Like expensive wine and forbidden books.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'Hers was too clinical.'

My breath caught. There was something deliciously transgressive about him comparing us, colleagues, rivals, both supposedly respectable academics reduced to being rated on how our cunts tasted.

His other hand was still stroking my stockings, clearly fascinated. He'd kept the one from our garden shed encounter. Kinky little sod!

'Christ, your legs,' he murmured, sliding to his knees, his mouth following his fingers up my inner thigh. 'Drive me fucking wild. Helen wears tights. Boring M&S nude ones.'

A breathless laugh escaped me, head falling back against the desk. 'You're such a perv.'

'You love it,' he said, tongue now tracing the edge of my knickers. 'So, about this Gemma. Friday? Eight o'clock? Premier Inn on Newmarket Road?'

'Yes,' I gasped as his tongue found its target through the damp silk. 'Book it under David's name.'

'Dirty old bastard,' Elliot muttered approvingly. 'Most blokes would go bonkers if their wife was getting eaten out by a waitress and a student.'

'Fifteen years of marriage and it turns out he gets off on hearing about me with other people,' I said, fingers tightening in Elliot's hair.

'So this Gemma,' he said, rising to lean against my desk. 'She's a bit rough. Not your usual Senior Common Room type.'

'Good,' I said, my clit already throbbing at the thought. 'I want something Helen would never dare try.'

'She's twenty-something, proper Arbury girl.' His eyes darkened as he traced a finger along my jawline. 'Has these massive tits. And that tongue piercing...' He kissed me again, deeply, then pulled back. 'When she puts that to work, you'll be speaking in tongues, Professor.'

Christ. I had PhD students older than that!

'And she knows I'm...?'

'A posh professor? Yeah. That's half the appeal,' Elliot laughed. 'Says she's always wanted to fuck someone who talks like the BBC news. Gets her proper wet, she told me. Especially if you wear your glasses and look down your nose at her like she's thick.'

'Charming,' I murmured, but my body betrayed me with a pulse of arousal that spread through my groin.

'You'll need the mask though,' Elliot added, voice dropping. 'I want to film it all, you with my hard young cock in your mouth why she eats you out... we can share the footage with David to wank off to.'

'Gosh, yes,' I agreed, a shiver running through me. The black silk Venetian mask had been David's idea. 'Anonymity's essential.'

'But stockings,' Elliot added, his hand trailing back up my thigh, leaving goosebumps in its wake. 'The good ones. Not the cheap shit. Gemma's gonna want to feel how the other half lives.'

'Naturally,' I replied dryly, a smirk playing on my lips. 'Heaven forbid I wear Primark hosiery while getting eaten out by a waitress. I'll wear the Wolfords. David bought me three new pairs last week. Said they were research expenses.'

As I left my office that afternoon, still tingling from Elliot's touch, the image of Helen's smug face at the last faculty meeting floated before me. Her casual hints about her 'stimulating weekend' with the Berkeley professor had been insufferable.

David was surprisingly enthusiastic when I told him about Elliot's text. Instead of jealousy, his eyes darkened with interest.

'Helen would never dare something so... working class,' he observed, his hand already sliding up my thigh. 'It's perfect. Fifteen points for cross-class experimentation. Plus the age gap bonus. That puts you well ahead.'

As he fucked me that night, he whispered filthy scenarios in my ear, how I'd look on my knees before a spoons waitress, how he wanted every detail recorded. For posterity. For verification. For his private collection.

By Friday evening, as I prepared in our bedroom, David had transformed into my personal stylist and documentarian. He selected the stockings, insisting on the ones with the reinforced tops. 'Better for binding,' he explained, a dark knowledge in his eyes that made me wonder what other secrets my husband had been keeping.

'The mask is essential,' he instructed, holding up the black silk Venetian piece we'd bought in Italy years ago. 'Anonymity and fantasy in one package.'

As I left for the Premier Inn, he kissed me deeply, then whispered: 'Make Helen's Berkeley professor look like amateur hour.'

---

The Premier Inn on Newmarket Road. Not exactly the London Ritz, but perfect for tonight's transgression.

The walk down the hotel corridor felt dreamlike. Generic patterned carpet, slightly sticky underfoot in places, with that particular hotel smell, a mix of industrial cleaning products failing to mask years of spilled drinks and human secretions. The distant whine of a faulty vending machine competed with muffled family arguments behind thin doors.

I took a deep breath, tasting stale air freshener and old takeaway, and knocked on Room 201.

Elliot opened the door, shirtless, jeans hanging low on his hips. 'Professor,' he grinned, that wolfish, infuriatingly charming smile. 'Come in. Gemma's...'

'Is that her?' a voice called from inside. 'About bloody time!'

She sat on the edge of the bed, half-empty cheap vodka in hand, legs spread wide. No knickers under her tight, sparkly dress that caught the light with each small movement. Blonde, pretty in a hard-edged way, electric blue acrylic nails matching her drink. Her breasts pushed high in a low-cut top, gleaming in the harsh fluorescent light that buzzed faintly overhead, casting unflattering shadows beneath everyone's eyes. But what caught my eye was the unexpected sophistication of her legs, sheathed in black hold-up stockings with a seam running up the back. Not expensive ones, the kind you'd get at Ann Summers, but worn with a confidence that made them somehow more erotic than my classy Wolfords.

The room itself was exactly what you'd expect: beige walls, generic watercolour prints, a faint smell of damp and the lingering ghost of someone else's takeaway curry. The sheets were slightly rumpled already, their polyester blend catching against my fingertips as I brushed past to enter.

'Alright?' she said, giving me a quick once-over. 'You're exactly how... wait, no, your hair's different. Thought he said you were a blonde.'

'I never said...' Elliot began.

'You absolutely did,' she interrupted, taking another swig. 'Said she was a blonde with big tits.'

I raised an eyebrow at Elliot, who had the grace to look embarrassed.

'I may have conflated some details from a previous...' he trailed off, his cheeks flushing. 'Regardless, I assure you I described your intellect in the most glowing terms.'

'Saved it,' Gemma snorted, her accent pure council estate, but without the exaggerated caricature I'd braced myself for. 'Barely.'

I stood frozen, suddenly acutely aware of the lines etched around my eyes that hadn't been there a decade ago, the slight softness at my jaw that no amount of expensive creams could quite tighten. At forty-five, I was literally twice her age, standing in a room that smelled of other people's weekend breaks and bad decisions.

'Yes, hello,' I managed, sounding every bit the middle-aged academic I was, my mouth suddenly dry.

Elliot smirked, one hand settling at the small of my back. 'Told you she was gorgeous, didn't I, Gem?'

'Mmm,' Gemma made a non-committal sound, looking me up and down with the critical assessment of someone who'd worked retail. 'S'pose. For someone your age.'

'Gemma!' Elliot admonished, but I waved him off.

'You weren't wrong,' she continued, her gaze direct but not crude. She reached for the bottle of vodka. 'Drink? Fair warning, it's not that fancy gin you lot probably drink at faculty dos.'

I laughed despite myself. 'Vodka would be...'

'Unless you want wine? There's some of that posh rosé left, isn't there?' she asked Elliot, already pouring the clear liquid into a plastic cup.

'I finished it while you were in the shower,' he admitted.

'Vodka is perfect, thank you,' I said, taking the cup she thrust toward me. The plastic was slightly tacky against my fingers, the kind of cheapness that leaves a residue.

She poured with a generous hand, the sharp, antiseptic smell hitting my nostrils before I even took a sip. 'So, you teach literature or something? Elliot was a bit vague on the details. More interested in your pussy, I think.

The vodka burned pleasantly down my throat, leaving that distinctive aftertaste that expensive brands spend fortunes trying to eliminate.

'Is that a wedding ring? Your husband know you're here?'

'Gemma,' Elliot sighed, 'we discussed this. Discretion, remember?'

'What?' she shrugged, defensive. 'It's a legitimate question. Don't want some angry bloke bursting in here halfway through, do we?'

'It's fine,' I said, answering her rather than him. 'Yes, he knows. In fact, he encouraged it. And you? Elliot mentioned Wetherspoons?'

'Bar supervisor,' she said with a hint of pride, flopping back on the bed, which creaked alarmingly. 'Started serving when I was eighteen. Been there five years now.' She grinned, the ice in her drink clicking against her teeth as she took another swig. 'Makes me ancient in Spoons years.'

The simple math made her twenty-two or three... younger than most of my graduate students. I'd been publishing academic papers before she was born.

'Did a bit of English at college,' she continued, stretching her legs out, the seamed stockings drawing my eye. The polyester sheets seemed to cling to her skin statically, making a soft peeling sound each time she shifted. 'Not university, just the local one. BTEC. Teacher said I had a "unique perspective" or some bollocks. Think she meant I swore too much in my essays.'

I laughed, surprised by her self-awareness. 'The best writers often break conventional rules.'

'Yeah? Should've told her that.' Gemma took a swig directly from the bottle, a tiny droplet escaping to roll down her chin. 'So what's your deal, then? Married, obviously.' She nodded at my ring and shagging a student half your age. Bit of a cliché, innit?'

'Yes, I suppose it is rather a cliché.'

'No judgment,' Gemma added with a shrug, her cheap bracelets jingling as she gestured. 'Life's too short. And he's fit, I'll give you that.' She flashed Elliot a grin that made him look momentarily like the twenty-three-year-old he was, not the sophisticated seducer he pretended to be. 'Got a good bum on him. Noticed that straight away on our Tinder date.'

'I prefer to think I won you over with my scintillating conversational gambits,' Elliot said, affecting a wounded tone.

'Nah,' she said bluntly. 'It was definitely the bum. And the fact you paid for my drinks. What?' she added when he rolled his eyes. 'I'm just being honest.'

'Speaking of age,' Elliot said, trailing his fingers along my silk-covered thigh, the fabric making a soft rustling sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room, 'did you know the professor here wrote a book that's taught in universities? Published before you left primary school, Gem.'

'No shit?' Gemma looked genuinely impressed, then immediately suspicious. 'What, like a proper book? With your name on it and everything?'

'Several, actually,' I admitted, trying not to sound smug. When actually I should have said 'I shit you not!'

'What's it about?' she asked, then, before I could answer, 'Wait, I bet it's boring as fuck, isn't it?'

'Female desire in Victorian literature,' I said, feeling strangely exposed.

'Ha!' she barked. 'Called it. Bet that was a short book. Weren't they all frigid back then? All those corsets and shit.'

'Actually,' I began, then saw her expression and caught myself. 'Sorry, academic reflex. You don't want a lecture.'

'No, go on,' she said, surprising me. 'I asked, didn't I? What were you gonna say?'

'Quite the opposite, actually,' I found myself slipping into lecture mode despite my best intentions. 'Victorian women experienced desire quite intensely, they just expressed it differently than...'

'Than arranging hotel threesomes with people young enough to be their kids?' Gemma interrupted, but there was humour in her eyes, not malice. 'Times change, eh? Did they have, like, Victorian hookup apps or something?'

Elliot snorted. 'Imagine sending a telegraph for a booty call.'

'I am most desirous of engaging in carnal relations STOP,' I improvised, making them both laugh. 'Please respond with utmost haste STOP.'

'My virtue remains intact STOP,' Gemma added. 'But I would welcome your attentions in the garden shed after tea STOP.'

My face flushed, not entirely from embarrassment. There was something exhilarating about being teased so directly, about having my carefully constructed academic persona punctured by this young woman who seemed to see right through me.

She shifted forward on the bed, giving me an unobstructed view of firm thighs in those cheap but effective hold-ups. 'These are nice, right?' she asked, running a hand along one leg. The nylon made a soft swishing sound against her skin. 'From Ann Summers. Bit itchy around the tops, but they look good. Bet yours are fancier.'

'Wolfords,' I admitted, caught off-guard by the swift change of topic. 'My husband has a thing for them.'

'Course he does,' she laughed. 'Posh blokes always do. My ex was the same. His dad was some bigwig at the university. Used to get off on me wearing stockings with his dad's college tie. Bit weird, if you ask me.' She wrinkled her nose, a gesture that suddenly made her look even younger.

'That's crossing a line,' Elliot agreed, then paused. 'Though I do have a Trinity tie somewhere...'

'Don't even think about it,' Gemma warned, but her lips were twitching.

'And what about you?' I asked, emboldened by the vodka and the increasingly surreal conversation. 'Do you have... things?'

'Things?' she repeated, confused.

'Preferences,' I clarified. 'Kinks.'

'Oh!' Her smile turned wicked. 'Oh, I've got plenty of things, Professor. One of them's currently pressed against my clit.' She shifted slightly in a deliberately provocative way, a small intake of breath indicating the truth of her statement. The bedsprings squeaked in protest. 'Got this piercing last year. Makes everything more... intense. You know, like when you're just walking around Tesco and suddenly it rubs just right and you're trying not to pull a face by the frozen pizzas.'

The room's temperature seemed to spike ten degrees. A surprising pulse of arousal shot through me at her words, at the casual way she discussed her body, her pleasure.

'Show me,' I heard myself say, then immediately wondered if I'd overstepped.

But Gemma just grinned wider, setting her drink down on the cluttered nightstand, the ice cubes clinking against each other.

Elliot made a noise of approval behind me, his hands moving to my shoulders, beginning to ease off my coat.

'Everyone's got depths,' Gemma replied, standing with fluid grace that made me suddenly conscious of my own body, the subtle aches in my knees, the extra effort it now took to move with the same ease I'd had at her age. The air conditioning unit in the corner of the room rattled to life with a juddering whine, sending a blast of slightly musty air across the room. 'Bet the professor's got more than most, though. All that reading. Gets the imagination going, doesn't it?'

She reached for the hem of her dress, some sparkly thing that would look ridiculous on me but somehow worked on her. It caught briefly on her watch, and she swore under her breath as she untangled it. The static electricity made her hair rise slightly as she pulled it over her head in one fluid motion. No hesitation, no self-consciousness.

'Christ,' I murmured, taking in the sight of her. She was beautiful in that unfinished way of the very young, her body still had that tautness that time inevitably slackens, that elasticity that vanishes so gradually you don't notice until it's gone. A small purple bruise marked her hip, likely from bumping into something, the kind of minor injury that on my own body would take weeks to fade. The seamed stockings she wore, cheap but effective hold-ups, made her legs look impossibly long.

'Like what you see?' she asked, but without the crude edge I'd expected. There was genuine curiosity in her tone, perhaps even a hint of vulnerability beneath the bravado. She shifted her weight from one foot to another, the carpet making a soft sound under her feet.

'Very much,' I admitted.

'Good. Your turn,' she said, moving toward me as Elliot finished removing my coat, draping it carefully over the back of the room's single chair, which already held his shirt. 'Let's see what all those faculty lunches have done to you.'

I stiffened involuntarily.

She must have sensed my hesitation because she softened her approach. 'Hey,' she said, fingers brushing mine. 'I didn't mean it like that. Elliot says you're gorgeous. And he's not wrong.'

'The mask first,' Elliot suggested, fumbling in my bag, items clattering as he searched. 'It's not... wait, is this it? No, that's your diary. God, how much do you carry around? Ah, here.' He produced the black silk from my bag, shaking it out with a flourish. 'David will want the full anonymous sex tape fantasy.'

'Plus it's more mysterious,' Gemma added with a wink, reaching out to touch the silk with curious fingers. 'Like those posh orgies in that film with Tom Cruise. Where's he hiding the weird cloaks and shit?'

'Eyes Wide Shut,' I supplied, watching Elliot struggle with the mask's thin ribbons, his fingers suddenly clumsy.

'That's the one. Though I bet yours are wide bloody open under there,' she said with a knowing smirk that made me flush. 'Here, let me. You're making a mess of it.' She snatched the mask from Elliot, gently pushed my hair back from my face, and secured it with surprising deftness. 'There. Proper sexy, that is.'

'Thanks,' I murmured, the silk warm against my skin.

'No problem. Used to help my little sister with her ballet costumes,' she explained, then, noticing my surprise, 'What? I've got layers too, you know.'

As the mask settled over my eyes, my peripheral vision narrowed, focusing my attention on the two young bodies before me, heightening every other sense.

# The Cambridge Cup: Class Dynamics (Part 2)

Gemma's fingers worked at my blouse buttons with surprising dexterity. 'Nice,' she commented, brushing the silk. 'Bet this cost more than I make in a day.'

'Probably,' I admitted, feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and arousal at the acknowledgment of our different circumstances.

'Worth it though,' she continued, pushing the fabric from my shoulders. 'Feels amazing.' Her fingertips traced the edge of my bra, expensive La Perla that matched my knickers. 'This too. Proper fancy.'

Elliot moved behind me, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts through the silk. 'The professor has excellent taste,' he murmured. 'In everything.'

'Including her toyboys?' Gemma teased, and I caught the flash of her smile in the dim hotel lighting.

'Especially those,' Elliot replied, pressing against me so I could feel his arousal. 'She likes them just ripe enough to know what they're doing, but young enough to do it all night.'

I should have been offended, but instead found myself laughing, a genuine sound that surprised me.

'And what about you?' I asked Gemma, finding my voice. 'Do you make a habit of seducing women old enough to be your mother?'

Her eyes met mine through the mask, a spark of appreciation at my directness. 'First time, actually. But I've always been an overachiever.'

'She really has,' Elliot confirmed, his hands sliding down to my waist. 'Top of her class in the bedroom arts. Aren't you, Gem?'

She rolled her eyes at him, but there was affection in it. 'Shut up and help me get her on the bed, you twat.' The crude word, delivered with such casual warmth, made me laugh again.

Together, they guided me toward the bed, four hands working in tandem to remove the rest of my clothing. My blouse was already off, and Elliot's fingers made quick work of my skirt's zipper, letting it pool around my ankles. I stepped out of it carefully, now standing in just my bra, knickers, and Wolford stockings. Gemma circled behind me, her fingers finding my bra clasp with practiced ease. The expensive silk fell away, leaving my breasts exposed to the cool hotel air.

Elliot looked at Gemma's seamed stockings with clear appreciation. 'These are fantastic,' he said, running a finger along one of the seams. Then his eyes moved to my Wolfords. 'But these,' he added with a wolfish grin, 'are what proper money looks like.'

'Let me feel,' Gemma said, reaching to stroke my stockinged leg. 'Oh, they are nice. Soft.'

'They're staying on,' Elliot declared, guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed. As he spoke, he was unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers. His shirt had been off since I arrived, and now he stood completely naked, his desire evident.

'You're staring, Professor,' he teased, moving closer. 'See something you like?'

'Very much,' I admitted, echoing my earlier words to Gemma. I reached out to touch him, but he caught my wrist.

'Not yet,' he said, his voice dropping to a register that sent a shiver through me. 'First, we're going to make sure you can't touch at all.'

Gemma moved behind me on the bed, her breasts pressed against my back, her arms encircling me. 'Lie back,' she murmured into my ear. 'Let us take care of everything.'

I complied, allowing myself to be guided backward until I was lying fully on the bed, my head on the cheap hotel pillows, my body stretched out before them. The mask still covered my eyes, adding to the delicious sense of vulnerability.

'Those stockings of yours are lovely,' Gemma observed, stroking my leg. 'But I think mine might be more useful.'

To my surprise, she slid one of her seamed stockings off with a fluid motion, revealing a slender, tanned calf. 'Roll over a bit,' she instructed, and when I did, she guided my hands behind my back. The sensation of nylon against my wrists was cool and smooth as she bound them together with practiced skill.

'Not too tight?' she asked, fingers testing the restraint.

I flexed my wrists, finding them secure but comfortable. 'Perfect.'

'Good,' she said, helping me roll back. 'Now for these.'

She removed her other stocking, leaving her completely barefoot, and with Elliot's help, secured my ankles. The feeling of being bound by this young woman's stockings, the very ones that had been hugging her thighs moments ago, created a strange intimacy between us.

'Not your first time tying someone up, is it?' Elliot asked Gemma, his hand sliding appreciatively up her now-bare leg.

'Wouldn't you know?' she replied with a teasing look. 'For someone I only met on Tinder last week, you've got quite the appetite for experimentation.'

'You didn't waste time, did you?' I remarked, both impressed and slightly envious of youth's impetuosity.

'What can I say?' Gemma grinned. 'His profile said "Cambridge student seeks adventure" and I thought, why not? Didn't expect him to be quite so posh in real life though.'

'I believe my exact words were "Doctoral candidate in quantum physics seeking intellectual and physical stimulation,"' Elliot corrected, his Received Pronunciation becoming more pronounced, as it often did when he was trying to be charming. 'Hardly as crass as you make it sound.'

'Whatever,' Gemma rolled her eyes. 'It was the shirtless picture that got my attention anyway. Didn't expect to end up shagging against the wall behind Spoons after my shift, but here we are.'

'I prefer to think of it as a spontaneous alfresco encounter,' he sniffed, the corners of his mouth twitching. 'It sounds far more poetic.'

'Not your first time being tied up either, is it, Professor?' Gemma asked, turning back to me.

'Not my first,' I admitted, 'but it's been rather a while. Not since that conference in Edinburgh with the head of Classics from Durham.'

'Ooh, scandalous,' Gemma teased. 'And here I thought academics just sat around discussing books and shit.'

'Sometimes we discuss books while tied up,' I replied dryly. 'We're excellent multitaskers.'

'Don't worry,' she assured me, her breath warm against my ear. 'We'll take good care of you. And if anything doesn't feel right...'

'Just say "faculty meeting,"' Elliot suggested, his accent crisply articulated. 'Nothing extinguishes amorous intent quite like academic bureaucracy.'

I laughed despite the tension coiling in my belly. 'Perfect safe word. Even the thought of the curriculum review committee makes me drier than the Sahara.'

'Christ, don't mention committees,' Gemma groaned, shifting to straddle one of my thighs, her bare skin warm against my stockinged leg. 'My manager at Spoons is obsessed with them. Health and Safety this, Employee Satisfaction that. Like anyone's satisfied earning minimum wage to mop up vomit on a Friday night.'

'The bureaucracy of pleasure and the pleasure of bureaucracy,' Elliot mused, trailing a finger along my bound ankle. 'A fascinating dialectic, wouldn't you say, Professor?'

'I'd say you're showing off words from your supervision essays,' I retorted, making them both laugh. 'No one actually employs "dialectic" during sexual congress unless they're desperately attempting to convince their partner of their intellectual prowess.'

'You've caught me in flagrante intellectus,' he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. 'Though it wasn't philosophy I was attempting to impress. It was Political Science. Dr. Winters. She had this rather specific predilection for Marxist theory.'

'You didn't,' I gasped, genuinely shocked. 'Martha Winters? She's on the ethics committee!'

'The ethically flexible committee, more like,' Elliot smirked, his posh voice dropping momentarily. 'She had me bent over her desk reciting passages from Das Kapital while she--'

'Oi, can we focus?' Gemma interrupted, gesturing at my bound form. 'Fascinating as your shag history is, we've got a professor all trussed up like a Christmas turkey here.'

'Or a Russell Group academic awaiting funding approval,' Elliot added, seamlessly returning to his cultured tones.

I snorted with laughter. 'Academia jokes during sex? Really?'

Then her mouth was on me, the metal stud of her piercing creating a startling counterpoint to the soft warmth of her tongue. The contrast was electric, sending jolts of sensation that short-circuited my ability to analyse. I could only experience.

Elliot positioned himself beside me, watching intently as Gemma worked. His hand cupped my breast, fingers circling my nipple in time with Gemma's rhythm below. 'Listen to her,' he murmured appreciatively as a moan escaped me.

'Proper posh even when she's getting eaten out,' Gemma commented, briefly lifting her head.

'Wait till she comes,' Elliot replied, his other hand sliding down to tangle in Gemma's hair, guiding her back to her task. 'Last time she said "fuck" seven times in a row.'

'I did not,' I protested weakly, then gasped as Gemma's tongue found a particularly sensitive spot.

Elliot moved up the bed, bringing himself close to my lips. 'You like this, don't you?' he murmured. 'Being held down. Being taken. Being watched.'

'Yes,' I admitted, the confession burning in my throat. 'God, yes.'

After bringing me to the edge multiple times, Gemma finally sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Your turn,' she told Elliot, her voice husky. 'I need a break.'

They shifted positions with practiced ease, communicating without words. Elliot moved between my thighs while Gemma crawled up to kneel beside my head. As Elliot entered me with one smooth thrust, Gemma leaned down to kiss me deeply, letting me taste myself on her tongue.

Gemma broke the kiss, her attention shifting to Elliot. She reached down to grip his shoulder, nails digging in slightly. 'Don't finish too quick,' she warned. 'I want a turn with you after.'

His rhythm faltered momentarily at her words, his expression tightening with desire. 'Might need to think about quantum equations if you keep talking like that.'

She laughed, then turned her attention back to me, fingers playing with my nipples as Elliot's pace increased. 'She's close again,' Gemma observed, watching my face intently.

The dual stimulation was pushing me rapidly toward another climax. When Gemma bent to capture one nipple between her teeth, applying just enough pressure to skirt the edge of pain, I shattered completely. My back arched off the bed as far as my restraints would allow, a string of decidedly unprofessorial expletives escaping my lips.

As I lay panting, trying to reassemble my scattered thoughts, I was vaguely aware of movement beside me. Opening my eyes, I saw Gemma had straddled Elliot, who now sat with his back against the headboard. She sank down onto him with a satisfied sigh, her back to me as she began to ride him slowly.

The sight was unexpectedly arousing--Gemma's back flexing, her hips rolling in a hypnotic rhythm, Elliot's hands gripping her waist, guiding her movements. I was no longer the centre of attention but an observer to their pleasure, a role that carried its own unique thrill.

'Untie me,' I said suddenly, surprised by my own request.

Gemma glanced over her shoulder, never breaking her rhythm. 'You sure?'

'Yes,' I insisted. 'I want to touch you both.'

Elliot reached around Gemma to loosen the stockings around my wrists. Once freed, I sat up, my hands immediately drawn to Gemma's body--the curve of her hip, the smooth plane of her back. She shuddered at my touch, leaning back into me.

'Fuck,' she breathed. 'That's good.'

We rearranged ourselves with wordless coordination. Elliot lay on his back while Gemma straddled his face, facing me. I knelt between his legs, taking him in my mouth as his tongue made Gemma cry out above me. Her hands found my hair, fingers tangling as she guided my head up to kiss her deeply.

'Christ,' she gasped against my mouth. 'This is like the world's poshest Spitroast.'

I couldn't help laughing, nearly choking on Elliot in the process.

'Please refrain from making her laugh while she's engaged in fellatio!' Elliot protested from between Gemma's thighs, his voice muffled but the plummy vowels still audible. 'It's rather hazardous to my person.'

'Sorry!' Gemma didn't sound remotely sorry. 'But it is. Look at us. It's like one of them posh sandwich biscuits with the fancy cream in the middle. What are they called?'

'Custard creams?' I suggested, momentarily withdrawing.

'Nah, the posh ones. With the chocolate.'

'Bourbon biscuits?' Elliot offered, his crisp pronunciation making even the word 'biscuits' sound like something that should be accompanied by a string quartet.

'That's the one!' she exclaimed triumphantly. 'We're a bloody bourbon biscuit!'

'I believe that makes me the cream filling,' Elliot remarked dryly. 'How thoroughly undignified.'

It should have killed the mood completely. Instead, I found myself laughing even as desire continued to build, the absurdity somehow enhancing rather than diminishing the pleasure. There was something wonderfully liberating about sex that didn't take itself too seriously, that could accommodate both intense pleasure and ridiculous biscuit metaphors.

Later, Elliot retrieved his phone from the nightstand. 'David will want to see this,' he said, angling the camera to capture me, now unbound but with my ankles still loosely tangled in Gemma's stockings. Gemma was sprawled beside me, one leg thrown over mine, her head resting on my shoulder.

'Perhaps adjust your position slightly to the left,' he directed Gemma with the careful precision of a film studies undergraduate. 'Excellent. Now if you could appear as though you're about to kiss her?'

'I am about to kiss her,' Gemma replied, sliding up to press her lips against mine for the camera.

'Catherine, might I trouble you to straighten your legs a bit?' he asked, the formality of his phrasing amusingly at odds with the debauchery he was documenting. 'And perhaps place your hand on her posterior. I believe David would find that rather stimulating.'

'Are we making pornography or applying for an arts council grant?' I asked dryly, making Gemma snort with laughter.

'Both,' Elliot replied, adjusting the angle with the serious expression of someone photographing rare orchids for a botanical journal. 'The Cambridge Cup demands artistically valid documentation. One must maintain standards, even in depravity.'

'Christ, that's terribly pretentious,' I groaned. 'Your aesthetic sensibilities need work.'

'What about "Tied Up in Tenure: A Professor's Descent"?' Gemma suggested, striking a mock-dramatic pose.

'Or "Peer-Reviewed Perversion: A Scholarly Approach to Threesomes"?' Elliot countered, his enunciation crisp.

'Maybe "Cross-Class Bonding: An Interdisciplinary Study"?' I offered.

'God, that's even worse than ours,' Gemma laughed. 'You really are an academic.'

'Occupational hazard,' I admitted. 'I once titled a paper on female desire in Brontë novels "Heathcliff and the Art of Narrative Climax." The department head nearly had an aneurysm.'

'You didn't,' Elliot gasped, delighted, his carefully cultivated Cambridge polish slipping momentarily.

'I absolutely did. Changed it before publication, of course, but the draft is still floating around the faculty archives somewhere.'

'I'd read that,' Gemma said. 'Sounds more interesting than the shit they made us study at school. All those dead blokes banging on about moors and metaphors.'

Afterward, we lay in a tangle of limbs, pleasantly exhausted. Gemma massaged the indentations where her stockings had bound my wrists, her touch gentle. Elliot had set his phone on the nightstand, the recording safely stored for David's later enjoyment. I'd removed the mask, no longer needing that barrier.

Gemma reached for her cigarettes, lighting one despite the no-smoking sign.

'Want one?' she offered.

I hesitated, then nodded. 'Haven't smoked since my postgrad days.'

She passed it to me, our fingers brushing. 'What, they don't let professors have vices?'

'Not visible ones,' I replied, taking a drag. 'We hide them better.'

'Like fucking students?' she asked with a grin.

'And bar staff, apparently,' I added, passing the cigarette back.

Elliot stretched, all lean muscle and youthful recovery. 'The professor here just scored major points in her competition,' he informed Gemma.

Her interest visibly piqued. 'What competition?'

'It's nothing,' I said quickly.

'It's definitely something,' Elliot countered, propping himself up. 'The Cambridge Cup. A tournament among certain faculty members.'

'Elliot,' I warned, but he continued.

'Points for various extracurricular activities. Cross-class liaisons. Age gaps. Group scenarios.' He gestured at our naked bodies. 'Catherine just scored at least forty-five points tonight.'

Gemma's eyebrows shot up. 'You lot actually keep score?'

I felt my face flush. 'It's not as crude as he makes it sound.'

'It's exactly as crude,' Elliot corrected cheerfully. 'That's why it's fun.'

To my surprise, Gemma burst out laughing. 'That's brilliant. Bunch of posh professors with scorecards.' She took another drag. 'So what's my value? Council estate background? Wetherspoons employee?'

'Fifteen for the cross-class element,' Elliot supplied. 'Ten for the age gap. Five for the location. Ten for the filming. Five for the mask.'

'Who's winning overall?' she asked, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

'She is, now,' Elliot said, nodding at me. 'Helen from English Literature was ahead until tonight.'

'Helen,' I muttered, unable to keep the edge from my voice. 'Always so smug at faculty meetings.'

'What's Helen been up to?' Gemma asked, crushing out her cigarette.

'Visiting professor from MIT and his wife,' I replied.

Gemma scoffed. 'That's just posh people shagging other posh people. Where's the adventure?'

I laughed, oddly touched by her indignation on my behalf.

'It's like those cooking shows,' she continued. 'Anyone can make something good with fancy ingredients. Real skill is making something brilliant with beans on toast.'

Gemma looked between us, amused. 'You people are mental.' There was something like admiration in her voice. 'Wouldn't have thought it, looking at you. All buttoned-up jumpers and sensible shoes in public, but proper freaks in private.'

'The quiet ones are always the worst,' Elliot stage-whispered. 'My mate's dating this librarian who looks like she'd faint at a swear word. Turns out she's got a sex dungeon in her basement. With those swings and everything.'

'No, she hasn't,' Gemma scoffed.

'Swear to God,' Elliot insisted. 'Chains, whips, the lot. Looks like Miss Marple, shags like she's auditioning for Pornhub Premium.'

I couldn't help laughing. 'I knew librarians were hiding something behind that shushing. All that repressed energy from telling people off about late returns.'

'Speaking of repressed academics,' Gemma said, turning to me with a mischievous grin, 'what other secret kinks are you hiding under those tweed jackets and leather-elbow-patch things?'

'I don't wear tweed,' I protested. 'That's the Geography department. Literature sticks to cashmere and quiet judgement.'

'You didn't answer the question,' Elliot noted, settling back against the pillows. 'Spill the dirty secrets, Professor.'

'Well,' I considered, feeling oddly comfortable in this post-coital confession, 'there was that time at the Modern Language Association conference in Boston when I shagged three Harvard professors in the hotel sauna.'

'Three?' Gemma's eyes widened. 'At once?'

'In succession,' I clarified. 'Though there was some overlap during transitions.'

'Fuck me,' she breathed, impressed. 'And here I thought I was being adventurous shagging the assistant manager in the Spoons stockroom.'

'That is adventurous,' I assured her. 'Have you seen the state of most pub stockrooms? At least hotel saunas are clean.'

'Fair point. Though Jamie did put down a clean bar towel first. He's considerate like that.'

I glanced at Elliot's phone, thinking of David waiting at home. 'Speaking of that video...'

'Academic rigour demands proper documentation,' Elliot said with mock seriousness.

'For peer review,' I added.

'And wanking material,' Gemma contributed helpfully.

'God, you even make threesomes sound boring,' she continued, pulling the duvet over her legs. 'Is that what they teach at Cambridge? How to make fucking sound like filing taxes?'

'What can I say?' Elliot replied with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows that seemed distinctly at odds with his plummy accent. 'Cambridge teaches one to pursue knowledge in all its forms. Though I must say, this extracurricular activity has been far more illuminating than my scheduled supervisions.'

'Christ, even your sex talk sounds like it belongs in a journal,' Gemma laughed, throwing a pillow at him. 'You've only been shagging me for a week and I'm already developing a vocabulary.'

'And here I thought academics were dull,' she added, shaking her head. 'Wait till I tell my mates about this.'

My eyes widened in alarm, but she quickly added, 'Don't worry, no names. Your secret's safe. I'll just say I had a threesome with a posh boy and his professor. They'll think I'm making it up anyway.'

'Thank you,' I said, genuinely relieved.

'No worries,' she replied easily. 'We've all got our secrets. Mine's Jane Eyre. Yours is shagging for points in some weird academic game.' She grinned. 'Everyone's got layers.'

'Like an onion,' Elliot suggested, his literary reference impossibly pretentious even in three simple words.

'Or a trifle,' I countered.

'Definitely a trifle,' Gemma decided. 'Fancy on top, messy underneath, and filthy at the bottom.'

We laughed, and I was struck by the strange intimacy of the moment. Three people from wildly different worlds, sharing a cigarette and bad metaphors.

'I should go,' I said, glancing at the clock. 'Faculty meeting tomorrow.'

'Ugh, there's that word again,' Elliot groaned. 'Almost as effective as a cold shower.'

'You suggested it as a safe word,' I reminded him as I began gathering my clothing.

'Nothing kills the mood faster than bureaucracy,' he replied.

I dressed methodically, transforming back into Professor Catherine Harrison piece by piece. Each item another layer of armour between my professional self and the woman who'd just been thoroughly pleasured by two people half my age.

'You'll be all right getting home?' Elliot asked, pulling on his jeans.

'I've got my car,' I assured him.

Gemma remained on the bed, naked and relaxed. 'This was fun,' she said, watching me button my blouse. 'Wouldn't mind doing it again.'

'I'll consider it,' I replied, surprised to find I meant it.

Elliot picked up his phone. 'I'll send this to David tonight.'

'He'll love that,' I smiled, slipping into my heels.

With my clothes on and my hair smoothed, I felt the transformation complete. The mask was in my bag, the video on its way to David. The only evidence of the evening's activities were the faint red marks on my wrists, and those would fade by morning.

'Well,' I said, suddenly formal. 'Thank you both for a... memorable evening.'

'Cheers, Professor,' Gemma said lazily. 'Good luck with your competition thing.'

'And your faculty meeting,' Elliot added with a smirk.

I left them there, Gemma sprawled naked, Elliot half-dressed and scrolling through his phone. As I walked to my car, I felt satisfied and strangely anticipatory. The Cambridge Cup was mine now. Helen would be seething when she found out, which she inevitably would. Academic gossip travelled faster than light.

The thought made me smile as I started the engine. Let her seethe. I'd discovered something far more valuable than points in a ridiculous competition--a part of myself I'd long suppressed, a freedom in surrender I'd forgotten existed.

The next morning, I spotted Helen across the faculty lounge, looking smugly refreshed in her Lululemon yoga pants and designer glasses. I sipped my coffee, enjoying the slight ache between my thighs, the faint marks on my wrists where Gemma's stockings had bound them.

'Good weekend, Catherine?' she asked with that insufferable politeness that never quite reached her eyes.

'Quite illuminating,' I replied mildly. 'And yours?'

'Oh, you know. The usual.' She flipped her perfect bob, the one that probably required weekly maintenance appointments. 'Richard and I had dinner with that visiting professor from MIT. Fascinating man. His wife too. We had them over afterward for... coffee.'

'How continental,' I murmured, knowing exactly what kind of 'coffee' she meant. 'I'm sure it was very... civilised.'

She smiled thinly. 'The most refined experiences often are.'

I heard my phone buzz in my pocket but ignored it, keeping my gaze steady on Helen. Looking at her now, I was struck by how similar we were on paper, both accomplished academics in our forties, both published, both respected in our fields. And yet, I'd spent my weekend being wonderfully debased in a budget hotel with two people half my age, while she'd orchestrated some carefully curated faculty threesome that was probably about as spontaneous as her colour-coded planner.

'Actually,' I said, my voice dropping conspiratorially, 'I had quite the adventure myself. Something of a... cultural exchange.'

'Oh?' Her eyebrow arched perfectly. Years of Botox had given her impressive control over that one feature.

'Mmm,' I confirmed, letting a slow smile spread across my face. 'Very... educational. For all involved.'

I saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the mental calculation as she tried to decipher what I might have done that could possibly top her MIT threesome.

'Well,' she said finally, 'how lovely for you.'

'It really was,' I agreed pleasantly. 'David was thrilled with the video documentation. So much more... authentic than the usual academic fare. The raw material, as it were.'

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly before she regained her composure. 'Video? How... thorough of you.'

'One must maintain proper academic standards,' I replied. 'Even in extracurricular activities.'

As I walked away, I pulled out my phone to find a text from Elliot: "Video sent to David. He's already watched it twice. Helen doesn't stand a chance."

I smiled to myself, tucking the phone away. The Cambridge Cup was practically mine now. And at forty-five, I'd discovered I still had plenty to learn about winning.

Later that evening, I found David in his study, glasses perched on his nose, ostensibly marking undergraduate essays. But the slight flush on his cheeks and the way he shifted in his chair told me he'd been watching something else entirely.

'Productive day?' I asked innocently, leaning against the doorframe.

He looked up, his eyes darkening as they met mine. 'Extremely. Though I've been somewhat... distracted this afternoon.' He gestured toward his laptop. 'Elliot sent through some rather compelling footage.'

'Did he now?' I moved into the room, perching on the edge of his desk. 'And your assessment?'

'Masterful work,' he replied, his voice dropping lower. 'Particularly the use of alternative restraint techniques. Very resourceful.'

'Necessity is the mother of invention,' I said primly, enjoying the game. 'One must adapt to circumstances.'

'Indeed.' His hand came to rest on my thigh, fingers tracing the edge of my stocking beneath my skirt. 'And Helen's MIT professor?'

'Amateur hour,' I assured him, leaning closer. 'Though she doesn't know it yet.'

'The Cup is yours, then.' His smile was proud, almost predatory. 'What shall we do to celebrate?'

I glanced at his laptop screen, frozen on a frame showing me bound with Gemma's stockings, mask in place, the young woman's pierced tongue clearly visible against my skin. 'I might have a few ideas,' I murmured. 'Though I left my teaching assistant at home tonight.'

'We'll manage,' David assured me, pulling me onto his lap. 'I've been taking notes.'

The screen showed Gemma's tongue stud catching the light as she moved between my thighs. David paused on that frame, his breath quickening. 'Remarkable girl,' he said. 'Such... initiative.'

'The stud was a surprise,' I admitted, already feeling heat pooling between my legs again at the memory. 'Quite effective.'

'So I gathered from the soundtrack,' he smirked, fingers now tracing the edge of my knickers beneath my skirt. 'I didn't know you knew that particular word. Even in your doctoral thesis on obscenity in Joyce.'

'Neither did I,' I laughed. 'But Elliot seemed to bring out the linguist in me.'

David's fingers slipped beneath the silk, finding me already wet. 'And what was it like?' he asked, his voice dropping an octave. 'Having them both at once?'

I described it in detail as his fingers worked inside me, his other hand unbuttoning my blouse with practiced ease. The images on screen combined with the memories fresh in my mind and David's expert touch soon had me gasping against his shoulder, trying not to be too loud. The walls of our Victorian terrace were notoriously thin.

Afterward, wrapped in his dressing gown in his study chair, I sipped the whisky he'd poured me. 'Should we feel guilty about this?' I asked, suddenly thoughtful. 'The Cup, I mean. Helen would be horrified if she knew the real scoring system.'

'Helen,' David scoffed, 'would pretend to be horrified while secretly taking notes. You know she's been sleeping with the Dean? Richards told me at the last board meeting.'

'The Dean?' I nearly choked on my whisky. 'He's seventy if he's a day!'

'Experience points,' David said with a wry smile, refilling my glass. 'Though I doubt it's comparable to your Wetherspoons waitress with the tongue piercing.'

'Gemma,' I corrected. 'Her name's Gemma.'

'Gemma,' he repeated, testing the name. 'Will you see her again?'

I hesitated, considering. 'Perhaps. She seemed... interested.'

'Good,' he said, his eyes darkening again. 'Because I'd very much like to meet her myself.'

As his mouth found mine, I reflected on the strange, unexpected journey that had led me here. From earnest student to respectable academic to enthusiastic participant in the Cambridge Cup. It wasn't the path I'd imagined for myself all those years ago, scribbling notes on Victorian literature in the university library. But as Gemma had so astutely observed, everyone wants what they're not supposed to have.

And sometimes, I thought as David's hands moved beneath my borrowed dressing gown, finding the places still sensitive from the night before, what we're not supposed to have turns out to be exactly what we need.

I wasn't naive enough to think this new development in our marriage was without complications. There would be logistical challenges, emotional entanglements, the very real risk of discovery. But as I straddled David in his study chair, the essay papers falling forgotten to the floor, I couldn't bring myself to care. For the first time in years, I felt truly alive, my body electric with possibility.

Tomorrow, I would be Professor Harrison again, respected academic and department head. I would debate curriculum changes and research methodologies with the proper gravitas. I would mentor students with professional distance and mark papers with meticulous attention.

But tonight, I was simply Catherine. Hungry. Uninhibited. Victorious.

And already plotting my next move in the Cambridge Cup.