Samir

Samir had been born in Mumbai, though he’d spent half his life in the U.S. His parents had arranged for him to live with an uncle in a small Michigan city by the time he was nine, so he could get a good education. He attended college at the institution where I was teaching at the time, and worked in my department as a student assistant. I got to know Samir first in the copy room, where the department secretaries seemed to have sent him to live on a more or less permanent basis; the kid was in there from nine in the morning until he left for his classes in the mid-afternoon. He was always super-friendly and never failed to be polite. No matter how much copying of course packs and grad school applications he had, he’d greet me with a smile and ask how I was, or inquire about my classes.

A good kid, like so many that passed through our offices. He was more than eighteen or nineteen when first I met him, and gifted with broad, masculine features and skin the color of dried tobacco leaves.

I got to know Samir a little better a semester after he started working for us, when I ran across him in the cruisy university library men’s room. I’d entered after lunch one day, hoping to find some teacher-on-student action. The door creaked enough to give anyone playing within plenty of notice to compose themselves; by the time I appeared around the bend into the restroom proper, the two guys who’d been playing with each other had separated and stood at the urinals, with a innocent space between them.

One of them was another staff member I recognized as a regular haunt of the place. He zipped up, nodded, and scampered out without washing his hands. The other was Samir. He stammered at the sight of me. That smile, which he’d always offered so freely at the copier, faltered for the first time since I’d known him. I was a little shocked myself. I’d run across students I knew and other faculty with whom I’d interact at the restrooms before, but I’d never thought I’d be running into the department’s student assistant. Briefly I considered pretending to pee and simply leaving, sparing us both any potential embarrassment.

But you know me. I don’t do that.

I stepped up to the spot the other guy had vacated, unzipped, and hauled out both my dick and my nuts. While I maintained eye contact with Samir and kept him talking, I got myself hard. Then I stepped back slightly and displayed my hard dick.

He stopped talking at the sight of it. His eyes traveled from my meat to my face. When I nodded, giving him permission, he knelt right there on the tile and sucked me. I enjoyed his mouth for a couple of minutes, but when we separated at the sound of footsteps in the stairwell outside, I suggested we take it back to my office.

And that’s where we had sex for three years after. Lunchtimes, two or three times a week, Samir would timidly knock at my office door. Always he had some kind of excuse to be there—he was bringing me the copies I’d (never) asked him to make, or he was bringing me my departmental mail, or handing me some blank slips of pink paper and pretending they were phone messages. I’d invite him in. He’d shut the door, and without saying a word, he’d pull off his shirt and drop his pants around his ankles. While I admired his lean, hard brown body, I’d let my pants drop and groan when he’d drop to the carpet to suck me.

Samir liked to be fucked best of all. I found that out from day one. He’d suck my dick until it was sloppy with his spit while he greased up his hole with the bottle of lube I kept in my desk’s top drawer. Once he knew where it was, he’d fetch it himself, so that by the time he was ready for me to enter him, he’d be slick and open. He always let as little time pass as possible, from the moment my dick left his mouth and before it pushed against the pink-rimmed edges of his brown little pucker.

It was the entry that Samir liked best. His dick would be at its hardest, as I pushed my way in. While he leaned over my desk and let his torso rest on its flat expanse, his tiny uncut dick would hang over the desktop’s edge. Pre-cum would drip from his foreskin and down the desk’s side, where it would dry into visible tracks if I didn’t remember to wipe it clean after. Once I’d shoved my inches all the way into him, his dick would soften slightly, but still remain turgid. His face would contort so that his eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes shut. The entire time I fucked, he always looked as if he were trying to sort out a problem while he slept, or was caught on that knife’s edge between extreme pain and pleasure. I loved that face on him.

He must have gotten some pleasure from it. Every time I fucked him, he’d wait until I’d filled his ass with cum before he’d touch himself. Then he’d give his dick a few quick little strokes, and he’d shoot an enormous load on my desk. He’d use Kleenex to wipe off himself, my dick, and the office furniture, and then he’d slip out with a smile and a slightly embarrassed look.

It was an ideal situation. We never discussed the arrangement, or never talked about anything weighty or serious. If I’d encounter him in the copier room or the departmental office, he never betrayed that we shared anything beyond a mild interest in movies or whatever was on TV the night before.

Until he graduated, that was. A week before he was due to receive his diploma, Samir appeared in my office. After shutting the door as usual, he stood in place for a long time. He didn’t remove his clothing. “What’s wrong?” I asked, finally catching on that all was not right with him.

He burst into tears. The kid was inconsolable. I sat him down in one of the chairs I used for visitors and wept with his face in his hands. Piece by piece, little by little, I got the story out of him. Samir had intended to attend grad school at the university and live in the U.S. after graduation—he’d even already been accepted and made plans to keep his room in the little apartment that he shared with four other Indian students. His parents, however, had other ideas. They’d picked out a bride for Samir, a girl he’d never seen or heard of. He was expected to return home to marry the girl, live with her in his family’s home, and start a family of his own.

“You have choices,” I told him, over and over again. But no, he insisted he didn’t. His family had footed the bill for his foreign education, and now they were calling in the debt. I sat there and let him lean against me while I kept my arms around him as he cried and cried. By the time he was finally done, I was late to leave, and he had been missing from his office duties for a couple of hours. I wiped off his face with a damp cloth, straightened out his rumpled clothing, and told him everything would be all right.

Even though I knew it probably wouldn’t, for a long time.

I never fucked Samir again. During that last week before his graduation, he’d regard me with a stricken expression whenever I’d encounter him on the department floor. I didn’t push it—it seemed cruel, to me, that prospect of giving up for a lifetime what he clearly craved. Then a day after the graduation, he was gone. Off the department’s employment roster. I’d hoped he’d at least stop by for a farewell before he left, but I never got that closure.

I wonder about Samir now. He’d be in his early thirties, married to some plump, pretty girl who was probably terrified as much by his parents as he clearly had been. They would have had time to produce babies with skin the shade of dried tobacco, exactly as his own parents had expected. I mourn a little to think he assumed he never had choices. He did. He might not have wanted to face those choices or their consequences, but they were always there.

Most of all, I hope he’s found something approximating happiness. That’s what I wish for him.