10:30 am – Third Period/History – Mr. Mason
I never ditch third period. History’s my jam, and Mason? Dude’s straight fire. Walk in his class and it’s like the walls are alive - maps everywhere, all faded and frayed like they’d been on more adventures than any of us stuck in these halls. Mason’s up front, sleeves rolled, chalk spinning in his fingers like he’s about to conduct a damn orchestra. Guy doesn’t teach, he performs. It’s also not lost on me that he’s a total dude.
He scrawls TRUST across the board and I swear it burns into my head. That’s what we have between us: TOTAL TRUST. Me and Mason. He winks at me with a big smile, glancing at my crotch where I’m holding my cock under the front of my desk where only he can see.
I’m trying to focus on what he’s teaching but I can’t help but notice how tight his pants are today. He’s casual. Wears jeans. They’re “fuck me” jeans. Tight enough to know if he’s circumcised or not. He is. It’s clear.
He starts sketching a fort, soldiers looking half-dead. “Trenton, 1776. Washington crossing the Delaware in the middle of the night.” I mean, the dude is magic in the classroom but all I hear is Blah. Blah. Blah. I’m thinking about the relationship that Harper and I have and the mutual secret that is at the foundation of it.
Some kiss ass cunt up front throws out an obvious answer – “Cause retreat looks weak?” - and Mason nods, with a frown on his face. “Deeper than that. Trust. His men trusted him enough to follow, even when it felt hopeless.”
Mr. Mason is married with three kids. He’s a family man who loves his wife and loves his children. Lives in the suburbs. Perfect family. Perfect life. But just one thing complicates that perfect picture: he has to get fucked up the ass to stay sane. He loves cock up his chute. Anytime. Any place. He can’t get enough. That’s our secret. I get to fuck him and he gets to get fucked by a big fat dick that he worships, just in a different way from Sweet Mr. J. Total trust. I keep the secret and he lets me fuck him.
He’s also got a great bubble butt for fucking. It’s sweet. The dude fills his jeans like a mother fucker. Total animal in the gym. Working those goddamn glutes for Billy Boy. It’s a beauty. I know it’s just for me. What’s not to love? I call him my “butt boy.” I think it fits.
I tease him in class whenever I can. I touch myself. When we’re working alone and silently sometimes. I’ll take out my cock below my desk and pump it for him. Get it big and hard. He gets distracted. He stands beside me watching. Other students can’t see. Except if someone looked they might see the tip above the top of my desk. As I’ve said. It’s long, but it’s just for Mason because I know it drives him wild.
Mason’s eyes drift across the room and lock on me for a split second. I stare at his ass and lick my lips. Yeah. He’s my butt boy alright. He nonchalantly wipes some chalk from his hands on the back of his pants, gripping his ass cheeks, quickly, just for me.
Bell finally rings, everyone bolts like usual. I drag my feet, cause I can tell he’s got something lined up. Just for me and I think it might be warm and tight and wet. “Hang back a sec, Billy.” Mason stands in front of his massive desk, turns his back on me and then pretends to need a file on the other side, leaning toward it, bent at the waist and showing me his beautiful butt cheeks.
I saunter up to his desk. He turns his head toward me and asks, “What’s your favorite piece of history, Billy?”
“That right there, butt boy. That beautiful ass that belongs to me!” That little slut takes a deep breath and moans. He continues looking over his shoulder, keeping his ass facing me - knowing I’m dying to get my hands on it – and says “Billy Boy, I’ve been needing your cock all morning. When you missed most of the class, I panicked. How could I not have my Billy Boy up inside my hole today?!”
I reassure and tell him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, baby. Billy’s big fat cock needs a warm place to land. And I bet you have just the right spot picked out.”
Mason’s face lights up. He’s been waiting to hear those words. He turns slowly, showing off his ass, and walks into the storeroom that’s behind his classroom. I follow, closing and locking the door. I mean, we could still get caught but I think it makes it hotter. I mean, not to be a total dick, but he’s the one that would get in trouble, not me.
There are books shelves lining the walls of the storeroom but there is only a single stool in the center of the room. He begins his usual reveal. Shoes. Shirt. Socks. I usually hum a stripper song, but he ignores me.
The pants come off and there underneath are the most beautiful pink lace panties, bought just for me. He calls them his “boy pussy” panties. They have no crotch. Naked, he goes to the stool, sits and raises his legs in the air, letting me see what’s mine. He starts fingering himself, and says, “Butt Boy needs you to fuck his pussy, please. See how wet I am for you? Please, Billy Boy, please!”
Now he pops a butt plug out of his ass – no hands - that he’s been wearing all day. AND he’s lubed up. REALLY lubed up. The dude is always prepared, you gotta say that for him.
He continues fingering himself, opening his hole, moaning and groaning. God, that hole is fucking fine. I need it.
“How much do you need my cock, you little slut?”
“A lot, Billy, I need it a lot. My boy pussy needs it so much!”
I slowly unzip my pants and open them. Letting them hang open showing my cock inside my underwear. Wet spot at the tip. Mason starts fucking himself with a finger.
“Nah,” I smirk. “I don’t believe you. Say it. Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Daddy, please,” he pleads.
I open my underwear, reach in and take out my cock. It’s pulsating. Hard as steel.
“It’s so beautiful, Daddy. Please pierce my little pink eye.”
Mason gets off the stool and crawls over to my feet, begging me. He throws up his legs and shows his hole. “It’s all yours, baby. It’s all yours.”
I start to spread the pre-cum all over the head, pumping my cock right above him. Harper reaches up to touch it. “No, no, bad butt boy. You know the rules. No touching.” I shake my cock right above him, slapping it in my hand, the sound loud in the silent room. Mason is breathing hard. Fucking himself and begging for my cock.
I walk away from him and sit on the stool, cock pointing at the ceiling and I pull out my balls and hang them from my jeans. Can’t forget those two boys. “Bring that twat over here and look at Daddy’s cock,” I say teasing him. He loves it. Every word. I can’t talk dirty enough or humiliate him enough. The dude would lick the floor if I asked him.
Harper crawls over, sitting at my feet, and stares at my cock, licking his lips.
“My little whore wants Daddy’s cock, doesn’t he?”
Mason nods his head vigorously.
“Well, Daddy, will let you sit on his cock only if you take it down to the root in one plunge. Can my pussy boy, do that?”
“Yes, Daddy. Yes.”
I lean back. Mason gets up and climbs on my lap, lifts himself and with one plunge engulfs himself on my cock, his ass touching my pubic hair. This whole routine of ours is all him. It’s done the same every time. He’s the one in charge. My dick is his and he uses it like he wants.
I just put my hands behind my head, lean back and sit with no movement – that’s the way the nasty fucker loves it and who am I to object - and Mason fucks himself on my cock. Up and down. Up and down. As high as he can up. As hard as he can down. He grinds his ass on my cock. He moves from side to side to make sure his hole is stretched as wide as it can and then he plunges down onto my cock again and again.
“Pop it, whore! Roll on it! Ride!” I say.
Harper just moans and groans unintelligibly but never speaks. That’s the way he likes it. I talk dirty. I do nothing but sit and let him ride. My cock is like steel.
As he spikes up and down his ass makes the hottest wettest sounds. “OK, butt boy, you wanted it, you got it!”
The up and down action of Harper’s ass gets more and more crazy. The intense look on his face, his glassy eyes, the unintelligible groaning and moaning are growing louder. That’s the signal that he’s about to blow. Now he never touches himself, but he likes for me to blow first, fill his hole and then he goes. He gets a little pissed if it doesn’t work that way.
Mason, as he pumps up and down on my cock, starts to use his ass muscles. Squeezing and working my cock. Now the frenzy gets even more crazy and his balls start crashing into mine.
“OPEN UP THAT CUNT FOR ME, MOTHERFUCKER! I’M BLOWING!”
Only with Mason do I see flashes and stars. I blow inside him and load after load spurts inside his ass. He goes down as deeply as he can on my cock, feeling every sensation.
A scream erupts from Mason. I put my hand over his mouth. He can be sooooo loud. His cock – not small – erupts like a volcano and he shoots spurt after spurt of white cream. It seems to go on and on. He’s in pure ecstasy. My cock is rammed so far up his ass, it might come out his throat and he grinds harder. His spurts finally subside, and he sits on my lap, breathing hard. After a second or two, he hops up and the sound his ass makes when my dick comes out is the hottest. He hurries and tries not to get that combination of spooge and ass on my pants but it drips on the floor. A lot. My lap is a still a mess.
Without a word, fully naked, Mason goes to a drawer and pulls out a freshly laundered pair of my jeans and special underwear he only buys for me. He always washes and dries them keeping them for the next time because it can’t be the way he wants it – dirty and pervy and crazy – unless I can change my jeans for the rest of the school day.
I stand. He kneels down. It’s almost like a dance. He pulls my jeans and underwear down. I step out of them, he tosses my jeans aside and puts my underwear into a plastic bag and seals it. What he does with that I have no idea and don’t want to know. I told you he was a pervy fucker. With a wet cloth, also from another plastic bag, he cleans up my crotch.
He then shows me my special underwear he’s bought for me – this one is a thong – Yellow – it looks like it’s holding a big banana with a string up my ass crack – I don’t give a fuck. I’m just glad it isn’t a speedo today - he holds my new underwear, I step into them and he pulls them up, adjusting my cock. He opens my new, clean jeans, I step into them, he pulls them up and buttons them. He then gives a soft kiss to the front of my jeans and gets up, and without a word, he leaves. I just grin. You know how I love making other people feel seen.
I have lunch fourth period and I almost miss it. I grab something from the line, giving a big smile and wink at Mrs. Lawson, my favorite lunch lady. “How’s your day, beautiful?” I ask.
“You shush and stop flirting, you handsome thing.” She says.
“You’re my special one, baby. I love making all the other ladies jealous.” I counter.
She just laughs and passes me an extra cookie. My favorite.
I have a study hall fifth period. I don’t go because I know that Mr. Ramirez, our band director, wants to see me about the music for the halftime show.
1:00 pm Fifth Period – Band Room – Mr. Ramirez
The band room was already going off before I even pushed the door open. Brass notes spilled into the hall, a trumpet then a trombone. Inside, music stands leaned every which way, sheet music clipped down so it wouldn’t blow off from the box fans in the corner.
“Billeeeeee!” Mr. Ramirez, emphasizing that slight Latino accent that he knew was very sexy, spotted me the second I stepped in. Guy always acted like every day was a pep rally but he always wore his shirt with one button too many open so you could see the thick black hair that covered his pumped pecs. His pants were always tight, his cock apparent. “Oh, Billeee, its European. Men like to make sure everyone knows we have the size to give pleasure.” Dude was a looker and he knew it.
I squeezed past a bunch of clarinet players and said “Hey, Music Man. Coach said you wanted me?” Ramirez liked my nickname, almost everyone had picked it up and it made him feel closer to the students.
“Not Coach—me.” He clapped his hands, buzzing with energy. “Listen, halftime isn’t just notes on a page, my Billeee. It’s the heartbeat under the game. So, because you always give me my favors, I want to know what you think. Billeeee’s halftime.”
I smirked. “You’re asking the quarterback for music advice?”
“Exactly.” He grinned like that was the smartest idea in the world. He put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close whispering in my ear. “What makes that part of you that is so special get tall and thick?”
I thought for a sec. “We’ve got a playlist. Some old-school rock that linemen swear by. Couple country songs too. Don’t ask me why, but the guys go crazy for anything they can yell along to.”
“Perfect. Text it to me.” Ramirez said. “This is just for you, Billeeee. Your special show. A thank you for understanding me and letting me play with you and coach.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “It’s cool, Music Man. You do you!” We fist-bumped and I went toward the door. “Play well, Billeeee. I’ll be watching your every move!” sounded in my ear as I headed into the hallway. One more class and then time for practice. AND the day before a big game was intense. Coach made sure of it.
Sixth Period is Algebra II and Mr. Kensington is a blowhard bore and he always make you stand at the board to solve equations. Everyone knows he’s a douche. AND ugly as fuck. AND his clothes are tight because he’s a loser and doesn’t know how to dress. Tiny, sad little peepee. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to bang that. It would be the kind of fuck where the girl or boy says, “Is it in?!”
By the time the last bell rang, it was time. Our last practice before tomorrow’s big game. I saw Coach on the field. Standing alone at the 70-yard line. He didn’t need to bark to get a room’s attention. The man filled a space just walking into it. Instant respect. He had the kind of build that came from years in the weight room – the dude knew he was hot - broad shoulders, thick chest, arms that still looked game-ready, legs planted like tree trunks. And between those trunks, in his athletic shorts, was a piece of meat that anyone would envy. Not long, but thick as shit. Like a Red Bull can. AND I had seen it and touched it. It was a thing of beauty.
I tightened my laces, pulled my jersey over my shoulder pads, and jogged to the huddle. Practice before a big game always began the same way: stretching lines, warm-up runs, the whistle’s sharp blast cutting the air. Coach was an animal.
Scrimmage time came, the practice field suddenly came alive with noise—helmets clashing, players yelling, cleats cutting the turf. I called the play and let the ball fly. Clean spiral. Perfect arc. The receiver caught it in stride, slicing toward the end zone.
The team whooped, slapping helmets and pads.
Coach said, “Quite a throw, my man. Beautiful as always. On and off the field.” The fucker winked at me. I grinned despite the sweat dripping into my eyes. Practice flew by. For a moment, I could hear Music Man’s band kicking in, practicing my special tribute.
Coach blew the whistle, calling everybody in. “That’s the energy I want tomorrow!” he shouted. “Stay sharp. Stay hungry.”
As the sun dipped lower, with practice over, I pulled off my helmet, letting the cool air dry my damp hair. Coach yelled my name, “Harper, you seemed tightly wound during practice, let’s get you on the table after you shower.”
“Yes, sir, Coach!” I breathed. I was used to it. A massage by Coach was a regular occurrence after practice, and the Music Man usually joined us.
Chapter Four! Coming Soon! The Locker Room!
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