A Country School Teacher

This story owes a debt of gratitude to author James Rozo for his insights and contributions.

The nine-o’clock bell had rung. My students, in their desks, shuffled assignments.

I was almost done with checking the roll when the door opened and there stood Jeeter in his dusty overalls. No shirt. He looked distressed.

“Jeeter, you’re late. Close the door and take your seat.”

“Can I just stand, Mr. James?”

His eyes were red. Was it embarrassment that made him hesitate? A lanky boy, Jeeter Marwood stood taller than any other student in my class or in the next two higher grades. He’d outgrown his worn-out bib overalls, so his sockless ankles were visible.

I gave him my strongest you’d-better-have-a-good-excuse look.

“Pa got me this morning. Ma’s away, so he could. He’s been wanting to reckon with me for some things but she wouldn’t let him.”

While some students stared, others kept their heads down. They knew, I found out later.

I didn’t, being new here. In hiring me, the superintendent, Mr. Cassidy, had warned that, “A lot – well, maybe not a lot but some – some of your students will try to take advantage of your being young and inexperienced, Mr. James. Most aren’t motivated, so don’t study more than they have to. You can try to encourage them any way you can. Discipline them as needed. Paddling’s approved by the School Board – for boys and girls. Parents are solidly behind that.”

He smirked when he used the word ‘behind.’

I rose from my desk and walked toward Jeeter who had seen me eye the paddle on the wall. “Oh please, Mr. James, let me stand. I’ll pay attention. I promise.”

The lad’s hands were trembling with what I took to be fear.

“Why can’t you sit like all the others?”

“You want me to show you, in front of …them?”

From behind me, a boy’s voice rasped, “Hell, Jeeter, he don’t know shit. He’s new. Show him.”

With a look of profound sadness, Jeeter turned, unhooked the clasps to his overalls’ shoulder straps. The sorry garment dropped to the floor.

With no britches, he stood shivering, bare-ass naked. Drawn balls, dangly dick. His backside – most of it, I would say – had been seriously torn up. Red stripes crisscrossed his butt and upper legs! His skin, broken in several places, was in serious need of attention.

A school as remote and small as ours had no access to a nurse. We did have a first aid kit. I knew its location.

“Class, stay in your seats, study your assignment, catch up on homework, whatever. I’ll be back to check on you.”

With that, I took Jeeter’s arm, told him to step out of his overalls, picked them off the floor, and steered him to the central room which doubled as faculty refuge and office. We were alone.

“Lie down on the couch. I’ll make you an ice pack,” I said, opening the refrigerator and taking out its two ice-cube trays. In a dampened hand towel, I wrapped as many cubes as I could, tied a knot, and tried to place my improvised ice-pack on the kid’s beaten butt.

He jerked in agony at the freezing contact but listened to me, “Jeeter, stand it, please. It’ll help the swelling go down.”

“Okay,” he sounded defeated.

In the first aid kit, I found a tube of Vitamin K ointment with Aloe. Label said it was for bruised tissues. Also, Tylenol tablets.

With a tumbler of water, I made him take two. “They’ll help your pain go away,” I hoped.

A most uncomfortable silence.

“Jeeter, what did he use to do this to you?”

His voice shook, “A big hickory switch. More like a stick. It’s his new one.”

“Listen, I want you to stay like that while I go see the class for a few minutes. You make sure the ice-pack stays where I put it, all right?”

“Yessir, I will try. I promise.”

Actually, I needed to process what I’d seen, the cruelty of it, and wondered what that bovine boy had done to merit such chastisement – if that’s what it was. He’d said his mother wasn’t there to stop it. As best I could, I cleared my head and went to class.

The babble I heard from the hallway died when I opened the door. Students looked at me, expecting something. I looked back, “Kids, you saw what I saw, so you know I’ve got to try to help Jeeter. Does any one of you know anything about his situation?”

“His old man’s crazy-mean.”

It was the voice that had called for Jeeter to show me his butt. I remembered his name, “Beau, what do you know?”

“I know it won’t do you no good to go to the po-lice. Mr. Marwood’s, like, in with them.”

“The whole police department?”

A girl with a ponytail – Marjory, I think – said, “There ain’t but two po-lices around here, don’t you know?”

“I do now. Thanks.”

Somehow, between bowing out a few times during the morning to see that Jeeter was resting and teaching the contents of chapter twelve in our text, I made it to lunch-recess. Before he left with his friends, Beau approached.

“Mr. Marwood, Jeeter’s pa, he’s real dangerous. Killed hisself somebody a while ago, I heard. You send Jeeter home today, he’ll get killed.”

Miss Rose, who taught the lower grades with Mrs. Parsons, was with Jeeter when I went for lunch. “There you are,” she said. “I put most of that tube of ointment on the poor thing’s nearly-frozen butt. Didn’t hurt him at all, he was so numb back there. I told him to go to sleep.”

“Oh, thanks, I guess.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

As she asked her question, Mrs. Parsons entered, gasped at the sight, and stopped dead.

Miss Rose said, “Jeeter told me he had no breakfast. I think we should share some of our food with him.” Mrs. Parsons nodded and opened the fridge where our lunchboxes were.

A small apple from Mrs. Parsons, half of a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich contributed by Miss Rose, and American cheese slices and saltines from me were placed where, while the two of them left to eat with and keep an eye on the students outside, I could feed Jeeter.

“Here,” I said waking him, “sit up as far as you can. I’ll help you. You need to eat. It’s lunchtime.”

His manful effort to get up failed, so I sat and let him lean against my shoulder.

“The other side hurts more. Is this way okay?” He gobbled the sandwich, alternated between my cheese and crackers and small bits of the apple. “I’m real thirsty.”

My small bottle of apple juice was just enough for me, but there was milk in someone’s quart jar. I gave him some of that and put the remainder back. I ate what remained of my lunch.

It was not until the meager meal was over that he noticed what he’d forgotten, his nakedness – and flushed. Tried to cover his privates. “Don’t worry. We’ve all,” I slipped up, “seen everything you’ve got.”

“Don’t hit me,” he shriveled.

“Nobody’s going to hit you, Jeeter. Let’s get your overalls on and I’ll take you…”

“Not home, please, please.”

“Shhh, I’ll take you to my place.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mrs. Parsons said, coming in from outside. “Miss Rose and I will combine classes and take care of your students. You get him out of here.”

Miss Rose reminded me to buy some more of the first aid kit’s ointment on my way. “And an extra one to replace the one we’ve used.”

* * *

I followed the label’s instructions to ‘spread evenly over the affected area.’ Jeeter squirmed when my hands went between his rounds into their valley and covered the entrance to his body’s well. Squirmed again when they coated his hanging bits with tender, loving care.

“He didn’t hit there, teacher. I mean, Mr. James.”

“Relax, son, just relax. I know what to do.”

“Okay, you’re my teacher.”

I reached for his balls again and paid heed to his taint’s firmness. “This part’s not relaxed. Turn over. I need to go at it from the other side.”

No surprise that he did as told. A country-boy stalk lumbered, then sprang into view. I wanted to whistle. Rather, I added the exposure to my ointmented palms and rubbed.

“Oh teacher, is that all right? I was doing something like that this morning when I was supposed to doing chores and Pa caught me. You ain’t gonna hit me, are you? Are you?”

“You’re all tense here, my boy. I want you to be relaxed. We’re safe here and can do everything we should be doing. No, I’ll never hit you, but I have to do some things so we’ll get along real well. Doesn’t that make sense?”

Wasn’t hard to out-think Jeeter.

“I can’t rightly say nothin’ about the sense of it but it feels right good. Oh lordy, it feels so good.”

Mindful that he was getting breathless, I said, “Let’s not talk for a while. There’s something about to come out of your tension and I don’t want it all over my bed.”

I went down on him. He went nuts – I mean, his nuts must have cracked. It was all a man could do for his boy. I mean, I chewed and swallowed, and gulped, gasped, and swallowed again, and made merry with my tongue while he jerked around. Fresh, country-boy juice – nectar for a city-guy who knew his way around a cock.

“That was tasty, Jeeter. But I doubt it was all a growing boy like you has for a man like me, your sure-fire teacher, now is it?”

“I don’t know.’

“Tell you what, hold your legs back. I’m going to look around for what’s tensing you so much.”

“In there?” he wondered at my probe of his greasy well. “With what?”

“I call it my one-eyed telescope. You know, for a look around in the dark? Feel? It extends right in there. Now take it easy and I’ll do some exploring."

“You’re cornholing me. Didn’t know city-people did that. We do that around here. Not to girls, of course. Oohh, teacher, you’re getting further than anybody before. Beau don’t go nearly so – ooohhh – far.”

“A good reaming’s what you need – as you might say – like, several times a day and maybe a time or two at night. I’ll lay into you good, Jeeter, and you’ll learn your lessons.”

Imagine a treadle-driven sewing machine going full tilt and my fit coming on – when the phone jangled louder than I could remember it.

Mrs. Parsons! “Mr. Marwood’s with Miss Rose asking where his boy is. Seems he didn’t go home after school. Hasn’t done his chores. She’s doing her best, you know, telling him to check the train depot where kids sometimes go to get away from things. Mr. James, you better do something.”

Thanked her. Told Jeeter to take a couple more Tylenol tablets and to get some rest. Threw on my clothes and got in the car, turned on the ignition and thought – thought I didn’t know what to do.

“Dang!” I said out loud – a word sweet, dumb Jeeter might use. I headed toward the train depot – really just a platform for the mail drop-off and pick-up.

He didn’t see me. I didn’t see him until too late. Whether my brakes failed or I pushed the accelerator by accident, Mr. Marwood splattered. Blood, teeth, puke went all over. Saw no witnesses. I reversed, high-tailed it straight to a self-service car wash. Scrubbed away evidence and headed home.

“Hi, Jeeter.”

“Hi, teacher. You didn’t finish. I been waiting.”

Off went my clothes, onto my engorging dick went the apartment’s best grease, in went I to work on Jeeter’s self-esteem. “You’re going to be great,” I huffed.

“You really gonna help me with my lessons?”

“If I can keep you here long enough.”

His gawky frame shook to my pounding the center of his ‘affected area.’ Not a sound from him. Silent he was, I guessed, from concentrating on the difference between having a kid such as Beau and a real man reaming his innards.

“Any idea how to make..that…work?”

“Adopt me.”

My brain reeled. “Would that make you happy?”

He looked over his shoulder, gave my question what I took to be a reproachful eye, and – sappy as a country song – sang out, “Fuckmefuckmefuckmeinthebuttinthebuttinthebutt.

A happy tune, indeed! With his impatience, I was patient – gentle, smooth, hard, strong – so, as the afternoon passed, was able to have total freedom to move back and forth while imparting the important parts of chapter twelve in our textbook.

I was winding down, tired after teaching so much, when the phone rang again.

Mrs. Parsons had terrible news about the dire end of Jeeter’s father. “Mind you, Mr. James, if you’re smart, you’ll take Jeeter up to his mom – he can show you the way. Make up a story if you have to about how he’s been under your protection all day and how you just found out and how a boy needs to comfort his mom at a time such as this and then get out of there.”

Quite out of breath when receiving my thanks, she tossed in, “You did a good thing for all of us in this valley,” and hung up.

People are prone to jump to conclusions without any evidence.

With bib overalls restored to his wide-awake body, Jeeter showed me the way up to the shabby little farm where the Marwoods had lived for a long time. I met his mother, who immediately wanted to see his bottom.

“My teacher here, Mr. James, took good care of it with this,” he told her, retrieving from his pocket the much-used tube of Vitamin K ointment I gave him.

“Mrs. Marwood, if you want to be with Jeeter to grieve, I’ll be going.”

“No you don’t. There’s chores to be did here ’n’ you can help. Me ’n’ Jeeter’ll show you.”

The work was not difficult, but did involve lifting of rocks and weeding, digging, planting, watering, and mucking out the hen house, collecting freshly laid eggs, repairing the coop’s wire, tending to the cow which supplied the family’s milk, strengthening one side of a lean-to tool shed, washing household laundry, and destroying the tools of punishment used by the late Mr. Marwood to discipline his son over the period of his growth. Those that would burn, did to Jeeter’s unblinking stare.

Mrs. Marwood regretted what she never had been able to control her husband’s irrational temper. “No wonder Jeeter ain’t too bright, what with him being hit on the head ever since he was small when he wasn’t being whipped for one thing or another. It’s a shame, but I couldn’t do nothing.”

Her phone rang. Her husband’s body in a bag was on its way. The county’s two policemen were coming with a couple of volunteers to dig a grave. Would Mrs. Marwood select a place? Did she want a reverend to say a few words, offer some prayers? Well, no, she didn’t think a ‘fuss’ was needed. She just wanted to get on with her life. “We’re simple folk.”

With a hardscrabble life.

I scooted home by the long route. What a day! Mine was a restless night.

On time at school in the morning, I called the roll, expectantly eyeing the classroom door. Jeeter Marwood did not appear. My students were abuzz but not unruly. Marjory raised her hand.

“How’s Jeeter? We know you took him home.”

“Yes, I delivered him to his mother.”

Upon completing chapter twelve, I introduced chapter thirteen, a little uncertain about my situation. Called on Perry, then Helen, eventually on Beau to read aloud certain passages that I wanted the class to focus on. While they coped with unfamiliar sentences and particularly difficult words, I mulled over possible scenarios.

Midday came – and went. The women weren’t talkative. A call came from the superintendent’s office. I was to come by after classes. I drove, wondering.

“Mr. James,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this but, irregularities – if I may call them that – have been such with your employment that it is necessary to suspend you without pay. Any personal property in your classroom desk will be brought to you. Your employment, technically, may not be terminated if you accept this situation – and can be reconsidered in time for next term.”

There were details, not germane to this narrative. I took stock. No savings. Now no income. I’d have to clear out of my apartment. Where to turn? What to do? I was so confused.

Then, the truth hit me square on. I had to move.

* * *

I was throwing things into boxes when my phone rang. I shuddered. But – whew!

It was Mrs. Marwood! She listened. Made me an offer I couldn’t turn down.

She drove her late husband’s pickup truck to my apartment and she and Jeeter helped me take apart my bed, load it and my few furnishings and other possessions into the back and, the three of us crowded into the front, took me to live with them.

“You was good with the chores. You work with us – you know, Jeeter and me – and you can eat.”

“And take care of my butt,” Jeeter said not too loudly.

The ramshackle Marwood residence barely had room for my bed in the room where Jeeter had his cot, but we put that against a wall and assembled mine. Our celebration that evening included Mrs. Marwood’s cornbread, boiled turnips and greens, and two cans of pork and beans.

Bedtime came early. She closed her door. Jeeter seemed shy, but shed his overalls, handed me my ointment tube, and lay on his stomach. I don’t know where my clothes went, but my cock went hard as I commenced to re-coat our parts as I did yesterday.

“He whispered, “Inside, inside like you did before. You know, teacher. With your…”

“Rod,” I said, tunneling in. My mind clicking into gear, I reminded him, “You have a lot to learn.”

His pulses thumped my cock. This was a boy, I realized, with a hospitable ass. Began to screw him with urgency of my own, half out of my wits. When I expressed my fear that he was getting noisy, he said, “Mom sleeps like a log. Move all you want, like hard. I can take it.”

I pumped in and out – short thrusts, long thrusts – thudding minutes and more minutes until orgasm thundered through me.

“Why’d you stop?”

Short of breath, I couldn’t speak. My cock, usually rampant, was shriveling. My hair stood on end as his insides twisted like a snake around what was left as it upchucked small dribbles yet wanted more. Jeeter’s body made no outward motion. The muscles of his ass did everything.

Stretched over him, imbedded in him, I and my cock were learning a lesson – or rather being re-grown to serve the ass’s appetite. A kind of carnivore, I concluded, Jeeter’s ass liked raw flesh. Mine.

Clamped upon, caged, and released with some country boy rhythms, my organ was tantalized and coerced back to performance mode.

“Move your knees out, wider,” I barked.

He whimpered. Did as I bade. Got what he wanted.

Without regard for how sore his buttocks must still be, I began to impale him from shallow to full-length depths. “Close your eyes and see the night sky’s darkness, Jeeter. Soon, its stars will blink, shine, even streak like comets.”

I increased my telescoping pace. The supreme moment came. Jeeter tipped up into my deepest shove, vibrating before seeming to be electrified, going into seizure, and firing his teen load like TNT.

Protests from the boy were useless. Although he shook with aftershocks, I continued to roar into him. I pumped his ass into capitulation and surrender. My thought: the man, a teacher, is mightier than the boy, a student. In wet heat, his twitches were all that was left to local yokel Jeeter as my cock glided silkily, lengthily along its course and back – until our bodies were slippery.

“I win,” was what I said before giving his exposed cheek a light smack and whispering, “Time for a shower. You get a good grade.”

“It was like you said, I saw, like, the night sky and sparking lights – guess they were stars – and when I was cooling down, it was like, uh, the moon was out – all silvery ’n’ stuff.”

The most descriptive the simple boy had ever been. Granted, I planted the idea but never expected he’d verbalize it so candidly. “Jeeter, boy,” I patted him on the fanny, “with me, you’re going to see the universe.”

We washed up, straightened the room, eyes straying to each other’s bodies. Chore-soiled clothes were set aside. We dressed. Overalls were the order of the day. He had a clean pair. I wore his father’s which more or less fit me.

Fresh eggs, cream of wheat, cornbread, and coffee equipped us for the day. “Boys, after whut we done yesterday, there ain’t much more than morning chores to do. So,” Mrs. Marwood said, “y’all might want to work on Jeeter’s lessons since neither one of y’all is going back to school.”

Close to an hour later, she interrupted our review of chapter twelve. “Jeeter, look at this. The ol’ bastard had it hid in a jar with his tools.”

It was a roll of bills. U.S. currency. Nine hundred and thirty dollars, to be exact. “We can do a lot with this, like fix up the place, git some better clothes…” Her voice trailed off, lost to wordless emotion.

* * *

Within a month, I’d replaced rotting wood boards and broken window panes, patched roof holes, fixed the chicken coop, cobbled together a new fence, and relieved Mrs. Parsons of her small-screen, usable TV set with its antenna wire. Because she and Miss Rose were moving in together, she was getting a large-screen TV. Her refrigerator might be coming our way, “Darling Miss Rose,” she told me, “has a more modern one than mine.”

I read between her lines, she between mine. We understood. “How’s Jeeter?” she asked. “And his mom? Are you all working things out together?”

I smiled, “Jeeter’s everything a teacher such as I am could possibly want” I dared, “Ingrained obedience opens him to more opportunities for learning than any classroom.”

She looked demurely to one side, a hand touching something in her apron pocket just enough that I could see it was a dildo. With a few coy blinks, she faced me again, “His academics, I meant?”

“In time, I’ll see that he earns a GED certificate.”

“You do that. Oh, I assume you’re planning to take him to the State Fair next week? To see the agricultural exhibits?”

I tried to improvise, “Oh for sure, I guess. Anything special you recommend?” I didn’t know a thing about what would be there. “Anything that would help us up at the Marwood place?”

“Look up Albert ‘Good old Al’ Hawkins and meet the Redstone boys who’re learning the ropes with him on his big farm. Make sure Jeeter gets some time with them to pick up some pointers.”

[For the Hawkins-Redstone rope-enhanced liveliness, see: my other story]

Her advice turned out to be initially awful. Later, beneficial. Those people were into matters of sex-stimulated corporal punishment which appalled Jeeter. He remembered pain and shivered with distaste, if not hatred of it. The Redstone boys were inured to stern-discipline-enforced sex as they worked for ‘Good ol Al’ Hawkins. Their vivid descriptions – bragging really – of how he excited them into productivity scared the be-jeezus out of Jeeter. He sought refuge under the tender loving care of my cock.

Bred carefully by me to be a rearboy, he dilated readily – daily, nightly – to assure us that however I embarked on piercing him, whatever angle I took, I’d find him supple, soft as a kitten inside and ready for my voice. To my husky tone, he’d vibrate whatever the instruction.

Let me provide an example from a while back. The situation went this way:

“I’ll measure my way in, Jeeter. Here’s the head, just inside. And here’s about four inches.” I stopped. An intake of breath or two later, he vibrated expectancy. Another one-, even two-inches pressed in slowly and his tiny tremors started again. If I stopped for long, his “Please” beckoned more, which led to my laconic, “Make yourself tight as a miser’s fist.” And as he did, he became the recipient of total, deep-aligned, no-holds-barred shafting.

Whether my hands were at his waist, the middle of his back, his arms or wrists, Jeeter made every effort to contort inner muscles to give me the requested miser’s grasp. That bit of fight prompted one “Good” after the other from me. Quick quivers from him.

Get it?

As we lived together with his mother, he came to terms with my cock as rampager or lover. Occasionally, my groin would seem to kiss where his ring stretched, which caused moans. Banged against militantly, the same spot drove groans from deep in his young throat.

Unforgettable was the time he grunted so loudly that Mrs. Marwood came to see. It was fortunate that I saw the light come on under her door and could pull a sheet over our coupled bodies.

“Jeeter, son, is he hurting you? If he is, I’ll throw him out.”

“No, ma, he’s jes’ cornholing me like I want him to, only a little harder than that. It’s okay.”

Chagrin hit like a ton of bricks. She knew. She’d known. My hardware turned to software.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked after she closed her door and doused the light. “Fuck me. C’mon, fuck me…or I’ll tell her you’re being mean.”

Shameless, conniving little devil! To his earnest ministrations, my cock began to plump the way a muscle does with exercise. It grew, hardening for its job.

Still miffed, I nipped an ear lobe, “Who saved your butt?”

He pushed back in want, “You did. A mighty fine job of it, too,” he added gratuitously, pumping at me. “Now fuck me like the good boy you always say I am, teacher man.” He lowered his voice, “Mr. James.”

I got my bearings, stared fixedly ahead in the dark, steadied myself, and began the motions of love. After all, I’d made him, developed him into a perfect, complying bedmate. It behooved me to treat him lovingly – with moves that meant the most to him. Instead of indulging myself, I lay atop my Jeeter, trying to be sensitive to his every response as my cock showed willingness to please him.

Next day, I overheard son and mother discussing me so nicely my eyes turned misty.

Shortly, post-chat, Jeeter approached, brushed then fingered my crotch, “She’s gone off to visit her friends. I can howl all I need to if you want to get back in me hard-like.”

I took him on his back, legs wishbone-spread, drank in the willowy, dreamy look he displayed while being skewered, churned my hips, quickening as minutes flew, experienced love’s rush gathering in my balls, stormed into him as he squinted tight, and blew, in that endless instant we call orgasm, a hurricane of cum in his depths.

The boy, caught up in his special, whirling miasma of adolescent ecstasy, thought he glimpsed the cosmos for a second and experienced the universe as sex, before being alchemized from soaring spirit back to human form where grenade force sent juicy shrapnel scattering inside him.

Where the rage took place, there was unspeakable understanding as fevers faded in boy and man.

What we’d done must’ve clicked something in honey-sweet Jeeter. He was pensive when, sagging against me, he said, “With Ma away, if you want to try some of that sex them boys was talking about at the Fair, I might like it now. Tough-like but not real mean, y’know?”

“Because I love you?”

“Yeah, you do. Teach me some of that fancy stuff.”

* * *

When the superintendent Cassidy called about my reinstatement to the classroom, I, Randolph James, turned him down.

Without jumping to conclusions, you know why.