English is hard

English Is Hard

A cheeky story of the results of special bonds forged in an educational setting.

[As adroitly edited by James Rozo]

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My friend Stuart and I noticed handsome Dorsey Walker as he strolled toward our high school’s cafeteria. Something about the way he advanced so certainly. Confident strides exuding intent.

We kept our distance until he entered.

By the time we followed and looked in, Dorsey had gone out the far side’s door into what was known as the staff area. Counselors’ offices were located there.

Interesting. Dorsey surely had no problems for which he required assistance to resolve. Naturally proportioned, he wore well-tailored stylish clothes to perfection. Accented masculinity. Glistening, slicked back hair. Looks that caused coeds’ hearts to throb.

An exemplary student, he knew his lessons, excelled on exams, set grade curve standards, never missed anything on tests, and attracted the unbridled admiration, if not envy, of his classmates. Naturally everyone loved his beautiful mind and ass.

Stuart and I often watched him. His eyes moved at incredible speeds, absorbing blocks of information. Whole paragraphs at once. Reading history or art, or biographical prose, he devoured it with the efficiency of a tree shredder.

Poetry was different. For that, he slowed consumption to assimilate, he told our English teacher once, how poetic ideas cannot be expressed as prose ‘without collapsing on themselves.’ When asked, ‘What does that mean?’ he said, ‘Poetry is the creation of truth and beauty; prose is the craftsmanship of the mundane.’

Knocked me for a loop.

I was grooving on the way he looked, definitely not on his perception of such differences. Seated at his desk, deep in thought and contemplation, Dorsey resembled Rodin’s sculpture The Thinker – the heroic nude male rendered in the tradition of Michelangelo.

Whatever the teacher was saying in response, I was only half listening. My eyes stripped off his fitted shirt rewardingly. Then wanted to do the same with his belt and trousers but did not get the chance. My friend Stuart jabbed me from his desk behind, “Stop that,” he whispered, “or you’ll blow your cover.”

“Jason, are you paying attention?” Mr. Tenzel wanted to know. “And you, Stuart?”

We straightened up.

Just then, the bell rescued us. Dorsey gathered his books and left, unwittingly pursued by us. His backside’s halves moved in an easy rhythm I thought must be massaging his hole, relaxing it for – me! My reverie lived a short life, however.

Stuart stumbled over something underfoot and plonked with a bang to the floor. Dorsey whirled around at the noise, darted over and usurped my effort to help Stuart up. “Oh, you poor thing,” he said. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

He dusted Stuart’s front rather further down than necessary. “Say, why don’t we get a soda?” At that, I blinked. Had he just copped a feel of my friend? Stuck with the thought, I stood dumb while off they went.

I was abandoned.

My frump was interrupted by Mr. Tenzel, “Hello there. If you’re free, come with me to my office. I’d like to discuss how you may improve your grade average.”

Twenty minutes of counseling found me receptive of compliments on my shape. “I’ve noticed that you study Dorsey Walker’s rear. Bet you want other boys to study yours, but he dresses for success with well-fitted pants particularly. You don’t. Let’s take yours off so that the matter can be assessed.”

One of the teacher’s steady fingers pulsed at my tender hole. “Nice, isn’t this? Dorsey liked it, too. But more, he likes my educated cock there. I know you will. Just relax.”

I did, wanting my grade raised. At first unsure, I soon warmed to being pronged. Got off when he did. Listened to advice about needing to be seeded.

“Stimulates the grey matter. Did a lot for Dorsey over the last year when I home-tutored him in prep for taking this year’s course. His grades soared.”

 Mr. Tenzel rolled me over and took possession of my hole again, “This is the way. Can’t you feel it in your brain already?”

Actually, it was my ass that felt it, but I said, “Yes, teacher. You’re smartening me up.”

In full drive, he mentioned chivalric romance and brought up Lancelot du Lac of the Grail legend. “You need to be lanced a lot.”

That may have been the corniest line ever, but it swayed me. I said, “Convince me.”

He did. That day and others.

As for Stuart, he was so fired up to tell about his initial run-off with Dorsey that he didn’t ask me what I got into – or what got into me – while they were away.

“Listen to this. I know you won’t believe it, but it’s true. Dorsey complimented me on my ‘wasp-waist’ and my ‘bell-shape bottom,’ something nobody else ever did. He’d been noticing me when I stooped to tie my shoe laces. And when I reached up high for a book in the library. And when I was erasing the whiteboard in our classroom. And he let me feel how big and long he was in front – as opposed to my four inches – and said he could help me grow there if he pumped me up from the back. Well, let me tell you, with his tube of Brylcreem, he bent me, pants down, in the janitor’s closet and showed me what a man he was. He moves like a trampoline jumper. Why, you’d think somebody was behind him pushing.”

I’d heard enough of that bragging. “Can I get a word in?” I didn’t wait, “He’s been pushed a lot back there – by Mr. Tenzel. Whatcha think of that?”

“What?”

“Our teacher’s been fucking him for a year which is why he’s so good in school.”

“What? How do you know?”

“Before I tell you, do you feel smarter for classwork since Dorsey fucked you?”

“What? It’s my butt that smarts.”

“Well, Mr. Smart-Butt, Mr. Tenzel’s fucked me and I’m already going to be ahead of you in the classroom. So there.”

Stuart appeared to think for as much as maybe a second before springing this on me, “Can you get him to fuck me?”

“His date book’s full fucking me,” I was callous. Wanted to throw him off-track. Asked, “How big’s Dorsey’s dick anyway?”

His eyes widened. “SIX INCHES.”

I puffed under my breath, as confidentially as possible, “Mr. Tenzel’s got nearly EIGHT – and it’s all been up me.”

“Bet when he jabs deep you look like a startled scarecrow,” he retaliated.

I was smug, “No, I just listen to what he says. That’s how my grades are better than yours.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“He tells me what’s going to be on the next quiz.”

“Will you tell me?”

“If you let me fuck you.”

And that is how it came to be that Mr. Tenzel fucked Dorsey and me regularly, Dorsey and I fucked Stuart regularly, the three of us got good grades in English and, at the term’s end, our parents were thrilled when shown that we were awarded Certificates of Achievement.