An exemplary english teacher recollects

Stories such as this – and my others – advocate letting readers’ minds follow this writer’s fervid imagination. It travels through far-flung fictional situations, none ever the same. All in the pursuit of pleasure for the mind while being about the loins. And here, in this, you can pick up some literary kulcha.

I cleaned my glasses before re-reading this:

When a guy lingers in me, you know, with nonchalance, I give his cock a pinch and say, “In’s one thing, out’s another. Get with it and fuck me again.”

My student Anton Bennett was showing more promise with his descriptive writing than a week ago. Present tense has immediacy.

I picked up Lincoln Mason’s much better passage, in the past tense:

With his ankles held aloft by his hands, he resembles a somersault in reverse, freeze-framed, watching, studying me as I fuck him. Thrusting forth and back, I evaluate his reaction to me, to my cock, to my face and to its inherent delight. Knowingly, he smiles.

Glen Joelson, I saw at a glance, had managed a little improvement:

He garaged himself in me for what proved to be most of the night. We were snug until his lover, fifty-seven-year-old Gordon Dirkson, came in a claimed he needed to fuck us both before we went to school.

Gordon Dirkson.

The name gave me a turn! A member of our Board of Education. I wouldn’t let on, though. This could become interesting.

In response to a summons to discuss their (writing) skills, the boys came to my office after school. They eyed my MFA diploma on the wall (Master of Fucking Arts).

“Anton, you display wit I didn’t know was yours,” I said.

“Thank you, teacher.”

“It’s a virtue called Comitas. You can build on that. Are you fun in bed always or does it depend on the guy who is in you there – er – lingering?”

Lincoln and Glen wanted to hear Anton’s answer. He was a transfer student to our school, not yet well known nor fully assimilated.

Anton immediately rose from his chair, shucked his trousers, parted his cheeks, and said, “See my hole? I rent it when I can. Got to earn spending money because my allowance is skimpy – but it’s all my uncle can provide. I can’t afford the time for dawdlers to futz around when I’m hot. Anyway, seeing sex as funny keeps me going.”

“Thank you, Anton. It’s Lincoln’s turn. Lincoln, I’m pleased to report that your being observant  shows a different virtue, Gravitas. Is the partner you described one of our students?”

“Howie, I mean Howard, Sperling is on the gymnastics team, yes. Because mine’s the biggest dick here, Howie likes to watch me when I plow him. Want me to get him in here? We can show you?”

“Not necessary at the moment, but thank you.”

Glen’s sweet face bore a me-next? look. My attention turned his way. I snuck a reminder peek at what he had written. Cleared my throat.

“Ahem. Glen, you evince what’s called Veritas, the virtue of truth-telling. It’s impressive that you even provide the name of your unnamed partner’s lover. Want to tell me about the incident?

“Sir, Keith Robinson is ahead of me in school but gets behind me when he can. He parks his dick in me only about once a week or every ten days, when not under Gordon – I mean, after he screws me, he likes us to remain on our sides while he drips his last drops. Kind of like a car drips oil in a garage. That’s what I meant by ‘garaged.’ Anyhow, the time I described, Gordon saw us, pulled Keith out, flattened him next to where I lay, fucked him (to remind him whose he was), then lay into me for a fare-thee-well fuck that finally sent him into the destination known as detonation.”

“Lovely description. I particularly liked your using Byron’s 1816 title, ‘Fare Thee Well.’”

The blush, immediate and vivid, quickened my pulse. “You didn’t like my use of ‘destination’ and ‘detonation’?”

“I did, despite their being overwrought. Is your ass overwrought? I’d best take a look.”

Down went his pants. He bent over the way Anton had. What I saw was a reddened rim with somewhat ragged edges and evidence of cloudy moisture not yet absorbed by contact with cloth. Thoughts tumbled. I exhaled a breath I did not know I held.

“I think to assess your asses, I must fuck each of you. Glen, you’re in the right spot. Hold that position, dear boy.”

In full knowledge that Gordon Dirkson and I were the same size in the proper department, I soon found – after dribbling spittle – that Glen had been customized exactly. My excitement’s energy prompted oohs and ahhs, and admiring nods by Anton (for sure) and (maybe) by Lincoln. That is, when I came close to climax, they bent similarly.

“Hey you, teacher, over here, remember?” one demanded.

Anton. Not Lincoln so, with interest on my part, I took him before Anton.

Lincoln’s butt, a tight one, surrendered under protest. He howled like a wolf yet blew his fuse when I indulged my cock's desire to plunder his prostate. The power of his anal orgasm filled me with wonder. He looked miffed, it seemed, that he came from being fucked. I, however, did not blow my load in him. Indeed not, I was saving it for patient Anton – panting nearby.

Pro he may have been – offhand, blasé, as consequence. But the millemetric precision of my joining helmet and hole together took his breath. The telescoping ardor of my cock made him gasp erratically.

Ass gnawed cock with such greed that I’d wager my eyes grew bloodshot fighting his release of animality.

Anton’s waist glowed with fingernail marks as I unflinchingly dominated his will to resist cumming by my drawn-out casts of sperm in the billions and my vicious viperish hisses as I did so.

When finished, we regarded each other. I realized that his conquered ano-rectal work-area felt so good that my cock just had to soak there. About the time the gerund ‘lingering’ occurred to me, Anton quoted himself, “Get with it and fuck me again.”

With a pat to his fanny’s warm, if worn, charms, I said, “That wouldn’t be fair to the others. Can’t make a valid evaluation without knowing – in the biblical sense – all the players. You three, go fetch Howie Sperling and Keith Robinson.”

They left. I picked up the phone and called my friend-in-education, fifty-seven year-old Gordon Dirkson.

* * *

Gordon and I shared a few stories before the cast of five showed up, faces lit with expectation.

Keith, who did not look directly at Gordon, caught my eye. Lover-boy type, all right. Enviously fair-featured – clear brow, lucent brown irises that matched his hair, ripe-apple cheeks, chuckable chin, kissable lips – his lean neck led to a slim torso, flat tummy, small waist and, behind, what seemed an inverted valentine mostly hidden by a pullover and jeans.

Gordon’s love-child? What size equipment might such a comely creature possess? I looked again, this time at his front. “Keith, take your hands out of your pockets, please. Is what bulges there all yours or are there a couple of socks stashed in your briefs?”

Mad laughter rocked my office. Gordon!

“Show the man, honey.”

“Wait,” I said. “Glen, be so kind to display for me your occasional fucker’s goodies and show me how he uses them when the two of you have private time.”

“Sure thing!” he enthused.

Howie became interested along with the others and me.

Away went Glen’s clothes before he went for Keith’s waistband, dealt with its button and zipper, and slipped down his jeans. As if cued, Keith pulled up and over his head the knit shirt with its Izod alligator logo, didn’t blush, but did use his hands to heft an adult-pride set of genitals in my direction.

“Over here, Keith. Let ’em see what you can do.” That came from Glen, who stuck his rear out.

Lofty literary phrases did not come to mind. Nor did raunchy ones. Simply straightforward buttfucking sent large boycock flying and nearby hanging balls flapping. Keith knew his way to Glen’s happy place. Such a good time – they might have thrown confetti.

My old bud, Gordon, unable to contain himself, took position behind kinesthetic Keith, spat, rammed, and was ridden to joy in perhaps five minutes. Worried the overactive group might pile to the floor in collapse, I rushed to support Glen’s shoulders from the front – and the wonderful boy let his darling nose bury itself in my then-heated crotch.

Damp wipes and dry towels later, the well-exercised trio members were primed to view my further dealings with shaken Lincoln, curious Anton, and twitchy Howie.

“Howie, you look fit as a fiddle. I can tell you work out as a gymnast and I’ve heard your pretty bod has sensational flexibility.” With no shame, my fingers roamed his slender, solidly muscled frame. That he was a bit ticklish tempted me but less than my desire to see how Lincoln handled him. “Want to take off your unitard, sweetie?”

I liked his answer, “Lincoln gets so hot, he likes to sort of rip it off.”

“Lincoln, take over.”

Whoo! He did. Had his Howie jaybird naked – quick as a wink – flipped to his back on the floor, feet in the air, held back exactly like a backward somersault, and in ‘flagrante delectable’ smiling back. Both delighted in showing their natural mating habit to me. My applause egged them on.

The sweetie’s high voice called for faster fucking which his butch-boy delivered.

“Nice job,” Anton opined as the two jettisoned – the one with an exclamatory squeal and the other a loud, proclamatory, “Take that!”

We had to peel Lincoln and Howie apart.

All eyes glommed in on Anton.

I asked, “Who will you fuck, now it’s your turn to show prowess on top?”

Chagrin marked him. Furtive flickers on his face hinted he had to answer but was reluctant. Finally, “I’m a bottom. I don’t ever top. You know, I serve clients who are strokers, chokers, biters, fighters, suckers, fuckers, smoochers, spankers, and toyers – and nobody ever expects me to fuck him. I just can’t. Can’t, don’t you get it?”

Anton’s eyes watered with the effort he was making.

Howie sympathetically rubbed his shoulder. Keith and I kissed his cheek and brow, Glen his lips.

Lincoln stood, fists on hips, broke the frown from his face, and said, “I want to be your first. Fuck me, Anton.”

Agog, Gordon and I went dewy eyed. What an offer! The school’s Mr. Stud – not exactly wanting but volunteering.

Dummy Mortimer Snerd’s question came to mind, “Who’da thunk it?”

Gordon confided to me, “The must’ve been some fuck you gave him.”

“Felt good, too. Tight hole with some fight to it. Mmm..mmm!.”

“Boys,” I boomed, “Let’s not press Anton. Howie, since you and Keith aren’t in this composition class, you won’t receive an assignment from me. But, you may want to drop by later to help my students with theirs. Collaborations can be good at this stage. Virtuous writers, which you three are, need to fortify their vocabularies from sources far and wide.

“Some of you are wider than others, thanks to recent screws…so feel free to summon your best nouns and pronouns, adjectives, verbs and adverbs, prepositional phrases, and what-not for you-are-there descriptions of buttfucking’s finest.

“I’m counting on you all.”

* * *

The hour’s late, I notice. Let me quote, with affection and appreciation, the Immortal Bard:

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow. My necessaries are embark'd: farewell. Adieu!

Gosh, how literary of me, a simple teacher, albeit of rarified English.

Musing aside, I’m practical. For example, now that Gordon’s wandered away with all but smarting Lincoln, I’ll invite him for the night’s first hours in my quarters.

As for you, always think positively so that you can realize Shakespeare’s truth:

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

(in an end such as Lincoln’s)

Join the fun by rating and commenting below. After, for distraction, try a lively story you may not have read, such as Suburb Circumstances.