The following story is fictitious, though based in part on an account related to me by an associate of mine who teaches high school. Similarity to real persons is purely coincidental. This writing comprises adult material with mature themes and is not intended for consumption by minors, persons whose sensibilities are easily offended, or religious zealots. Please help preserve literary freedom for us all by exercising wise judgement in your own choices and actions. Thank you. (Comments to: demangel@rocketmail.com)
EXTRA CREDIT {PART I}
Scott Taylor posed a problem for me from the word go. On the first day of classes, the senior had breezed into my classroom and damn near knocked the wind out of me. This was only my second year teaching, and all my coursework, training, and even student teaching had not prepared me for this kind of challenge. I knew it would come some day, but I didn't expect it so soon.
You see, I am very attracted to men of all ages, but especially to guys just finishing high school and preparing to enter college. There's just something about the male at that threshold age that's so vital--the exuberence, the newfound confidence and strength, but mixed with a holdover of playful boyishness and innocence. I had anticipated the imminent collision between my adoration of these guys and my ambition to teach and do a damn good job of it. I had determined to steel myself against any temptation, ignore the beauty and charisma of these demigods, and treat each student based solely on his or her performance in the classroom. It wasn't always easy, but so far I had succeeded. Then came Scott.
I have to admit I had noticed this boy in the corridors the previous year, but I had successfully avoided any intersection of our paths and basically ignored him. What was simple in the hallways would quickly prove all but impossible with the kid sitting right in front of me as I lectured fifty minutes at a time, five afternoons a week. Being a small school in a rather well-to-do, conservative area, the school's dress and grooming code was rather strict, but Scott always managed to look super, regardless. He had dishwater blond locks that looked like silken flax. In the afternoon light, I sometimes couldn't tell if his hazel eyes merely glinted the sun or were its source. He stood at a medium height with a slim build that was not bulky, but evidently lithe. He carefully chose shirts and trousers that clung to him in all the right places, accentuating a tight, smooth package. His skin was clear, with a slightly rosy complexion in his cheeks, and a natural, cherry-flavored pucker that I know sent all the girls, and some of the guys, swooning. His smile conjured up charming dimples. His voice still waivered in that range between carefree youth and assertive manhood. And his laugh was cascading peals of mirth.
In spite of my raging passion for this particular student, the first part of the semester went fairly smoothly. I managed not to stare at him more than might be thought acceptable, and I certainly didn't treat his assignments and tests any differetnly than those of the other students. This was not always easy, as Mr. Taylor had a habit of coming up to my desk at the front of the classroom before class everyday and bestowing on me a friendly greeting, often extending his hand for a firm shake and flashing those perfectly even, gleaming-white teeth of his in a bodacious smile. I wondered at times if he knew what he did to me, and suspected he did more likely than not. If he did, however, he never let on. Unfortunately, he was not "cluing into the program" for some reason, and that's really where the problem arose. He started out making passable if average scores on the weekly quizes and homework assignments, but gradaully over the weeks his performance declined. When I would hand back the papers, I could see the disappointment wash over his face as he detected his unsatisfactory grade, and he would peer up at me with a forlorn, almost wounded puppydog expression. That was tough to take from this kid who normally bounced through the halls greeting everyone he saw and bubbling with life. But I hardened myself to his predicament and moved on.
Finally, midterm reports came out and did not auger well for Mr. Taylor. He was carrying a D in my course, and if matters did not improve somewhat drastically before the close of the semester, Scott's graduation would be in jeapardy. This was a fall semester-only credit that students were required to complete satisfactorily in order to graduate. As it would not be offered again until the following autumn, a final semester grade lower than a C meant Scott would not be graudating with his class in the spring. I recommended he consult me to discuss possible solutions to his plight. He came to me after class the day after the midterm reports were released and made an appointment to see me during my conference period the following morning.
I was not looking forward to this meeting. I didn't sleep much that night, turning over in my head how to handle the situation, wondering what to expect of him, considering my options--and trying unsuccessfully not to let my thoughts devolve into fantasies of some sort of tryst. I recognized what a ridiculous prospect that was, but I supposed I had better get it out of my system in the privacy of my own home than repress it, only to have it surface in my conference with the boy. I went in to work early that next morning, as I had some term project reports to review, but Scott was way ahead of me. He was already standing at my office door waiting anxiously. Our greeting was noticeably nervous on both sides. I let him into my office, which is really no more than a glorified broom closet.
Having put in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the available walls, I have barely enough room for a a small desk and chair for myself and a couple of chairs for guests. I have no windows, so I get no daylight in the place, but even downcast, Scott provided more than enough radiance. He had surpassed himself in selecting his ensemble today: a pair of brown wide-wale corduroy trousers that hugged his legs and midsection, a crisp button-down oxfordcloth shirt and a distressed leather jacket that creaked when he sat down.
I sat behind my desk to keep it between us; I was ready to leap over at any moment, to rip his clothes off and bathe him with my tongue. However, I refrained and concentrated on the matter at hand.
"You can't fail me," he started in bluntly.
"I'm not failing you, Scott; you're failing yourself," I countered, my mouth as dry as a bone.
"I'm trying as hard as I can. Your tests are too hard and you go too fast. Even my parents said so."
"My examinations and pacing don't seem to be daunting the other students in the class."
"That's because none of them have a social life--heck, some of them practically don't get any sleep," he asserted. I pursed my lips together.
"I've not received complaints from anyone else. I didn't ever commit to making my course easy. There's a lot to cover in a relatively short period of time, but it's certainly not impossible, and the challenge is sure to make you a better person if you will meet it head on." I meant what I said, but I couldn't help undressing him in the back of my mind as I was saying it.
"Making me flunk, keeping me from graduating--that's suppose' to make me a better person?" he challenged, becoming rather feisty.
"As I said, I'm not forcing anyone to fail. I'm confident that the coursework is well within your capability if you will only apply yourself." In my head, I nuzzled his neck, drinking in his brash cologne.
"I have been applying myself. It just ain't there. It's not because I don't want to work."
"Have you considered studying with one of the other students, or getting some tutoring?" I envisioned my sucking on his earlobe.
"You can't imagine how much studying I already put into this class." He pulled off his jacket, looking hot and flustered. "My grades in my other classes suck because I spend so much time going over the chapters and my class notes for this one course. I've been a good student, look at my record, it's not because I'm blowing it off. How about some extra credit assignments?" As he said this, he leaned back and slung one leg over an arm of the chair. I wasn't sure if this was supposed to be suggestive to me or not, but it certainly drew my attention to his packed basket. I wrested my eyes from it and fumbled through some papers on my desk.
"I don't do extra credit, Scott, you know I made that clear at the beginning of the semester. The point of the class is to learn the material, and the coursework I assign gives you ample opportunity to demonstrate that you understand the subject."
I was raging hard in my pants under the desk. I hoped I would not have to stand anytime soon.
"I don't test well. You know some people just don't do well on tests. Isn't there any kind of alternative way to show what I know?" he said, gripping his thigh emphatically, if unwittingly, or so it seemed. I licked my lips.
"I really can't think of anything, Mr. Taylor," I stammered. Scott sat forward, his head in his hands, starting to wax emotional.
"God, I don't know what I'm going to do....You know what this means, don't you? Don't you?"
"Worst case scenario, Taylor, is that you get held back and take the course again next fall and graduate midyear. But it doesn't have to come to that--" He continued in his tack, cutting me off:
"It means bootcamp. It means Private Taylor in basic training, learning how to hate and kill people."
"What? You wouldn't do something rash like that, would--"
"It wouldn't be up to me. My dad's already told me how it is. If I bring home anything less than a passing grade, he's pulling me out of school and putting me in the service. He says if the army was good enough for him, it's good enough for me." The picture of Scott doing pushups in fatigues flashed through my head before I could stop it.
"Scott, they won't let you in the army without a high school diploma, and anyway, you're eighteen, aren't you? You're free to decide for yourself--"
"My dad has connections, Mr. Harrell, big ones. All he'd have to do is pull some strings with his old buddies and it would be a done deal. He's always wanted me to follow in his footsteps and join the military, but he agreed to put me through college instead if I keep my grades up. Without his support, I'm screwed. I gotta do what he says. Please don't make me go in the army, man," he pleaded, flashing that puppydog face again. I resisted melting.
"I'm not making anybody do anything, please don't pin that on me." He suddenly flared and lashed out uncharacteristically:
"You're just out to get me, is that it? What do you have against me, why do you treat me different?" This new anger was at once appealing and loathe to me; the surge of energy and power really turned me on, but on the other hand, he was accusing me of what I had vowed always to avoid: favoritism.
"Nothing could be further from the truth," I stated evenly. I could feel his heat emanating over the desk. "I pride myself on my impartiality with my students, and you've been no exception. What reason would I have to treat you more severely?..." my voice weakened as I pondered the possiblity that I had indeed overcompensated and judged the boy too harshly. Had he been able to tell how I felt about him, could he see the way I looked at him sometimes in midlecture?
"I don't know, just for kicks?" came his tepid reply, his animated confrontation dissipating. Apparently, he didn't know. He started to grow emotional again, almost in a panic. "Isn't there anything I can do? Anything?" He paused, hovering over my desk now, then leaned forward all the more. "Anything, Mr. Harrell. You name it." He waited. I sqirmed uncomfortably, fighting for control of myself. Here was a vulnerable boy of a man laying himself at my mercy, begging for clemency, offering himself up to me.
"Anything?" was all I could utter. I wondered just how all-encompassing he intended that 'annything' to be. "Like what, for instance?"
"Anything, man. Personal stuff. I'll wash your car, I'll clean your house, scrub your toilets--well, maybe not scrub your toilets, but you know what I mean.
You need a deck built in your back yard or something? I did some of that during the summer with my brother while he was home from school." He bent over and got very close to my ear, almost whispering; I could feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. "Look, I know it's all about learning and everything, but I'm desperate here, man. Please. Name your price." Again, he waited, his moist eyes mere inches from me, plaintively gazing into mine.
This was my moment of Truth. Knowingly or not, he had opened a door and begged me to step through it. The thought of taking advantage of this sort of situation had long been anathema to me, yet it seemed virtually impossible to resist. I vacillated a thousand times in my head during that moment, as Scott stood before me suspended in some kind of limbo.
"Alright--" was all I got out before he breathed a sigh of relief, opening the floodgate.
"Thank you so much, Mr. H., really, I promise it'll be worth it, whatever you want--"
"Shut up and listen. Very carefully. Here's the deal: this is a take-it-or-leave-it proposition. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, but if you turn it down, the deal is off and you're on your own. That doesn't mean I'll automatically fail you, you still have as good a chance as anyone else in the class. But if you choose to back down, I won't be giving you any special consideration. On the other hand, if you freely do as I ask and comply with all my requests, I guarantee that you will pass my course with at least a C."
"Come on, Mr. H., make it an A--please--"
"You can still earn better than a C, that all depends on your performance and level of cooperation. But I'm only guaranteeing you a C. Is that unfair?"
"I guess not. But how do I know you're gonna actually do it?"
"You have my word, and you'll just have to trust me. You don't really have any other option at this point, now do you? I promise to keep up my end of the bargain, and I have no cause not to. All right?" Scott pondered a moment, then nodded his acquiescence.
"So what is it you want me to do?"
"I'm getting to that. But first, you must swear that no one, absolutely no one, will ever know about this. Not your friends, not your parents, not your parish priest: no one. Not that you would want anyone to find out, most likely, but you have to swear it." He nodded again. "Say it."
"I swear, it's our secret."
"All right. For the next hour, you're mine. You do as I say without question. Can you do that? If so, then lock the door." He got up slowly and turned the deadbolt on the door, then returned to his seat.
"You're not gonna ask me to help you kill somebody or cut up a dead body or something, are you?"
"Like I said, you're welcome to say no and walk out at any time, but if you do, you're on your own. Take it or leave it."
"Okay, I'm in. Let's just get on with it."
"Take off your shirt."
"What?"
"You heard me, Taylor. Let's go." He looked at me kind of blankly, then peered away, self-consciously unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it off, wondering where to put it. "On the chair is fine." He set it down. "Your undershirt, too." Now he shot me a pointed stare.
"Aw, you're not a homo, are you?"
"You're treading on thin ice now, Mr. Taylor. No questions asked, remember?" We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, he standing there in his tight tee shirt and snug pants, finally beginning to realize what he was commiting himself to, and I shifting in my chair to adjust the relentless hardon I longed to release from the confines of my trousers. I saw the silent objection on his face give way to a stream of options he contemplated, including walking out right then and there, which was overrun by consideration of the various consequences, and, finally, a look of reluctant resignation to the task at hand. He turned slightly away as he hesitantly untucked his undershirt, then slowly pulled it over his head. The torso he revealed was magnificent. Smooth, with just the right degree of definition, and only a hint of hair at the center of his chest and trailing beneath his navel. He turned to face me, as if to say, 'There, are you satisfied, you pervert?' He clearly had no concrete conception of where or how far this session was headed.
EXTRA CREDIT {PART II}
Scott looked at me with a touch of defiance as I gazed on his bare, smooth torso.
"Very nice," I offered, at a loss for any expression of my true admiration. "Turn around." He stood there. "Don't make me ask again." He turned awkwardly, one full turn. "Keep going." He resumed; when his back was to me a third time, I told him to stop, raise his arms, and flex. He haltingly complied, and I squeezed my rockhard member through my pants as I studied the rippling muscles in his back. "Good," I understated, "Now your shoes." Still facing away, he pulled off one sneaker, then the other. "You can leave your socks on for now. Take off your belt next." He unbuckled nervously and pulled the belt through its loops. "Without moving your feet, hand me the belt." He thought for a moment, then twisted and offered me the leather strap, highlighting some of his tight muscles in the process. I took the belt from him and hung it over my shoulders, as he straightened again. "Very good. Very, very good....Pants." He slowly unfastened and unzipped his trousers, and seemed to shiver slightly as he began to slide them down his thighs, which showed gooseflesh. He gradually revealed his white cotton briefs, bending far over to push the pants all the way to his ankles and simultaneously giving me one hell of a view of his tight, plump ass. Was he getting into this? Trying to egg me on? He pulled off one leg, then the other and stood erect again.
"In the chair. And face me," I instructed. He tossed the pants aside and turned to me. His penis was fully erect and straining the fabric of his underwear, which sported ample nutsac as well. He avoided eye contact with me, staring instead at the floor. "Look at me, look me in the eye." He waited a moment, then shifted only his eyes to me, still partly bowing his head. Our eyes locked and a self-conscious grin twitched momentarily across his tight mouth. I smiled with pleasure. His nipples were hard at attention, his strong hands dangled awkwardly at his sides, unsure of where to go or what to do. "You're really beautiful, Scott, you know that?"
"I'm glad you think so," came his tart reply, showing again his defiant toughness. "So what now?"
"Pull it out. Pull it through the slit in your briefs." He looked puzzled at first, but presently set forth to comply, working his steel-stiff poker through the gap between the panels at the front of his shorts. "Nuts, too," I added, taking in the glory of it, sizing it up for the first time, comparing the reality of his throbbing teen cock with what I had pictured in my mind's eye so many nights in the past. "Start stroking it."
"I'm not a fag, okay?"
"I know you're not. That makes it all the more enthralling, my friend....No one will know, I promise." He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then took the rod into his able hand. "Spit into your hand for some lubrication." He spat emphatically, then resumed handling his manly boyhood. I finally began easing mine out of its confines, but still under the desk. "Good....Do you have a girlfriend, Scott?"
"Not like a steady one, no."
"But you go out on dates."
"Well, yeh."
"Do you fuck your dates, Scott?...Are you a virgin?"
"Yes! I mean, no, I'm not a virgin, and yes, I get laid, sometimes."
"Tell me about it." He squirmed, but continued steadily jerking his meat.
"What about it? We go out for dinner or meet at a party or whatever, they're always hot and ready to go, I get her in the sack and plow her. What's to tell?"
"What does she look like? Pick one--your favorite--and describe her for me." He continued to slide his hand up and down his hard staff, becoming mesmerized by the picture in his mind's eye.
"Not real tall, almost short. Shoulder-length reddish-brown hair, thick, smells like fruit or something. Misty blue eyes, really wide, with thick lashes, and a small mouth."
"What about her body?" I petted my pecker.
"Soft, ripe medium-size' tits, not saggy, and not too big either, with quarter-size' nippies. Long slender arms with thin fingers on her soft, delicate hands. A silky-smooth stomach, and a curvy ass. Slim legs, slightly toned, and a really furry bush," he was really getting into it, bucking his hips forward as he humped his hand, his eyes now closed.
"So what happens?"
"I fuck her, man, whataya think? She's lying there on the bed or whereever, and I climb up and lower myself down between her legs while I point my boner at that wild bush of hers, and I hit paydirt, man, I just lean into it--it's kinda tough at first, 'cause it's her first time--" (nice touch, I thought to myself)--"and then I just slide on in, her juices are just making it so slick and slippery, but she's tight as a drum. When I'm all the way home, I wait a second, and she kinda wriggles umder me to try and adjust her position, which makes my peter sorta wiggle around in her, which is cool. Then I start to pull out, slowly for now, until I get almost all the way out, I can tell my head's about to slip out, and then wham! I slam in again. It's sort of sudden, she ain't expecting it, but I can tell that she likes it by the sound of her scream." By this point, his hand was really working that young studly meat of his, and he was groping his scrotum with his other hand. "Then I really start to lay into her, I'm merciless, man. The bed's shaking, she's almost crying, but moaning and kind of fake- screaming. It's okay, her parents are out of town for the weekend; her brother's asleep in the other room, but I don't give a shit, man, I'm plowing her a new one, oh, yeh--" He was stroking with increasing speed and intensity. So was I.
"Are you getting close?" I panted. He let out a primitve grunt.
"Unh, yeh, dude, I'm almost--I'm about to--"
"Catch it with your other hand, don't spill--"
"HERE IT COMES, MAN, OH! YEH!" and with that he let out several successive volleys of creamy teen cum. In that moment, every part of his smooth body flexed, contracted, arched, extended, stretched, tightened, and hardened; he was a perfect specimen of young malehood. Even with his free hand positioned to receive it, the force of the spurts sent splinters of spunk flying onto my desk, and the sheer volume overflowed his palm, dripping in large, gooey, elastic strings onto the floor. "Uuuhhh," he gasped as he released the last of his load, then swayed as he began to return to reality. Somehow, I had managed not to shoot my own wad, although I had gotten awfully close. I now merely gripped my pulsing member in my hand, retreating from the brink.
"Give me your hand," I instructed him. He looked down at it, somewhat embarassed now that the deed was done and the residual evidence clung to his palm and fingers. He extended his arm toward me over my desk. Still seated, I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand to my thirsting mouth, proceeding to lick off every drop and fleck of his seed, savoring the rich flavor of each mouthful before swallowing. As I lapped it up, I looked up and down his tight torso and to his softening cock, while he shifted self-consciously from one foot to the other and avoided looking at me. When his hand was clean and I had sucked each of his fingers with care, I released his wrist. He backed away a step. There was an awkward pause.
"So...are we done?" he asked, newly nervous.
"Not quite, " I stated matter-of-factly, pushing myself back from my desk. "There's one last item which requires your attention."
"Such as...?" he queried haltingly, afraid to know the answer. I stood, my raging hardon pointing directly at him.
"I'm not quite satisfied yet, but I think you can help me with that." I moved around the desk toward him as he backed away another couple of steps.
"Ho-how's that?" he stammered.
"On your knees, Taylor--"
"Oh, Mr. H., do I really have to--"
"Don't ruin it, now, guy. Don't make what you've already done for nothing." I stood before him waiting. "It's not that bad, and it'll be over soon enough." He stood there apprehensively, shuttling his gaze from my stiff cock to my eyes and back again. He swallowed with some difficulty, but I seemed to notice a slight stirring in his deflated penis. "I promise, I'll be gentle, Scott. Just kneel down." He seemed reassured and lowered to his knees. I stepped closer and offered him my meat. He tentatively reached out and took hold of it at its base with his strong grip. It loomed only inches from his tight, wet lips.
"You aren't going to--going to--?" he stalled.
"I won't come in your mouth, no. Not unless you want me to. I'll warn you." He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, and I would swear there was an ever-so-faint twitch of a grin as he peered up into my eyes, then focused on my tubesteak and slowly put his mouth on it, kissing the head. Gradually he opened up his lips and let the tip enter, then pulled back. He made a second approach, this time taking in about two inches, and lightly tonguing the underside of the head. How did he know to do that? No matter; I basked in heaven, as his warm,wet, velvety mouth gradually surrounded more of my length. I sighed. My hands settled on his head, stroking his pretty hair and encouraging him to proceed further. His lips formed a tight seal around my shaft as he began sliding his face forward to take it in and then back to pull off of it. Each time he enveloped my dick he took a little more in. One of his hands found my nutsac and caressed it so lightly it tickled, then he began to tug gently. Intermittent with the waves of pleasure lapping over my body, crept curiosity as to how Scott went to his task to deftly from the start? By instinct? Had he had experiences to which he had not let on? I was distracted again by sheer ecstacy as he fit my entire penis in his mouth and ceased sliding on it, instead forming an airtight seal around it and sucking heartily His ministrations were rapidly propelling me toward the point of no return. I massage his scalp, gazing down at the naked, athletic body, and marvelled as he resumed his advance and retreat, observing my meat disappear into his head and reemrge, shiny-slick with his spittle. This was my defiant, beautiful, strong and smooth young male lover, bathing my dick with his mouth juices.
"Now! Look out!" was all I could sputter before the impending torrent surged forward; but rather than releasing me from his jaws, he lunged forward to engulf me entirely, and the unavoidable spasms of my cock delivered a generous helping of ball pudding for him to savor. He sucked relentlessly until I was well spent. Before I could offer him something to spit in, he had swallowed and licked his lips. He arose, looking rather sheepish at this point.
"How was that?" he queried me coyly, knowing the answer.
"Splendid, exceptionally so. You are so erotic, so sensual." I rubbed his smooth chest, tempted to taste it, but he pulled away to get dressed. I watched him rerobe.
"Will there be more assignments?" he asked, almost with hope I thought, as he took up his jacket and book bag.
"Well, I suppose there will have to be, if you want to earn that A." He just looked at me and nodded with a prescient smile.
"We'll see." Scott unlocked the door and went out without another word or glance. In the corridor among the melee of students preparing for class, he slipped out of sight, but he and I still shared the secret of my seed flowing through him.
END