Professor Kelman’s nose turned me on. I couldn’t help staring at it.

It wasn’t that his nose looked like a cock, not like any cock I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been intimate with five in my twenty-one years. It was just a nose. A nice nose, not too big, not too small, not too wide, not too thin. Neither pointy nor bulbous, ruddy nor pale. Maybe a nose Michelangelo would have painted. He would have painted it perfectly, his brush tickling the twin nostrils. No nose hair that I could notice.

A fascinating nose. A nose to lick. A nose to kiss. I imagined putting my lips upon it. Pressing my lips first at the tip, then sliding up to the bridge, then back down again, taking more and more of him into my mouth, until I had him all in me, and I was sucking him, sucking his nose, and my tongue was twisting as much as it could into one of his nostrils.

I found I had put my forefinger into my own nostril. My front row seat allowed no one but Kelman to see. I left my finger there, breathing myself. In my mind, my finger was fitted into Kelman’s nostril. Kelman brushed a knuckle across his own nose. Telepathy? I started fucking my finger into my nostril, the motion slow as I could make it, while I breathed in, taking it slowly deeper, and then breathed out, while my finger withdrew, but not all the way. Kelman’s hand again moved to his own nose. He pinched himself lightly there. My fingertip prodded my nostril—small, gentle caresses, the way a fingertip might caress a clitoris or ease into an asshole. Kelman’s finger stroked back and forth, back and forth.

When he sneezed, I came.