Grindr Chat with Professor: Desi gay sex story

Professor Arjun Mehra adjusted his reading glasses and glanced at the classroom door one last time. The last student had left twenty minutes ago, but the lecture hall still smelled faintly of chalk dust and adescent sweat.

At 44, he carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had spent two decades explaining Foucault and Fanon to bored undergraduates. No one would guess the phone burning a hole in his pocket belonged to “Aryan_92” on Grindr.

It started innocently enough—a late-night scroll after a long department meeting, the familiar grid of torsos and faceless profiles. Then he saw him: cropped photo showing only a smooth, toned chest and the caption “29, vers, college guy, looking for older.” The face pic was new when it popped up in messages—dark eyes, sharp jaw, a half-smile that made Arjun’s stomach flip. He recognized the mole just below the left collarbone instantly.

Same one he’d noticed last semester when the boy—Rohan—leaned over the desk to ask about an extension on his postcolonial lit paper.

Arjun hadn’t planned to message. He told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. But the first reply came too easily.

**Aryan_92:** Late night grading? 😏
**Rohan (profile name hidden):** Haha yeah, profs keep us buried. You?
**Aryan_92:** Something like that. What are you into?

The chat escalated fast. No names, no photos beyond safe crops. Arjun typed things he would never say aloud—commands wrapped in praise, filthy promises about what he’d do if they ever met. Rohan matched him eagerly, sending voice notes of heavy breathing, describing in detail how he’d drop to his knees in an empty seminar room. Arjun locked his office door, dimmed the lights, and let his hand move under the desk while reading the latest message: “Wish you were here right now, sir. I’d let you use me however you want.”

He came hard into a wad of tissues, pulse hammering, shame and thrill twisting together like smoke. The phone buzzed again.

**Rohan:** You still there? That was so hot. Send proof? 🫦

Arjun stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the camera icon. One photo—blurry, anonymous, just enough skin—would cross the final line. He could delete the app tomorrow, pretend it never happened. Or…

He hit send.

The next morning in class, Rohan sat in the third row as always, notebook open, pen tapping. When their eyes met during roll call, the boy gave a small, private smile—nothing overt, nothing that anyone else would notice.

But Arjun noticed.

And the phone in his pocket vibrated once, softly.

New message from Aryan_92.

The lecture hall lights were off. Arjun sat alone at his desk in the dim glow of his phone screen, door locked, blinds down. It was 11:47 p.m. He’d already opened Grindr twice tonight and closed it, heart hammering. Third time was the charm.

Rohan had messaged first this time.

**Rohan:** You around tonight, sir? Been thinking about our last chat all day 😈
**Aryan_92:** Always around for a good boy who knows how to beg properly. You stroking already?
**Rohan:** Not yet… waiting for permission.
**Aryan_92:** Good. Strip completely. Sit on your bed or chair, legs spread wide. Phone in one hand, other hand on your cock—but don’t move it until I say. Send a voice note telling me how hard you are right now.

Thirty seconds later a 7-second voice clip arrived. Rohan’s voice was low, a little shaky.

“Sir… I’m naked. Legs open. My dick’s already leaking just thinking about you reading this. It’s so fucking hard it hurts. Please let me touch.”

Arjun’s breath caught. He palmed himself through his trousers, thick and throbbing.

**Aryan_92:** Touch yourself now. Slow. Just the head. Use your thumb to spread that precum around. Tell me exactly how it feels.
**Rohan:** Feels slick… hot. Every time I circle the tip my balls tighten. Wish it was your mouth instead.
**Aryan_92:** Not yet. Grip the shaft now—firm, but don’t stroke. Squeeze and hold. Imagine it’s my hand controlling how much you get.
**Rohan:** Fuck… yes sir. Squeezing. It’s pulsing so hard in my fist. Can I stroke yet?
**Aryan_92:** No. Edge yourself. Slide your hand up and down once—very slow—then stop at the base and squeeze again. Do it five times. Count them out loud in a voice note.

Another clip came. Rohan’s breathing was ragged between numbers.

“One… fuck… two… oh god… three… please… four… I’m dripping everywhere… five… sir I’m so close already.”

Arjun had unzipped now. His own cock was out, heavy in his hand. He matched the rhythm Rohan described—slow, torturous pulls.

**Aryan_92:** Good boy. Now faster. Ten full strokes. Don’t stop. Tell me when you’re right on the edge.

**Rohan:** Starting… fuck fuck fuck… so good… six… seven… my thighs are shaking… eight… I’m leaking so much… nine… sir I’m right there… ten—oh shit I’m gonna cum if I keep going—
**Aryan_92:** STOP. Hands off. Now.

**Rohan:** [voice note, almost whining] Noooo… please… I was so close… my cock is jumping, sir. Hurts so good.

**Aryan_92:** That’s the point. Let it throb for thirty seconds. Count backwards from 30 out loud. No touching. I want to hear how desperate you sound.

The next voice note was pure whimper.

“Thirty… twenty-nine… twenty-eight… fuck my dick is bouncing… twenty… nineteen… please sir… fifteen… I need to cum so bad… ten… nine… it’s leaking down my balls… five… four… three… two… one…”

**Aryan_92:** Hands back on. Stroke hard and fast now. No stopping this time. Tell me how you want to be fucked while you do it.
**Rohan:** Want you to bend me over your desk… the one in your office… rip my jeans down… spit on my hole… push in raw… fuck me deep while you call me your dirty little student slut… want you to hold my neck… make me take every inch… breed me sir… fill me up…

**Aryan_92:** Keep going. Imagine my cock slamming into you. My hand around your throat. My voice in your ear telling you what a perfect hole you are. Stroke faster.

**Rohan:** Yes yes yes—fucking me so hard… desk shaking… I’m moaning your name… sir… sir… I’m gonna cum—can I? Please let me cum for you—
**Aryan_92:** Cum now. Shoot hard. Make a mess. Say my name when you do it. I’m stroking too—gonna cum with you.

Rohan’s next message was a blurry photo: his hand wrapped around his cock, the head dark red and glistening, a thick rope of cum already streaked across his stomach.

**Rohan:** [voice note, panting, broken] Aryan… sir… cumming… fuck—your name… Aryan… ahhh—

Arjun’s own release hit seconds later. He groaned low, spilling over his fist, pulse after pulse, eyes locked on the photo. His thighs trembled under the desk.

**Aryan_92:** Good boy. Look at that mess you made for me.
**Rohan:** All for you, sir. Still shaking. Can we do this again tomorrow night?
**Aryan_92:** Tomorrow. Same time. And next time… maybe I’ll let you see my face when I make you beg in person.

Rohan sent one last voice note—soft, sated, almost shy.

“Tomorrow then… sir.”

Arjun stared at the screen a long time after the app went dark.

Tomorrow he would teach postcolonial theory to thirty students, including the one whose cum was still drying on his own stomach right now.

And no one would ever know