This story contains acts of sex between two consensual people. This story is real-life fiction and any similarities between persons dead or alive is purely coincidental.
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02: Mr. A
Mr. A was my science teacher in junior high. He was one of my favorite male teachers because of his strong yet tender frame. I can't say I learned a thing, but I liked looking at him when he was in front of the class, writing on the chalkboard.
There was a classroom, and the lab was behind another door by the blackboard. It was where we dissected frogs and fired up the Bunsen burners. Nevertheless, I can tell that he loved teaching because of the smile in his eyes. But what I liked most was his dad-bod. The ideal mix of a bit of belly, clean-shaven, cleft chin, board shoulders, expansive chest, and thick legs.
Once, I came in after school, and we talked about basketball. Thankfully, Mr. A had one in his class, although he was not the junior high basketball coach. He took the ball and asked me to guard him, and I did a crappy job. Then he gently took a stance and asked me to copy it. When I was not getting the hang of it, he gently guided me with his hands. An energy passed from his fingertips through my body. I think he noticed it but may have been too nervous to act on it. So was I.
Another day after school, I came by, and he was sitting at his desk when I looked between his legs and saw the outline of his privates--my first up-close view of a daddy's camel toe. It was like his pants could barely contain them as I asked, "What is that?"
Mr. A looked where I was pointing and did a double-take. Then, after a minute, "Those are my balls." My eyes couldn't help but stare as he rubbed them for good measure. "You like balls?" Mr. A asked, already knowing the answer."
"I think so." I sounded stupid, but it has been a while since my first time with the middle-aged runner. Although, seeing his very-pronounced man sacks through his slacks had me thinking nothing had changed.
"Most guys have two," Mr. A started stacking the homework he was grading and then looked me in the eyes. "It's what makes life." His eyebrows raised as if letting out a secret.
My jaw dropped.
"You do know about the birds and bees, don't you?"
I shook my head because I had no clue as to what he was talking about.
Mr. A looked at the classroom door and was happy it was closed before starting, "How do you think you came to be?"
Dazed and confused, but enjoying the time together. "I dunno."
"Well, your little pee shooter is used for more than just that." Mr. A had tender fatherly eyes and a soft, assertive tone. "It's used to make life."
With my eyes wide open, "It does?!"
"Yes!" Mr. A turns to me, giving me a full view of his crotch and bulge, "That's why we get excited?"
I seriously had no idea what he was talking about, but I was glad we were talking as nobody in my family really took the time to speak to me like this. "I don't think I've gotten excited."
'Oh no?" His hand purposefully falls on his balls. "Well, You will. Most boys get excited in the morning." Mr. A chuckled.
"They do?" I wanted to learn as much as possible.
"Yes, son, we do." He tugged his balls, " I'm getting excited right now."
"Really?!" It seems my voice was as excited as Mr. A was getting.
"It's natural, son." Mr. A scoots back in his chair, and I can see that his hand cannot hide his growth. "Without getting excited, we cannot make life."
"But how do we make life?"
Mr. A looked at the door once again, "I can show you in the lab." He stands, and the flexing in his shorts reminds me of my middle-aged runner. However, Mr. A's stretched tightly in a diagonal to the left, almost to his belt. There was no wetness, but it looked uncomfortable when he walked over to the door and locked it. When he turned around, "Let's go learn about life, son."
With windows placed above bare walls about six feet overhead, the lab offered privacy and ventilation. I am not sure who designed it, but Mr. A never complained. After we were both inside the lab, he closed the door and walked over to a cabinet, "We are going to do a little experiment." He came back with a Petri dish. "We are going to need this." Mr. A walks over to a lab table where I follow. He then puts the dish on the table in front of himself. "Have you ever seen sperm through a microscope?"
My mouth flew open, but nothing came out.
"Don't you want to do this experiment with me?"
I nodded with subtle glee.
"Good." Mr. A put his hands on his sides, and like the middle-aged runner, his manhood felt trapped and in need of release. "First, we have to make some sperm."
"How do we make sperm?" It was a white lie because I had an idea from my middle-aged runner, but I had not done anything like that since and was not entirely sure that it was sperm. As I stood there awestruck, I hoped Mr. A wanted me to do the same to him.
"Well, it takes some effort, but we can make some today." Mr. A's eyes were gentle yet purposeful. "Wanna, help me make some sperm?"
"Yes, sir!" He didn't have to ask me twice.
"Great!"
I watched as Mr. A went for his belt buckle and unfastened the top button of his slacks. My smile gave him enough assurance to unzip, "There is hand soap by the sink in a bottle. Go wash your hands and come back with soapy hands. Do not rinse the soap off. We need your hands to be clean to make sperm."
The sink was on the other side of the room. I turned on the faucet and then grabbed the soap bottle, but when I turned around, Mr. A had his pants down, revealing his boxers. "Bring the soap back with you, son." As I walked back to him, I couldn't keep my eyes off the opening where dark hair was creeping out.
Mr. A takes the soap, "Cup your hands so I can put some more soap on them."
I had no clue what soap had to do with sperm, but I trusted Mr. A. Within seconds, my hands were foaming.
"OK. Ready for the next step." After a nod, Mr. A puts the soap bottle on the table and then pulls down his boxers, revealing his massive manhood. "It's time to make some sperm."
He motioned me to come closer, and I knew to put my soapy hands around his stiff pecker. I started with one hand and then stacked them, but they only covered half his shaft. Then, like the middle-aged runner, Mr. A started thrusting into them. "That feels very good, son." As he pulled his hips back, I moved my hands toward me, and when he moved forward, I moved my lubricated hands toward him. He was getting stronger and more focused on his motions. I liked it when he moaned and wiggled his hips a few times between thrusts. I was very happy to be pleasing him.
Mr. A had thick hairy thighs and a beautiful hairy patch of pubic hair, even more than the middle-aged runner, but the one or two features that I remember to this day were his hairy-low-hanging balls. I wanted to touch him, but I didn't think it was part of this experiment. Still, they bounced against my hand like giant cannonballs.
"The way you hold your hands creates a vagina that your penis goes through when a man has intercourse with a woman to make life." Mr. A slows his hips, "Some vaginas are tighter than others."
I got the hint and slightly squeezed my hands. When I looked up, I noticed Mr. A's eyes were closed. I could tell he was somewhere else, like with his wife, which was OK with me.
"Oh yea, that's it, son." Mr. A's breathing picked up as his thrusts got stronger. He puts his hands on my shoulder for balance before, "You're gonna get a big load of sperm." He gave a few strong thrusts, and then his creamy white sperm projected all over my face like a torpedo. I closed my eyes as streams blotched my forehead, cheek, chin, and lips. After a few seconds, my tongue savored the sperm around my mouth. It tasted salty and sweet, exactly as I remembered it.
I had to loosen my grip as Mr. A went soft in my hands. My fingers, lathered in soap and sperm, enjoy his unique penis definition. His piss slit that still had sperm leaking out felt incredible to the touch. I suddenly realized that I got a personal biology lesson.
"Oh no."
I opened my eyes to a surprised expression.
"We didn't get any in the dish." Mr. A smiles, "But we got it all over your face." He then pulls his slacks up while leaving them unbuttoned, "I'll go get a washcloth.
How Mr. A cleaned my face was gentle, "Promise me one thing."
"Anything, sir."
After a few more tender swipes, Mr. A hands the cloth to me to do the rest.
"Let's keep this between us, OK?" Buttoning his pants and buckling his belt, Mr. A had an absolute seriousness in his eyes.
I nodded because it felt right despite how wrong it may seem to others, and I wanted to keep Mr. A as my science teacher. But mainly because I liked what we just did together and wanted it to continue. It was fun and didn't hurt anybody.
"OK. Now get moving. You have homework to get done."
To Be Continued...
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------- Original Message ------- On Wednesday, February 23rd, 2022 at 10:02 PM, SeekerofFF SeekerofFF@protonmail.com wrote:
This story contains acts of sex between two consensual people. This story is real-life fiction and any similarities between persons dead or alive is purely coincidental.
Please consider donating to Nifty, they can't run the servers on ad space alone, and everyone using this site gets plenty of enjoyment. It's only fair we contribute financially as well as with our stories.
01: Middle-Age Runner
I remember him running down the trail on a hot summer afternoon. He was middle-aged with thick legs and a pouch that bounced effortlessly left to right in his nylon shorts. He wanted to be noticed, if only by the right person. When I turned around to run beside him, I wasn't sure that would be me.
Small talk is nothing more than politeness to a means. It gauges the situation while offering clues in tone and expression. For example, I learned right away that my middle-aged mild-mannered father figure enjoyed my company as running solo can be tedious. Moreover, he was not huffing and puffing, which told me he was in great shape.
After just a few minutes, in between other runners going the other way, I could not resist. I reached between his legs and squeezed my first manhood. It felt like what I thought it would, robust, meaty, and fulfilling, but I also felt guilty and ran. To nobody's surprise, I was not fast enough as my middle-aged runner caught up to me and turned me around.
"Why'd you do that for?" It was one of many questions he had, as I doubt anyone other than his wife has felt him there for a long time. But, looking back, I dare say, even she stopped touching him.
I didn't know what to do other than keep looking at what provoked me. Now that he was not running, his manhood appeared heavier and thicker in his shorts, but all my guilt could muster was, "I'm sorry."
"You think you can just do that to anyone?"
I remained quiet.
"What gives you the right to do that?" His scolding tone demanded a response.
"I'm sorry." When I heard his hefty sigh, I looked up into his concerned eyes, "I just like the way it looks." The truth is nerve-wracking sometimes.
Confused about what to do next, the middle-aged runner puts his hands on his hips. He resembled Tom Bosely, which drove me nuts! I realized right then that I would be subservient to authoritative men for the rest of my life.
I think he sensed it, "You can't just go around grabbing everyone you see."
"I'm so sorry." At this point, I was worried he would call the police or, worse, my mom, but I did what I did and had to take my punishment.
The middle-aged runner looked around and then back at him, "It's OK. Just don't do it again. OK?"
"Yes, sir." I lied while my eyes focused on the outlines around his crotch. "It just looks so..." I could not say it.
"Looks so what?" After I didn't answer for a few seconds, "Come on, son. Spit it out."
I knew after I said what I said, there was no going back, "It looks so good."
My words made him more uncomfortable as he turned to his side as if hiding himself. "Aren't you too young to know about these things?" It was a rhetorical question to which we both knew the answer.
I remained quiet once again.
Then he did something that surprised me. He hugged me. His strong arms pulled me to him as I was inches from his hairy belly. His sweat and musk hypnotized me. We stood there for what seemed like minutes but were probably a matter of seconds. I had not been held like that ever by a man old enough to be my father. Then, out of instinct, I wrapped my arms around him where my hands touched the meaty part of his backside. It was not my intention, but at the moment, he felt more than flesh and bones or an object. It was what I always wanted.
Suddenly, I felt a growth against my chest. I didn't move because the warmness coming from my middle-aged runner was overwhelming my senses and being. But all good things must come to an end as he released his embrace and took a step back. It was then that I was able to see a big stiff rod pushing his shorts out with a noticeable wet spot at the tip. I was petrified.
Nervously my middle-aged runner, "Now, I am sorry."
I looked up, confused because I knew no reason for him to apologize.
"Maybe, one day, you'll be mad at me for this."
I did not understand. I just stared as the spot in his shorts got wetter.
"Follow me."
We went off the main paved path onto a dirt one that led further into the woods. I followed him for about 10 minutes to a spot that seemed miles away from the world. Truthfully, I would have followed him to the edge of the earth.
"This is a good spot as any." The middle-aged runner turns towards me and puts his hand back on his hips. "Do you wanna see it?"
Looking up, I saw uneasiness behind intention. I nodded.
"OK. Well, you'll have to pull my shorts down."
It was a command that also sounded like a request, but I still looked up to make sure it was OK. After a subtle nod, I stepped closer, and with a hand by each hip, I did what I wanted to do the moment I saw the middle-aged runner. I yank his shorts down to reveal a wet, thick, meaty, hard pink prick. It was beautiful.
I stood there mesmerized, and then he caused it to twitch up toward my mouth as if inviting me. But I didn't know what to do until, "Give it a kiss." And so I did. I kissed it right where the wetness leaked out of his pisshole. My lips felt good against his mushroom head. Then, to my surprise, my middle-aged runner pushed into me so that his manhood was inside my mouth.
My eyes almost popped out of their sockets as I tasted a mix of cream and salt. But it was the musky smell from his hairy pubs that put me in heaven.
I didn't know what to do until he started gently moving his hips back and forth. I learned to use my tongue to lick the bottom of his shaft. Then he stood still as I began to bob my head and tightened my mouth, creating a sealed suction. My saliva offered enough wetness to remind him of something he might have had but not for a while. I realized, years later, that it was both our first times.
Then I heard him moan, and a few seconds later, a squirt pumped into my throat and then another and another. I stood still and let him empty himself inside me. Something told me not to spill any as I tried to swallow it all. It tasted so good. I would never have imagined such a wonderful thing could be produced from the two low hangers between his legs.
At that moment, nothing felt wrong. Looking back, I could blame him, blame society, blame everyone but myself, but I wanted it. I wanted to be close to a father figure, even if it were for a moment. Of course, the Christian Critics would call it an abomination, but it was simply exploration and curiosity. The saddest moment was not him getting soft, rather him pulling out of me.
My middle-aged runner lifted his shorts and chuckled, "That's a big wet spot." Then, giving me a big hug, "Let's get going now."
The walk back to the main trail felt quick. The whole time, I saw his buns shift with each step, wishing I had gotten a peek of them naked. He was every bit a man, and I suspect an excellent father. I wonder if he ever did this again or was it just a one-off, but I do know my search for a father figure had just begun despite its perversion.
To Be Continued....