Housemother
"Fraternity initiation night. The den mother has her own traditions."
Initiation night.
The other pledges are downstairs, getting hazed by upperclassmen with too much time and not enough creativity. I've already done the embarrassing stuff—the costumes, the chants, the ritual humiliations that fraternities have been inflicting for centuries.
But I'm not downstairs anymore.
The note appeared under my door at midnight. Handwritten, elegant, on paper that smelled like lavender.
Room 3B. Come alone. Tell no one.
— Mrs. Castellano
Mrs. Castellano. The housemother. The retired professor of Classical Literature who's been watching over Sigma Phi for thirty years. She's a legend on campus—equal parts beloved and feared, the kind of woman who bakes cookies for finals week and also once made a senior cry for using "whom" incorrectly.
I knock on her door.
It opens.
Her private quarters are nothing like the rest of the frat house.
Where the common areas are beer-stained chaos, this is a sanctuary—bookshelves to the ceiling, antique furniture, art that probably costs more than my tuition. Soft lighting. Classical music drifting from somewhere.
And Mrs. Castellano herself.
Fifty-eight years old. Built like a Roman statue—the voluptuous kind, all curves and abundance and unapologetic flesh. She's easily two-sixty, maybe more, wrapped in a silk robe of deep burgundy that clings to every swell and hollow. Her hair is silver-white, her face lined with wisdom, her eyes sharp as obsidian.
"Close the door, Nathan."
I close it.
"Do you know why you're here?"
"No, ma'am."
"Every year, I select one pledge for... personal initiation." She moves toward me, the robe parting slightly with each step. "The others get the standard treatment—the hazing, the rituals, the brotherhood ceremonies. But one boy—always just one—gets something more."
"What kind of more?"
"The kind that separates men from boys." She stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell her—jasmine, old paper, something warmer beneath. "The kind that very few are worthy of."
"And you think I'm worthy?"
"I think you're interesting." Her hand finds my chest. "I've been watching you since rush week. The way you move, the way you think, the way you look at the world like you're waiting for something real to happen."
"What's supposed to happen now?"
Her smile is ancient. Knowing.
"Now you learn what true initiation means."
"Remove your clothes."
It's not a request. It's an instruction, delivered in the same tone she probably used to lecture on Ovid.
I strip. Slowly, because my hands are shaking, because this feels like a dream I shouldn't be having. My shirt. My pants. My boxers, last, leaving me naked in the center of her room.
She circles me. Catalogues me.
"Adequate. Better than most." She runs a finger down my spine, and I shiver. "Do you know what the ancient Greeks called this? The initiation of a young man by an older mentor?"
"No."
"Neither do my colleagues, which is why I keep my curriculum... private." She stops in front of me. Lets her robe fall.
God.
She's naked beneath. Every inch of her exposed—breasts heavy as melons, nipples dark and hardening, belly round and soft as risen dough. Her hips are vast, her thighs thick columns of pale flesh, and between them, silver hair frames glistening pink.
"I am fifty-eight years old," she says. "I have taken a lover from this fraternity every year for three decades. Men who are now senators, CEOs, artists, scholars. Men who learned at my hands—and my body—what pleasure truly means."
"And now you want me?"
"I want to teach you." She takes my hand, places it on her breast. The weight of it is staggering. "I want to show you things that no girl your age could possibly understand. I want to give you an education that will serve you for the rest of your life."
"What if I say no?"
"Then you leave. No consequences, no judgment, no mention of this ever again." Her eyes meet mine. "But you won't say no. Will you?"
My cock is rigid. Aching. Answering before my mouth can.
"No, ma'am," I whisper. "I won't."
"Then kneel."
I kneel before her like a supplicant at an altar.
She spreads her thighs—thick, soft, close enough that I can smell her arousal—and pulls my face forward.
"The first lesson is service. Oral pleasure. Most young men are abysmal at it—too eager, too focused on their own goals, too impatient to truly learn." Her fingers card through my hair. "You will be different. You will be slow. You will pay attention to my responses and adjust accordingly. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then begin."
I lean forward and taste her.
She's sweet and musky, wet already, and the sound she makes when my tongue finds her clit—a soft, surprised "oh"—tells me I've found something important. I focus there, gentle at first, exploring the terrain.
"Slower... yes... there..."
I learn her. The way her hips tilt when I do something right. The way her thighs tighten around my head when I hit the perfect spot. The way her breathing changes—quickens, deepens, becomes something almost musical.
"Good... very good... now—harder—"
I give her harder. Suck her clit between my lips, work it with my tongue, feel her entire body begin to tremble. Her hands grip my head, pull me closer, and I can barely breathe between those massive thighs.
I don't care.
When she comes, it's with a cry that sounds like Latin—some ancient invocation to gods long dead—and she floods my mouth with sweetness.
"Lesson two."
She pulls me up. Guides me to her bed—a massive four-poster draped in silk—and pushes me down onto my back.
"Restraint. Control. The ability to withstand pleasure without succumbing to it."
She straddles me.
All that weight, settling onto my thighs, pinning me to the mattress. Her breasts hang heavy above me, nipples dark points in the dim light. She reaches down, grips my cock, positions it.
"You will not come until I give permission. No matter how good it feels. No matter how much your body demands release." She sinks down, taking me inside her. "Do you understand?"
I can barely speak. She's tight and hot and consuming, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to thrust, to take, to finish.
"Y-yes, ma'am."
"Good boy."
She begins to move.
She rides me like she has all the time in the world.
Slow, deliberate circles. Deep grinding motions that press my cock against every sensitive inch of her. Her breasts sway with each movement, heavy and hypnotic, and when I reach up to touch them, she doesn't stop me.
"That's it. Worship them. They've fed nations, these breasts."
I don't know what that means and I don't care. I grip her soft flesh, squeeze, pull her nipples between my fingers. She moans—a throaty, satisfied sound—and speeds up slightly.
"You're doing well. Better than most. The senator lasted approximately—" She checks an imaginary watch. "—forty-five seconds."
"I can hold on."
"Can you?" She clenches around me, deliberate, devastating. "Can you hold on through this?"
She fucks me in earnest now. Bouncing on my cock, her entire body rippling with the motion, making sounds that echo off the walls of her sanctuary. I grip her hips—sink my fingers into soft flesh—and hold on for dear life.
"Don't you dare come. Not yet. Not until you've earned it—"
"Please—"
"Please isn't earning. Please is begging." She leans down, her breasts pressing against my chest, her mouth at my ear. "Tell me what you've learned."
"I've learned—fuck—I've learned to serve—"
"And?"
"To restrain myself—to control—"
"And why? Why do these things matter?"
"Because—" I'm at the edge, every nerve screaming. "—because pleasure given is greater than pleasure taken. Because—god—because patience makes everything more intense—"
"Correct."
She sits up. Rides me hard, fast, brutal.
"Now come."
I explode.
We lie in her silk sheets, both breathing hard.
Her weight is half on top of me, soft and warm and real. The classical music has shifted to something slower—Debussy, maybe. Outside, I can hear the distant sounds of my fellow pledges suffering through their standard initiation.
They have no idea what they're missing.
"You did well," she says finally. "Better than most."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Vivienne. When we're alone like this, you can call me Vivienne."
"Thank you, Vivienne."
"There will be more lessons." She traces a finger down my chest. "Throughout your time here. Once a week, you'll report to my quarters. We'll explore... advanced topics."
"What kind of topics?"
"Stamina training. Oral expertise. The art of bringing a woman to multiple orgasms." Her smile is predatory. "By the time you graduate, you'll be the most skilled lover in your generation. My gift to whatever partners you choose."
"And if I don't want other partners?"
She goes still.
"What?"
"What if I just want to keep... learning? From you?"
"You're twenty years old. I'm nearly sixty. This is education, not romance."
"It can be both."
She stares at me for a long moment. And something shifts in her expression—something vulnerable, something young, something I've never seen in her before.
"You're either very foolish or very wise," she says finally. "I haven't decided which."
"Does it matter?"
"No." She pulls me close, and I feel her heart beating against mine. "I suppose it doesn't."
I become the longest-running initiate in Sigma Phi history.
Four years of weekly lessons. Four years of learning her body, her preferences, her secret vulnerabilities. Four years of watching my fraternity brothers chase girls their own age while I returned, every week, to the woman who taught me what pleasure really meant.
When I graduate, I don't leave.
"I've been offered the assistant housefather position," I tell her. "Maintaining the building, supervising events. Room and board included."
"That position doesn't exist."
"I convinced the board to create it." I take her hands. "I'm not leaving you, Vivienne. I'm not going to take what you've taught me and share it with strangers. It belongs to you. I belong to you."
"You're a fool."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true." But she's smiling—really smiling, the way she never does around anyone else. "An old woman and her young live-in lover. The campus will talk."
"Let them talk. I don't care about the campus." I pull her close. "I care about you. About this. About spending every night in your bed, learning new lessons until I've memorized every inch of you."
"You've already memorized me."
"Then I'll start again. From the beginning. Every time."
She kisses me.
And in a fraternity house in Neo-Cambridge, a housemother and her eternal initiate build something that looks nothing like what either of them expected.
Some lessons take a lifetime.
We have time.