I was sitting in the Eagle, enjoying a well-earned pint, having just submitted my recent assignment as part of my PhD, when my professor, Professor William Nevis, walked in and saw me sitting in the snug to his left.
He smiled warmly and gestured towards the seat opposite me as if asking permission to sit down. I nodded enthusiastically as he walked over and sat down. He was wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a blue shirt underneath. His grey hair was neatly combed, and he had a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked exactly like what you'd expect a Cambridge Don to look like.
He ordered a pint of bitter and then turned to me. "So, Mr Wilson," he said, "I was hoping to bump into you to discuss how you found the assignment?" His voice was calm and measured, with just a hint of a Scottish accent that had softened over decades in England.
“Please, Professor, call me Steve when we are not in college. It all sounds too formal calling me, Mr Wilson”.
“Very well, Steve, he responded, smiling, as he immediately relaxed.
There was no pretension about him, just genuine academic curiosity as we talked about my research methodology for the recent assignment. We spoke for at least a good ten minutes before the conversation drifted to more personal matters. He asked about my background, my reasons for pursuing this PhD, and even my thoughts on the pub's notoriously uneven wooden tables.
When he inquired about my living situation, I hesitated. "To be honest," I confessed, tracing a finger through the condensation on my glass, "money's been tighter than I expected. Between lab fees and college accommodation costs..." I trailed off, embarrassed. "I've been stacking shelves at Sainsbury's three nights a week just to cover rent." The admission felt like a failure. Here I was, studying at one of the world's great universities, yet worrying whether I could afford heating this winter.
"I do understand the challenges you face, Steve. I just wish I could come up with a practical solution to your problem." Professor Nevis declared. "By the way," Steve, here's a random question you might be able to answer. Can you tell what type of underwear guys are wearing from just looking at them when they come in?"
I paused mid-sip, lowering his pint glass slowly. The question seemed utterly out of character for the reserved academic. "Professor?"
“Call it an observational question, if you prefer," he suggested.
"Yep, that's pretty random, I have to say. I guess, yes, it is often possible to tell if someone is wearing boxers or briefs based on the outline of their trousers, but it can depend on several factors."
"Such as?" Professor Nevis prompted.
"Well, the fit of the trousers. Tighter-fitting ones, such as skinny jeans, may reveal more detail about the type of underwear being worn compared to looser trousers or shorts. Then, you have to consider the material, its thickness and material and how much detail is visible. Thinner fabrics may show more outline than thicker materials.
"Oh, I guess so," Professor Nevis responded. "And what else?"
"Well," pausing to take a sip of my real ale. "The design of underwear. Briefs tend to have a more defined, compact shape, while boxers are looser and can create a different outline. This can sometimes be noticeable, especially in fitted clothing, and then of course, the person's movement can also influence how much of the underwear outline is visible. Certain movements may accentuate the shape of the underwear, like when they bend over.
"Oh," he declared again.
"The key consideration is, while it can be possible to make an educated guess, it is not always definitive. For example, age and physical attributes play an important part in the decision-making process for men."
"You really have pondered this question, haven't you?" he asked.
I shrugged, swirling the dregs of real ale in my glass. "You asked. Besides, it’s observational science. Like noticing someone’s wearing mismatched socks when they cross their legs. Or spotting a nervous tic when they order," gesturing subtly towards a man near the bar, adjusting his waistband with a quick, self-conscious tug. "See that? Classic sign of boxer shorts riding up. Briefs don’t bunch like that."
"What about that guy over there in the corner. What do you think?" he demanded.
I followed his gaze to a man hunched over a crossword puzzle, his corduroy trousers baggy around the thighs but pulled taut across the seat as he leaned forward. "Tricky," I murmured. "The fabric's thick, but look how the waistband digs in when he shifts. That's a brief line, no extra fabric to smooth it out. Boxers would create a softer ridge," as the man scratched his jaw, oblivious to our dissection of his sartorial secrets. "Why do you ask, anyway. It's not like you to ask such silly questions?"
Professor Nevis chuckled softly, a dry rasp escaping his lips. "Not silly at all. Observational deduction, as you said. It’s rather… pertinent," as he leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "I needed to hear how you approached an unexpected question requiring visual analysis. See, I have a proposition, and it doesn't involve shelf-stacking." His eyes held a sudden, sharp intensity. "You are my best student, and I don't want to see you struggling, and I might have an answer to your problem. It might shock you, but I want to be honest with you, Steve. Can I be honest with you?"
I set my glass down carefully, the pub chatter fading into background noise. "Always, Professor," I my intrigue growing with each second I listened to him.
Professor Nevis steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering. "What I'm about to propose falls outside conventional academia. It involves… private, paid work for me." He paused, letting the words hang between us.
"I’m taking a leap of faith here, Steve, because I want to share with you some secrets that very few people know," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "I have certain kinks whereby I have developed… a specific appreciation for….I find myself drawn to men who wear classic white cotton underwear. The plain, functional kind. There’s an… aesthetic purity to them which excites me."
He cleared his throat and continued as a faint flush crept up his neck. "I know you wear them, Steve. That Tuesday seminar when you bent to retrieve your dropped pen? Your shirt rode up just enough for me to spy the white ribbed cotton waistband of your briefs."
He met my stunned silence head-on as he resumed talking. "The truth is, I've been rather infatuated with you since that day, and I immediately identified your briefs as being Amazon Essentials, and all I wanted was to request you hand them over so I could inspect and smell them."
I sat there quite shocked until I managed to respond. "Gosh, I hadn't expected that confession, Professor. That was most unexpected, but thank you for the compliment. But let me get this right, you inspect and smell men’s underwear?
“When I have the chance, yes, but for obvious reasons, my fetish remains a closely guarded secret,” Nevis responded, “Until just now that is. Now, only two people know my unusual kink, you and I.”
I remained shocked but captivated by what I had just heard. “Don’t forget your victims. They know,” I declared whilst attempting to manage the confession from my Cambridge Don. “Do you want to confess anything more whilst you're about it? Perhaps something more personal since you appear to trust me with your revelations."
The pub's warmth suddenly felt stifling. Professor Nevis's confession hung between us like smoke from a fire, thick, disorienting, impossible to brush away. My pint glass slipped slightly in my damp palm as I processed the startling intimacy of his remark. That Tuesday seminar flashed through my mind, the dropped pen, the awkward scramble, the brief exposure of the waistband. He had catalogued it. Remembered it and, from his admission, desired it.
He leaned closer, the scent of old paper and bitter ale sharpening. "You want something more personal?"
His voice was barely audible above the pub's din. "Very well. It's not merely the underwear, Steve. It's the... contradiction. The crisp, almost clinical practicality of white cotton against skin. Against your skin, specifically and since that incident, I have felt conflicted, terribly conflicted, fantasising about the briefs you might be wearing and in what condition they are, when you throw them in the laundry basket."
His gaze dropped briefly to my waistline before snapping back up. "It speaks of something hidden, yet defiantly functional. Unadorned. Honest and for me, unknown. I have even wondered if you wash your whites separately."
“Well, that’s quite a confession, Professor,” I acknowledged. “And in answer to your question, yes, I do wash my whites separately. It’s the only way to keep them white, as I’m now sure you appreciate.”
He paused, his knuckles tightening again. "I do appreciate washing whites separately, and looking back, I find myself remembering when I used to spank young men like you when they started failing their degrees. In those days, they all used to wear classic underwear, and it used to provide my boring academic life with some excitement as I got to inspect their underwear as I handed them back to the unfortunate student who had been spanked."
I sat bemused, looking at his face, trying to gauge if he was trying to wind me up for some unknown reason. "That was also unexpected, Professor, you spanking young men when they were failing. What do you do now? Get frustrated, I assume.”
He gave a wry smile, tapping a finger against his glass. "The university and society frown on corporal punishment these days, and unfortunately, frustration grows. Constant frustration. It’s been a long time since I saw a student’s briefs, and I miss inspecting them for care and cleanliness. Some would be clean, but some young men would….well, let’s just say, disrespectful of the underwear they wear."
His gaze drifted to my hands resting on the table. "You have strong, capable hands, and I suspect you are used to hard work. On the other hand, you are academically brilliant, and while I need help around the house, I can see your academic future responding to my additional involvement."
"I sort of get that, Professor, but what's your proposal to help me?"
Professor Nevis leaned back, the leather patches on his elbows creaking softly. "You are probably going to call me a pervert and weirdo as the younger generation does these days to anyone that might have a kink or two."
"I'm not sure I would use those words, Professor, but I must confess, I'm intrigued because we have never had a chat like this before. What exactly are you proposing?"
Professor Nevis traced a circle in the condensation on his untouched pint. "The practical solution," he began, his voice regaining its academic cadence despite the flush still high on his cheeks.
“My house on Grange Road has rather extensive gardens. They've become... unruly since Mr Higgins retired. And the interior cleaning requires more attention than I can manage." He met my eyes squarely. "I want to employ you as my live-in gardener and cleaner. Rent-free, with all your food included. I'll pay minimum wage for twenty hours of weekly labour on top, which will mean you still retain freedom to meet your friends and enjoy university life for two more years of research."
My breath caught as I thought about what he had just said and offered. Grange Road? The expensive part of Cambridge. Just around the corner from college. Rent-free alone solved everything. "That sounds..." I hesitated, the professor's earlier confession echoing in my ears. "...great, Professor. But I suspect there's a catch."
Professor Nevis didn't flinch. He simply nodded, a strange mix of scholarly detachment and raw hunger flickering in his eyes. "Indeed. There is a catch. The arrangement requires... specific attire, or shall we say, a uniform for when you are in the house."
He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that prickled the hairs on my neck. "When you are in the house, regardless of activities being performed, I expect you to wear only white cotton briefs with a matching vest tucked into your briefs. I even have a collection of brands that I’m sure you will appreciate."
"Nothing else, Professor? Just briefs and a vest."
“I know, it sounds weird and pervy, but, yes, nothing else. I want to enjoy watching you and sharing in my… interest,” Nevis responded.
“What happens when it gets cold?” I asked him, my imagination running riot.
“You will find my house beautifully warm during winter, especially the open hearth fire in the lounge and study,” Nevis stated in the hope of reassuring me. “If you get really cold, you can wear a hoodie if that makes you feel better.
I assumed he was worried he was losing the sale, for want of a phrase, because he continued.
"This isn't merely about voyeurism and exhibitionism, Steve. It’s about discipline and structure and making an old man happy and able to enjoy his fetish or kink, if that’s a better word to describe my desires. The crisp lines of cotton against skin mirror the precision I demand in academic work. Your struggle with finances stems from distraction; stacking shelves drains focus from your thesis. Under my roof, your mind would sharpen. Your body... disciplined."
"Anything else, Professor? This is quite a confession and offer. I’m intrigued."
Nevis traced the rim of his glass. "When not working around the house or garden, you will work on your brilliant thesis. I say brilliant, but it needs work and constant reviews with me because it could be the difference between being published or not.”
His gaze sharpened. "And the second condition in the proposed arrangement is, if I suspect you are lacking the focus I know you have, I will spank you if you agree to being punished."
The word spank landed like a physical blow, permitting academic detachment to evaporate, replaced by visceral imagery of bare skin, stinging palm, the crack echoing in a book-lined room.
Heat flooded my face, spreading down my neck and pooling low in my stomach. My usual white cotton briefs suddenly felt unbearably tight, constricting against a surge of unexpected, unwelcome arousal. Professor Nevis had no idea about my own buried desires, the secret thrill I got from being controlled, from submission. These were fantasies I’d never voiced to anyone.
His proposition wasn’t just solving my rent crisis; it was unlocking a door I’d kept firmly bolted. The thought of standing or kneeling before him in just my briefs, explaining my research while he watched, the threat of discipline hanging thick in the air… it turned me on something rotten as a tremor ran through my hands beneath the table.
“What about sex, Professor? I am wondering if you plan to fuck me regularly."
Nevis got quite embarrassed at my question, coughing loudly. “My dear boy, I…. I hadn’t even thought about that, but worry not, Steve, I am asexual and always have been. I have no sexual interest in you. I just desire your sharing in my voyeurism and exhibitionism.”
I sat there pondering his offer, realising the risk he had taken in confessing his desires. But Grange Road? Rent-free? Food covered? It was daylight robbery, in my favour. Still, doubt slithered in. What if he got bored? What if I screwed up? Or worse, what if he decided I wasn’t… stimulating enough? I’d be homeless overnight. Worse than stacking shelves. I pictured my textbooks dumped on the kerb, my guitar case leaning against them. Humiliation tasted sour on my tongue.
"Professor Nevis, that's not an offer guys like me get every day?"
The words came out hoarse, strained as I gripped the edge of the sticky pub table. My skin prickled, hot and cold at once. "What happens if the Dean or Master comes to visit. You are, after all, the Vice-Master of the college?"
Professor Nevis waved a dismissive hand. "They call ahead. You'll have ample time to dress or scarper." His gaze dropped pointedly to my lap.
“What happens if I get aroused, which I will almost certainly do?”
Professor Nevis thought about the question before responding.
“Extra enjoyment for me, seeing you hard beneath your briefs and the effects on the underwear, the lines and contours as a direct result of an erection can be really interesting. Any erection also leaves a deposit which I also get to inspect and note in my journal, and if you feel the need for release, all I ask is that you remain transparent and provide evidence for me to appreciate.”
“Like, cumming in my briefs, Professor?”
“Exactly, my boy.” Professor Nevis confirmed.
I took a slow breath, the pub's chatter fading into a distant hum. My palms were slick against the cool glass. "Professor," I began, my voice lower than I intended, roughened by nerves and something darker, hotter. "Thank you for being honest with me and explaining everything. I accept your offer, and…"
I met his gaze directly, letting him see the flicker of surrender there. "And... there's something I need to confess." The words tasted thick, dangerous. "I'm submissive. Deeply."
I swallowed hard, the admission scraping my throat raw. "The discipline... the control you spoke of? It’s not just tolerable for me. It’s... a desire, even craved. I need structure enforced, rigorously, but it's been eluding me since I started my postgraduate course with you…. until now."
“And… the last time someone showed so much interest in my underwear was the RE Master at school, but that’s another story for the winter nights gather in front of the roaring fire.”
Professor Nevis froze. Not a muscle moved except his eyes, which widened fractionally, the detached academic facade cracking like thin ice. A slow, deep inhale filled his chest. When he exhaled, it carried the faintest tremor. Relief washed over his features, profound and startling. "Steve," he murmured, his Scottish burr thickening, roughening. "That... simplifies matters considerably." He leaned forward, elbows digging into the worn wood.
His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept over me, not just my face now, but my posture, my hands still clenched on the table. "Your honesty," he stated, his voice regaining its measured calm, though laced with a new, predatory warmth, "is precisely the foundation this arrangement requires. Rigor. Structure. Absolute compliance. These will be your pillars." He paused, letting the weight of those words settle. "And mine will be ensuring you adhere to them. Meticulously."
He leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Do we have an accord, Steve?"
“I think so, Professor, I definitely think so.”
He glanced towards the pub door, then back at me, a decisive energy replacing the earlier intensity. "No sense in delay. We can collect your things today, if you wish. I can help you move."
He gestured dismissively towards the rain-streaked window. "That damp shoebox you call accommodation, leave it behind. Grange Road awaits when you decide the time is right."
“I have paid rent to the end of the month,” I declared, not that I thought it an obstacle to accepting the arrangement earlier.
“A minor obstacle, Steve,” he suggested as we finished our beers in near silence, the clink of glasses and murmur of other patrons suddenly distant. My pulse hammered against my ribs.
Moving in felt abrupt, unreal. “I guess it's a small issue, and I guess, today is as good as any other day. I accept. Let’s do this before we change our minds.”
Professor Nevis was genuinely delighted as he settled the tab with a crisp note, his movements efficient, already shifting into the role of provider. “The only person who might change their mind is you, so if you are certain, let's make this arrangement happen.”
I smiled at him as we walked outside. The Cambridge drizzle had intensified, slicking the cobblestones as he jumped into his car with a focus I hadn’t seen in him before. With no last-minute nerves, I joined him in the car and we departed on our shared journey into the unknown.
Within two hours, my entire existence was loaded into the boot of Nevis’s sensible but old car, and after another ten minutes, I stood on his driveway, ready to embrace my new student life.
Professor Nevis's home was a large detached Victorian villa, imposing but elegant, nestled behind a high hedge. Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old paper, thick carpets muffling our footsteps. He led me upstairs, stopping at the end of a long corridor. "This will be yours," he stated, opening a door to a spacious room flooded with soft grey light from a bay window overlooking a tangled, rain-slicked garden.
It was easily triple the size of my old room: a proper bed with crisp white linen, a sturdy desk beneath bookshelves, and an armchair by the cold fireplace. "The en-suite is through there," he added, nodding towards another door. "Get settled in as much as you can. I'll be downstairs in my study if you need me."
Alone, I dumped my duffel bag onto the bed. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant. I unpacked mechanically, jeans folded into a drawer, shirts hung in the wardrobe, and textbooks stacked neatly on the desk. My guitar leaned against the wall, looking strangely out of place amidst the quiet elegance.
As I left my room to join the Professor downstairs, my fingers brushed the familiar ribbed cotton vest under my pullover, and I instantly remembered, the uniform requirements as he’d called it and so, I returned to my room and undressed to my briefs and vest, making sure I tucked the vest into my cotton briefs as he had asked me to do.
I stood in front of the mirror admiring my looks and my new uniform. My Amazon Essentials looked good on me, I decided. Then I remembered to check them, and I slipped them down so I could look. With an element of relief, I verified there were no skid marks or other unwanted stains. The only exception was the odd pubic hair that had become detached from the bush that I had grown untrimmed for years, and so I restored my personal comforts and decided I was ready to present myself for inspection and direction in my new life.
