One
Tim's been teaching a class for summer school at this private school, the prestigious Prespy High, almost a week now, and he felt invisible. The attending students are mostly senior jocks from various varsity teams, an alternately raucous or slumberous crowd. These kids were without exception from wealth, and a few from the sort of wealth that's on the news a lot. Standing before the class, Tim was awed anew each day by how suave they appeared, and invariably ended up feeling a sense of loss, the boys of the public high school he went to tried as they patently might, couldn't appear older than teenagers, the unfit clothing, the odd hairstyles or accessories, most essentially, their postures and carriages would inevitably betrayed their immaturity. Unlike this bunch, mostly in gym clothes still looked older ang more sophisticated than Tim himself, which didn't so much bother him as denoted the root of his sense of futility. These kids fundamentally didn't need his service, yes he's very aware the role he's playing here, they'd been golden and would still be in the long run, which was infinitely more than Tim could ever claim for himself. So there he was, in a dreamlike state where the bell's definitely ringing, yet he had no idea what he'd taught or what they'd learned.
Hayden's preference porn is basically anything out of the ordinary since those he gets more than sufficiently, only the boys around pulled in by his sexual energy are too prudish or tame or just plainly unimaginative in his opinion to experiment in these various styles of play. Trouble in paradise? You could say that.
Filling the screen before him is this naked twink writhing delectably, with hands and foot bond to the ceiling and floor, an electric jumping egg buried deep inside, a leather blindfold half the size of his face, mouth squeezing into a thin line, apparently forcing to shut out any intelligible words, the stringy line of precum catching the light at it swings with his erratic rhythm. The sounds escaping leaves no doubt to Hayden how long there is before he begs release, but as yet he's holding on. The theme of this series from several years ago is edging amateur bottoms, and he who endures three different toys without stops while sustaining erection gets extra cash. He'd scrolled through the first couple ones, already on the verge of boredom by the repetition and inauthentic enthusiasm of it all, until he got to this one. Though it's only been three minutes and not through with the first toy, he's sure the boy's about to ask for a stop at any second, impatiently he checks the time mark to confirm his assessment, to his amazement there's another ten minutes left of this video, suddenly the urge to come right this moment rushes upon him, propelled by the vicarious torment of the nonstop edging ahead. He whips out his burning rigidity, and just as he starts to gain momentum he sees it, unmistakably as the camera pans slowly down, there, on the guy's neck, just below his right hairline, the tattoo of several small letters he's accidentally in close encounter seen on their summer school English teacher in the exact same place, they're s.h.e.l.l.
"Think about your sixteen year old self, see how much you've came, you're the person he wanted to be, don't forget that, keep remembering that." Tim's clinging on this one thought as he walks into the building today. There's a giant smudge from the ketchup of his sandwich earlier right at the center on his shirt front, he has dabbed and wiped and decided he didn't really care to go home and change, he imagines how his students here see him, little plain guy, with somehow plainer slack khakis and blue shirt, fake leather belt and 20 dollar grey trainers, he chuckles as he thinks about the possible comparisons his students make between him and the various staff they encounter, electricians, gardeners, caterers and the like. If he can clinch a tenure here he'd be able to afford better shoes for sure, counting on their performance and hopefully good feedback to the school, but he isn't holding his breath, which actually relaxes him enormously. Well, he thinks, at the end of the day i believe in what i do, so go make the most.
The moment he steps into the class he senses something different, two or three of the students are visibly attentive, he with no time to really analyze accepts it and starts with the course with a more encouraged attitude than every before. Not until he turns to write something on the whiteboard does he gets a bit uneasy, for one thing, he hears sniggers and muted words, intuitively feels them directing at him, and right when he turns around the sounds stop but the looks and the amused glances by a couple of the students clearly indicate something, but exactly about what he can't put his finger on. This, he supposes, exact dynamic between he and jocks has never really changed, " you'd think I'm in gay heaven in a position to be respected by these teenage Greek gods, but no, I'm still being made fun of, just not overtly anymore." He assumes it's the thing on his clothes, ah children, can't help the childishness. So he goes on, his mood not dampened a bit, if anything picks up a notch for feeling mentally superior.