Deep Ethics
City N, autumn. The first semester of the new academic year. Anya, 23, a student of the Physics and Mathematics Faculty, Department of Physics, sat at the last desk by the window. Her world was ordered by rows of formulas on her laptop screen, open to a quantum mechanics problem. In her headphones, it wasn't music playing, but a recording of a lecture on quantum theory, helping her dive deeper into the solution. Open notebooks with formulas, scribbled-on sheets, and a pen were scattered on the desk beside her. She was completely immersed in calculations—in a perfect, closed world where every variable had its place.
— Ethics"? Some elective for humanities students that had been forced on her.
A waste of time. A collection of empty words, irrelevant to her future, to her dream of becoming a scientist, contributing to science, proving to herself and everyone that she was the best in this subject. Let them talk—she would solve. In her coordinate system, true beauty lay in the elegance of a proof, not in the ephemeral "beauty" of banal human interactions.At that moment, the classroom door opened silently. The professor from the Philosophy Department, teaching this subject, entered. Not particularly remarkable in appearance, yet instantly capturing the attention of the entire room.
Short, curly hair with a touch of gray, completely gray temples. A sharp, cold gaze from gray, steely eyes, with irritation sparkling in their depths.
The air filled with the tart, woody scent of cologne, interwoven with notes of pepper and tobacco.
He walked unhurriedly, without folders, without slides, a coffee cup in his hand. His movements were imbued with a sense of boundless power over the time and space of the lecture. The students fell silent: some slammed their laptops shut, others took out their headphones. Anya—did not. She was outside this world, immersed in an equation.
The professor approached the teacher's desk, set down the cup, scanned the room with a slow, predatory gaze, choosing his victim, and stopped on her.
— Today, we are on ethics. Ethics is a philosophical science, the object of study of which is morality. In ethics, two kinds of problems can be distinguished: questions about how a person should act, and the actual theoretical questions about the origin and essence of morality. Based on the first kind of problems, the practical orientation of ethics, its penetrability, becomes obvious...
He paused, a silence hanging heavier than usual, and headed towards Anya. Slowly, as if controlling gravity, he approached.
— And you think ethics is a waste of time?
Anya flinched. Her heart beat faster. She instantly snapped out of solving her problems and felt the gaze of hundreds of students fixed on her.
— ...Yes, — she mumbled, blushing. In fear, she began to concoct jumbled arguments, feeling shame and the stares of her friends. She found herself in an awkward, shameful situation where her image as the "perfect" student was being publicly criticized.
The professor curled his lips into a smirk that sent a chill down the spine of even the most fearless students. Behind crooked teeth, peeking out from under a thin mask of good breeding, lay a cruel irony—it shattered the entire illusion of his external refinement. His gaze, piercing like an X-ray, slowly swept across the room. Then he straightened up and, drowning out the hall's silence with a loud, commanding voice, began to bombard the students with questions on ethics—not for discussion, but for testing.
Stopping by Anya's desk, he froze—as if savoring the moment. His eyes watched with pleasure as the students, trembling and confused, mumbled incoherent answers. One by one, he tore their arguments to shreds, accompanying each remark with a biting mockery.
Finally, having enjoyed the process and gratified his ego, the professor stopped the execution of his charges.
— Pleasant to know who I'm dealing with. Welcome to hell, my new favorite students. I will not give you credits for memorized definitions. My subject must touch you—deeply, truly. So that you feel it in every cell. This is not about 'understanding'. This is about 'experiencing'.
He stepped back to the center of the room and continued the lecture as if nothing had happened.
So she kept attending the ethics classes—with a strange, stubborn persistence. Suddenly it became important—what he would say, how he would look, whether he would stop by her desk, what barb he would throw her way this time.
On her way home, she replayed every word of his in her head again and again: "What if he meant me?", "Maybe he gave that assignment only to me—because only I can handle it?"
And even when he abruptly cut her off mid-answer, humiliated her in front of everyone—inside, everything tightened with a strange, shameful heat.
— He does that because I'm actually interesting to him," she thought, hiding her face in her hands.
///
The semester ended, and despite all her efforts, Anya still hadn't received a credit. Three times she tried to retake it, but nothing worked. Finally, the dean's office put a stop to it: "One more week—or expulsion."
The professor had gone on vacation, but she found his address.
The door opened without a sound. He stood in the doorway—in a black shirt with an unbuttoned collar, hair slightly disheveled, as if he had just woken up—or was waiting. His gaze—not surprised. He knew she would come.
— Come in, — he said in a calm voice, stepping aside.
She entered and froze. The apartment inside resembled a museum. Solid bookcases from floor to ceiling: from Aristotle to Bataille, from Plato to Deleuze. On the walls—original engravings: nude figures in poses of philosophical ecstasy, intertwining in a dance of pure being. In the corner—an antique grand piano, on it—a glass of water and an open notebook. The air—coffee, interwoven with the scent of pepper, cold skin, and old books.
He didn't ask why she had come. Simply approached, stopped a step away. Took the folder from her hands—without looking—and tossed it on the table. Grabbed her wrist with such force that her bones cracked as loudly as if a window had shattered. Forcibly led her to the sofa and roughly pushed her shoulder. She sat—more like fell—on the edge, not having time to say anything.
The professor took a position over her—not just stood, but loomed, like someone who had already decided everything for both of them—and slowly unbuckled his belt. The sound of the metal buckle rang out sharply in the silence. And now he was pulling out his hard, thick cock from his trousers—pulsing, with a swollen head and a drop of pre-cum on the tip.
— Open your mouth.
Blushing with embarrassment, Anya parted her lips and touched them to the red head, freed from the foreskin. The world narrowed to a single point. On her tongue was the taste of astringent, salty fluid. Slowly, she began to take him into her mouth.
The professor's hot hand painfully gripped her hair and roughly set the pace of movement, driving his shaft all the way in to the hilt. The head pressed against her throat.
Anya began to resist, choke, and cough
— Swallow. Deeper.
He began to rhythmically and harshly fuck her mouth. With each thrust, she felt her mouth constricting, trying to accommodate the swelling flesh, her teeth scratched his skin, but he only tightened his grip on her hair.
Each time his flesh slammed into her throat, she gagged. Retching spasms, tears, gurgling—but the professor didn't stop. He kept fucking her mouth hard, and her body betrayed her—between her legs grew hot and wet. In this humiliation, in this pain, in this complete submission—it suddenly flashed through Anya's mind that this was ethics...
— Swallow it to the root! That's why you came, right? So I could fuck your mouth?
She only nodded, gagging on the cock in her throat.
A minute later, the professor trembled, gripped her head, and shot directly down her throat. Anya felt a stream of viscous, hot fluid fill her mouth. He didn't pull out until he had come every last drop. Only then did he silently release her hair.
She remained on her knees, gasping, lowered her head, and felt a white trickle of semen run down her chin.
The clock chimed. Anya blinked.
The door—had just opened. He—stands in the doorway. In a black shirt. With a glass of water. In the apartment—silence. Through the doorway, engravings on the walls are visible, an old grand piano, a black leather sofa
Submitted by: Morphine