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       CHAPTER TWO

      Professor Theodore Dexter was having a wonderful day. The sun was in the sky. Cambridge, ever beautiful, had looked particularly lovely this morning as he cycled along the Backs into college, its spires and turrets bathed in early autumn sunlight. His rooms, the most beautiful in St Michael’s, had been newly cleaned and filled with vases of fresh flowers. (Professor Dexter’s bedder was more than a little in love with him. But then, who wasn’t?) And waiting in his bed was Clara, a German postgraduate student with the sort of oversized jugs rarely seen outside of specialist porn mags and a mouth that God had clearly created for the purpose to which she was now so gloriously putting it.

      ‘That’s right, sweetheart. Nice and slow.’

      The blow job was so good it was almost painful. Clara was an average physicist, but thanks to her extraordinary oral abilities her PhD thesis on galactic anisotropy was rapidly edging its way to the top of the class. Trying to prolong his pleasure, Professor Dexter moved higher up the bed so that he could see out of the window. His rooms in First Court looked out over St John’s Street and the splendid redbrick portcullis of Trinity College. Trinity was larger and more prestigious than St Michael’s, but St Michael’s was consistently voted the most beautiful college in Cambridge, with its wisteria-clad medieval courts, romantic formal gardens and exquisite, walnut-panelled Tudor Hall. It also had far and away the best reputation in astro- and particle physics. Which was why so many of the faculty were astonished when Theo Dexter was offered the fellowship there.

      To the world at large, Theo Dexter was a brilliant scientist. He’d published two books with titles that no ordinary mortal could understand (His debut, the catchy Prospective Signatures of High Redshift Quasar HII Regions, sold a very creditable five hundred copies), he had a first from Oxford and a PhD from MIT and he was still only thirty-five. To the physics faculty at Cambridge, however, he was an amateur. A mere popinjay. Not only were his ideas rehashed versions of other people’s research, but the man dyed his hair, for God’s sake. He wore Oswald Boateng bespoke suits – in Cambridge! – and was even rumoured to undergo regular facials, whatever those were. Female students flocked to his lectures to catch a glimpse of that rarest of all known mammals – a sexy scientist – when just down the hall, infinitely more brilliant and innovative minds were being ignored. A combination of envy and intellectual snobbery had made the golden boy of Cambridge physics deeply unpopular amongst his peers. Being offered the St Michael’s fellowship was the final nail in Theo’s coffin.

      Not that he cared. At least, that’s what he told himself. I’ve got the cushiest job in Cambridge, rooms that any other junior fellow would kill for, and a revolving door of willing, educated pussy at my beck and call. Not to mention a lovely wife and a pretty house off the Madingley Road. What more could a man ask for? And yet despite his smugness, lack of scruples and almost limitless physical vanity, deep down Theo Dexter did want to be taken seriously by his fellow scientists. One day, he vowed. One day I’ll show them all.

      Feeling himself building to a climax, he reached down and grabbed Clara’s hair, forcing himself deeper into that heavenly mouth. Instinctively she pulled back, but as he started to come Theo held her head firmly in place. If you want top marks for your crappy dissertation, angel, you’re going to have to swallow. Afterwards he watched her get dressed, physically lifting each of her enormous breasts into her bra. Beautiful. He’d been worried he might not be ‘up to it’ for today’s pre-term tryst with his student. Theresa, his wife, had pounced on him earlier that morning, waving a positive ovulation stick as if she was trying to bring a plane in to land. It was sad, really. The doctor had told them that their chances of conception were low to nil, but Theresa couldn’t let it go. For his part, Theo had never understood the big deal about kids. Sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the mind-numbing boredom of the playground. Who in their right mind would sign up for that? Then again, he was by no means sure Theresa was in her right mind. She always seemed to be away with the fairies these days, so lost in her Shakespeare that she barely registered his presence – or lack of it. But Theo Dexter was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth. Tomorrow was the first day of Michaelmas term. That meant a new year, and a new crop of nubile, naïve young freshers, all of them in search of a mentor. If there was one thing Professor Theodore Dexter prided himself on, it was his ability to mentor. Just look how far dear Clara had come.

      Fifteen minutes later, Theo was on his way to Formal Hall for lunch. Two shags in six hours had left him ravenously hungry, and the smells of garlic and onion wafting up the stairs from the college kitchens were like a siren call to his stomach. Only about half the St Michael’s fellows ate in Hall on a regular basis, but Theo Dexter went every day. Partly out of meanness (meals in college were free), but partly because he had yet to find anywhere he preferred to dine than in the dark, Tudor splendour of St Michael’s. Everything about it, from the rituals of the Latin grace and standing to welcome the Master to high table, to the strict rules about the passing of wine and water, gave Theo a deep and abiding thrill. To eat in college was to become part of history. It was to claim one’s place amongst the chosen ones, the privileged few whose intellect set them above the rest of humanity. Theo Dexter grew up in a nondescript semi in Crawley, but he had made it to the table of the Gods, and he relished every second.

      ‘Morning, Dexter. Off to enjoy the condemned man’s final meal? Depressing, isn’t it?’

      Professor Jonathan Cavendish, Head of History at St Michael’s, was in his late fifties. A handsome man in his youth, one of the university’s most successful rowing blues, he had long since run to fat. Renowned as a bon vivant, Jonathan wore his paunch with pride, and didn’t seem remotely concerned by his thinning hair, or his fattening arteries. Everybody at St Michael’s loved him. Everybody except Theo Dexter. Jonathan Cavendish made Theo’s skin crawl. Why the hell doesn’t he go to the gym? Can’t he see he looks like Friar Tuck?

      ‘I don’t know what you mean, Johnny.’

      ‘The bloody undergraduates coming back, of course. Don’t tell me you’re not dreading it. Tomorrow morning they’ll be crawling СКАЧАТЬ