A Tutor's Day

Each time he met me back with his soft bottom, its pink rounds, and clasping heat, Edison reached for my hips to pull me into him. “I need it. Please. I won’t break.”

He took my hard ramming while I was on top of him, then as I rose to my knees to pound straight into his prostate. It must have been in shambles by the time I let go and powered shots of my finest forward. That set him off. His mid-carriage whipped and jolted under me with epileptic madness.

Our sweat-soaked bedsheet displayed him beautifully.

His ass’s heated crack beckoned.

Deep in his interior again, I made this time last. When my urge began to peak, he responded, so I eased my pace, added lube, roared to action, until his cheeks were red from my impacts. He reamed the way a cylinder accepts its piston, transforming my energy into his. It shown in his breathing. And in the way he stretched himself flatter.

Edison Michaels wanted me embedded. Like last time, with my seven inches into him and pulsing as I warded off the big spill he craved. “I’m going to die.”

He wasn’t. There were yet his nipples to provoke. He tried, under my orders, to keep still. I threatened, “I won’t give it to you if you make so much as a peep.” Then gave them a squeeze.

Screams sent both of us into meat-grinder mode. We went from that to settle for prospector-discovery of a lode.

I mined his ass. He stripped my dick.

Mrs. Michaels came in, stopwatch in hand. “Twenty-nine minutes! That’s four more than yesterday. Mr. Barr, you’re going to be our favorite tutor.”

She handed me a fresh towel and my agreed-to fee. Edison received a towel and a dampened washcloth, and managed a thank-you despite the way he was breathing. Adoration on his face, he told his Mother, “Mom, I am so turned on my homework ought to be a cinch tonight.”

I glanced at the time. “My, my, I need to move along. Tommy Englund’s waiting. Mustn’t disappoint. Anyway, I have to be a t home for supper by six or catch heck from my wife.”

* * *

Picture Mrs. Englund waiting for me at the door, her pretty face anxious. I was five minutes late. “He’s upstairs waiting. You are so good for him.”

I swept by, took the stairs by twos, and took in the poised bottom of Tommy. “What’s that?” I asked.

“Mom’s spatula. She made a cake. I spread the icing. She wouldn’t let me sample a slice. I had to have something.” He wiggled, “So, she put this in me. She used some of the icing.”

Relieved what I saw around the insertion was chocolate and not something else, I placed my shirt and golfer’s plaid pants on the attic’s cane-seat chair, took the bottle of baby oil, anointed myself with a few drops, and set to manipulating the Michaels family spatula. He did his catlike best to purr, but his throat made only nacent teen-timbre moans.

Thrusts of it were proving too much for his recently discovered prostate. I jerked on the spatula, tugged it away, tickled his hiked-up balls, popped his ass a few times, gutted him with two fingers, and demanded, “What kind of homework this evening, Edison?”

“I have to learn the state capitals.”

“Where’s the list?” I asked, taking the spatula’s place. Icing’s a gritty lube. This event and my anatomy’s best feature needed more baby oil.

“Here,” he handed it over. Typed. Alphabetical order.

Freshly oiled and scooting forward, I began, “Albany, which state?”

“New York,” got him firmness in the right direction.

“Annapolis?”

 “Maryland.”

Wham.

“Umph!”

“Don’t make noises. What about Atlanta?”

“Georgia.”

“Good, take this.”

“Mmm… Next?”

“Augusta?”

“Maine.”

“Thus far, good for you. Here’s my recognition.”

“Mmmm…the better for me.”

He made it through Austin, Texas and well into the Bs – but balked at Boise. I extracted myself, looked at the expecting fleshscape, and repeated, “Boise?”

Not a word. I reached to hold his tender parts. I stretched his balls on each stressed word of, “The boys of Boise have balls.”

“What is it? What is it? Tell me. I’ll remember,” Edison pled, trapped.

“Idaho.”

“OW!”

He did not forget that state. I tested to be sure, right after Boston and again after the sequence Carson City, Charleston, Cheyenne, and Columbus. Fucked him for each correct answer.

He tested me with a question, “Was Anne shy? Is that why the place was named Shy-Anne?”

I bucked, laughing. “Boy, you are a cheeky little thing for thirteen.” Plowed into him. Vigorously, which he loved.

“And you…ooh!...are…a big…man…at fifty-five…ooooh!”

We continued to work on the list until Missouri’s Jefferson City threw him. A spanking fixed that information. Sent him straight back onto my cock for untroubled recitations until, “Olympia?”

Juttering, “Greece,” he got the spatula’s handle instead of me. Didn’t phase the lad. Nor did a harder spanking, my free hand palpating his ripe and randy ornaments. His butt’s color inspired me to fill hi with my hot rod and to ply therein for mutual fun. Lost count, he felt so splendid.

He huffed, “Are you…sure you’re…not forty-five…old man?”

No answer required, I pummeled away continuously through the list’s successful arrival at Trenton, New Jersey. Sprayed his rectum thoroughly. Good students earn rewards.

Job done, I extracted my trade’s best tool, replaced the spatula, and did a brief wipe before starting for my clothes.

With the look of a puppy dog with a spatula for a tail, he asked whether I’d stay for a piece of cake. Mrs. Englund overheard and charged in, “We won’t make him late to get home, now will we, sweetie? There’s always tomorrow.”

Raising one of my eyebrows cued her.

“Mr. Barr? If you return tomorrow, you’ll help my son learn the list by order of states. Say you will.” Her understanding tone convinced me as did the way she rotated a thumb over fingertips to suggest money.

Mine was an impish thought. “Mrs. Englund, if Tommy studies smartly tonight – properly, you know, he knows – and again after an early breakfast tomorrow, he can be ready for me by mid-morning. Your house will be my first stop. Now I really must go. I took the roll of bills pressed into my hand. Pocketed it and blew kisses their way as I left.

* * *

“Honey, I’m home. Where are the kids?”

“Playing a video game. Supper’s almost ready. Can you smell it?

I strode into the kitchen. Mabel liked being kissed on the nape while at our stove’s grill. “Oh my goodness, is that what I think it is?”

“Roquefort burgers and chips. There’s tomato salad with your favorite dressing, too. Maybelle and Lucas set the table, so we’re ready. Wash up. Take your seat.” She hollered, “Kids! Food, in here now! Your father needs his welcome home.”

Lucas was eighteen-months older than his sister, but they stood the same height. Both cute as could be. Lucas favored his mother, Maybelle her father – me. Our family were together at each day’s first and last meals. On weekends, picnics afforded us togetherness in wildlife parks as long as the weather held. Conversation respected personal boundaries with humor and goodwill.

Recent advances by both younger Barrs excited comment. “Dad, you were right. Soft silicone’s so nice,” Lucas mused. “I can squeeze the neck when I’m walking, running or sitting to study at school.” He turned a proud smile to his sister, “You tell them, Mabelle, what you discovered.”

“My dance class went so well, Dad, because this new size gets me going. The flexibility’s great, so much better than our hard rubber things. The class exercises are a snap now because my center isn’t tense, teacher says.” Maybelle’s voice lowered naughtily, “Lucas didn’t tell you what he told me.”

He remonstrated, “Sis! You weren’t supposed to say anything about that. Dad may not be ready.”

“Children, finish your salads,” Mom Barr covered her mouth to burp. To me, her husband, she remarked, “Lucas is showing initiative. I approved.”

Dad used his napkin, “Delicious, honey. Thank you. So, my boy, what have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing. I will show you, though.”

“You two go. Maybelle and I will tend to the dishes.” There was lilt to the way she said it.

This Dad’s gaze did not stray from Lucas’ backside on the way to the kids’ bedroom. What’s he up to?

There were two surprises. First, with his shirt removed, was Lucas’ proud boy chest sporting suction cups on his nipples. Second, visible when he turned away to remove his pants, was – What? A pink No. 3 silicone plug. He moved up a size on his own!

“Dad, I wanted to be ready for you. Really, I’m ready. It’s just right, after being there all day, waiting for you. Are you ready for me, huh, please?”

So fetching was the sight of my boy’s posterior pivot around that I lost my head. I bent him over, went for the plug, remembered my fly was closed, stopped to open it, stumbled on his discarded garments, fell atop him, groped for the plug, battled his tight tush for it, ripped the thing from his hole, and came close to bursting in. His nipples lost their suction cups, emerging puffy red and, as my fingers felt, upright. It dawned that he wasn’t a tutee but my A+ son!

“Oh, pardon me, Lucas. I was on the verge of boosting your will to study rather than what I should be doing for you.”

“What’s that, Dad?”

“Making you feel the love you’re asking for from your dear old Dad. Lie back. That way. Lift your legs. Yes, yes. Such a lovely site for connecting face to face.”

An orifice fit for men to grovel – me first! I dropped a wad of saliva where it would do Lucas the most good and nudged thereupon.

His chest rose and fell at the intrusion’s stretch and the way I worked in, trying for the creeping stealth of an assassin, hurting him at the same time I let him know what he was in for. His pelvis soon braced mine solidly. I kissed away whines and the little streams of salty water from tender eyes.

Something fretted the back of my mind. “Son, isn’t your birthday next month?” I began a rhythm for beginners, my eyes on his.

“I’ll be thirteen,” he said defensively, my cock’s seven inches pinning him. Rhythm recommenced. Then, “I should wait, shouldn’t I?”

“Not now. Love me up, Dad.”

That did it. I responded with prolonged drives. Retarded their haste to bring them and our tongues into collaborations of excruciating slowness. My tongue had slipped over his spotless teeth and tickled his saliva glands. I drove it straight back, mirroring its possession with my manhood south of his navel. His limbs did not fight their immobilization nor his interior recess this Dad’s churning orgasm. My warm wetness filled him during the gentle twinges of his experiencing young life’s first path breaking dry climax.

I kissed him good night and waited until he drifted, whispering, “I’ll answer your questions in the morning, son.”

As I left, clothes in hand and cock dripping, my daughter Maybelle tiptoed in, kissed my cheek, and went to her bed.

I went to ours, where Mabel, my honey, awaited. She hoisted the covers for me. “How are you holding up? Got anything left for your dear wife?”

The light but deliberate pressure of her bottom to my damp crotch focused my divided attention where she wanted. Forgotten, my wistful remembrances of Lucas, of Edison, and of Tommy and his spatula. With my final load of the day now where it always belonged, I rocked us both to dreamland. On that path, Scarlet O’Hara’s final line in Gone With The Wind flitted in my consciousness: “Tomorrow’s another day,” to which I added silently, “in the life of a tutor.”

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