Loading...My stomach was churning and a headache was starting to form just above my eyes. Nearly 20 years later, that building still gave me fits of trepidation:
Bradford James High School; home of the Fighting Navajos.
Of course, here’s a tip for the people that name schools and figure out the mascot names: think like a high school kid. Going to school at Bradford James and being called the Navajos is a problem when you’re always referred to as the “B J Hoes” by the other schools and kids.
Oh, yeah. Talk about a way to build confidence and pride in your school and to get school spirit…
“We’re here to fight; we’ll ’cause you woes, you’re gonna succumb to the BJ Hoes!”
I graduated from the place and was back for a Parent-Teacher conference to talk about my son and how he’s getting along in class. I’d taken Scott in when he was just a few years old, when his parents — my best pal Sam and his wife, Janet, had been killed in a car crash. Now I was a 38 year old gay man with an 18 year old son.
Memories flooded my head as I remembered the times I’d had as a “B J Hoe”; the years of torment as I was slowly realizing that I was gay. I’d been one of the popular kids in school, voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Most Likely To Get the White Picket Fence”; I’d been part of the Royal Court for homecoming, but not the king. That had been my best pal, Sam, the football quarterback and nearly straight-A student.
I’d been attractive enough during high-school — I never had a problem lining up dates for the dances — but I was never going to get “Cutest Guy” or “Hottest Student” awards, either. It was through my 20s that I finally grew into my body and figured out how to make my better features — my eyes and my smile — more noticed. Now, I was tall and good looking. I never failed to get the looks when I was out and about. At 6 foot, 2 inches, I had the body of a football player — broad shoulders, thick arms and muscular legs. Working out in the gym 3 times a week and having a high school aged son to keep after helped, too.
My eyes were still the bright, startling blue that they’d always been. Think of Paul Newman and those are my eyes. And my hair was still the coppery shade of red it had been since I was a kid. But now it was shorter, straighter and worked with my face, instead of looking like the flared and flaming tip of a match, just lit.
I sat in my car, looking at the building. It hadn’t changed much in the last 20 years; the trees were taller, the paint had faded some, and the parking lots were now surrounded by block walls and wrought iron. There were still a lot of the same teachers on staff, but many had moved on, as well. I knew that Mr. Adams was still here, because that’s who I was here to see tonight.
Mr. Adams had been my English teacher when I was a junior and taught everything from basic grammar and spelling to English Lit and Creative Writing. He was a young man — maybe only in his late 20s at the time. He had been about 6 foot tall, with dark hair and green eyes. When I’d seen him sometimes, he’d been wearing shorts and a t-shirt, showing off toned and long legs and a muscular chest and arms. And all of it had a light covering of dark hair.
He had also been the advisor on the year book and had also headed up the drama club and helped out with the twice-yearly productions. And he was my first crush.
Well, my first crush on a living, breathing, real, live person. My first crush had been on a member of some music group — I couldn’t remember his name or the group’s name, either. But Mr. Adams; he was the fuel for many a late night fantasy, jerking off in my room, keeping quiet so I didn’t wake up mom or dad with my teenage lustful actions.
I’d imagine him asking me to stay late after school so we could work on some essay I was writing or I’d stay late to help him put together our yearbook; his cologne would tickle my senses and I’d lean in closer, feeling his warmth and heat, looking into his deep, Emerald green eyes; then his lips would be on mine, our bodies would intertwine and we’d make passionate love, taking turns sucking on each other’s cocks and finally, he’d plunge his cock in my ass, and I’d cum all over his desk, again and again, until he came — hot, thick and wet loads across my back; we’d collapse in sheer satisfaction on his desk. We’d clean up and he’d give me a ride home, giving me a kiss on my cheek and tell me “Until tomorrow”.
Or I would be finishing up my swimming and diving practice and heading to the locker room. Mr. Adams would have worked out in the school gym and would be showering in the locker room, his tall and muscular body, covered with dark hair, his cock and balls dangling as he soaped his body, slipping his fingers along his cock and in his ass. He’d ask me if I could wash his back and then we’d be fucking in the shower, my young and overly hard cock slipping in and out of his ass, water splashing over us, washing away the soap we used as lube and then cleaning our bodies of the juices from our cocks as we both came. And again, he’d kiss me on my cheek and tell me “Until tomorrow”.
Well, tomorrow never came. I continued going to school, he continued to teach. He continued to be the object of my youthful and lustful desires; each time I’d jerk off, he’d be in my mind, holding me, hugging me, kissing me, sucking me, fucking me. Then I graduated and went off to college.
Now, today, I was a network administrator for one of the big hotel resorts in town, pulling down a decent salary and raising a teenage son. I didn’t have a lot of time to date and even less time for sex. Instead, my lust was taken care of the same way I’d taken care of it in high school — with my own hand. I was still jacking off at least once a day, my cock slipping in and out of my hand. Sometimes, I’d be online, checking out a porn site or looking at pictures; doing cam-2-cam with some guy or even just reading hot and kinky sex stories on the web. As long as it got me up, I was able to get off.
I got out of the car and headed towards the school — my stomach still churning with apprehension and my head still aching. I walked through the front gates and stepped back into the quad of Bradford James High School. There were still people moving about — teachers, coaches and a few students heading home after a long day; janitors getting their gear together to scrub and clean the rooms again and a few parents heading out after their own Parent-Teacher conference. I would probably be the last one of the day.
I headed down the corridor and found room 212 — Mr. Adams’ class. The door was closed. I was about to knock, when a deep voice came from behind. “Mr. Marius? Bill Marius? Is that you?” I turned to see a slightly older — but still just as sexy — Mr. Adams walking up to me. He was still just as tall, dark and handsome as he’d ever been. His dark hair was now threaded through with some silver. His eyes still had the same intense green shine, and his smile was still as bright.
He walked up and extended his hand; we shook hands as he reached behind me to open the door. “Well, I can’t believe that it’s been 20 years since you were one of my kids. And now you’re here about kids of your own. Time does have a way of marching on.” There was a wistful smile as he ushered me into his room.
Nothing had changed — much — in the intervening decades. The walls were still covered with boards and images of some of the great writers of history — Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Shaw. Books lined a row of shelves in the back — Mr. Adams still had his “literature lending library” so students could read the great authors of our time; and from centuries before. The A/V set up in the corner had given way to a flat screen TV and a DVD player, replacing the big old TV and VCR set up from my youth. His desk was still set towards the corner, at an angle, so he could keep a close watch on all aspects of his classroom. He sat on the corner of that desk, now.
He motioned to a chair and I sat. The old smells of chalk and books — and his cologne — still hung in the air; more memories flashed through my head. My cock started to stir a bit and I could feel heat deep in my balls, as I thought back on those fantasies of youth and looked at the man of so many of those desires. He still was handsome.
“So, tell me what’s been going on with you, Mr. Marius” he said.
I told him what had been happening; of how Scott was my adopted son, the events leading to him being with me; I told him of my work. I told him so much, covering 20 years in about 20 minutes. He’d nodded and made small comments and gestures while I spoke; calling me Mr. Marius.
I told him to call me Bill. He told me to call him Todd.
With just a simple gesture — that first name basis — we were now equals; adult grown men, no longer teacher and former student. The unease I’d been feeling washed away as we spoke and I began to wonder why I’d felt that way before.
We talked about Scott and how he was doing in class; how he could improve and how well adjusted he seemed, given his past and the circumstances of his life. I told him that I acted not only as his father, but also as a friend. I treated him more as an adult than as a child. Todd suggested that may be because I was not his biological father and didn’t have that view of him as just a child. It made sense.
I told him how we both still did things together — as buddies. I told him how I still swam and dove and how Scott was getting into that with me; but he never wanted to get involved with it at school. I noticed his eyes when I’d mentioned about my swimming; as though he was checking me out. After this many years as gay, you know when somebody is looking at your body in that way. My dick stirred again in my lap, filling with heat and growing. Old lusts die hard, I guess.
We continued chatting about school and Scott and how things were. He mentioned how he still had the programs from the plays we’d done in high school — he kept them all — and he went to the shelves in the back. I rose and followed him. He pulled a small book from the shelves, and opened the cover. Inside, he had placed all of the programs — including my foray into the dramatic arts — and there I was, 20 years younger in the costume of a strolling entertainer. In the same plastic envelope, he still had the pictures he’d used to make the program. He pulled them out and sifted through to the one of me.
I had been standing there on the stage, wearing a pair of green tights and a green, blue and purple tunic. You could see my legs, snugly outlined in the tight fabric, muscles and definition from years of swimming; the bulge of my ass, even then being nicely rounded, lifting the back of the tunic. The front showed a slight bulge, as well, but we all had worn padded jock-straps under the tights. He looked at the image and then back at me.
“You’ve changed some,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. A shock of teenage longing and lust shot through my body from that touch — nothing had changed in 20 years. “But I wonder if you still have those legs.” His hand then slid down my body and slid along my thigh. That jolt of lust became a nearly all-consuming current. My dick stiffened and hardened, shifting in my pants; my balls responding and beginning to churn out the sexual fluids my body thought were needed.
I stammered with an attempted reply, but nothing came from my lips. It was as though my cock was sapping the strength from my voice, leaving me speechless as the old fantasies crossed my mind.
“And I see you still have a big package, too,” he said, his hand sliding up and cupping my still hardening cock. “I could often catch a glimpse of you in the locker rooms after you finished swimming. I had to wait until you left, so I could take my shower and jerk off to thoughts of your body. But I was your teacher; something I could never do would have been to touch you.”
He stood and looked deep into my eyes. “But now that we’re both adults, I can take those liberties.” He leaned forward and kissed me, his hands caressing my back and shoulders. I could feel the pressure of his chest against mine; his cock — also hard — pressing against my hard cock. His tongue slipped along my lips and I opened my mouth to let him in.
My nose filled with his aroma as my mouth filled with his tongue. The shock of his revelations was being replaced by the lust of my youth; I eagerly returned his kisses, pressing my body against his and grabbing for his head, his back, his ass. I pulled him to me, forcing my tongue deeper into his mouth, passion fueling my movements; desire became all important.
We were kissing and groping, feeling each other’s bodies, like a couple of high school teenagers. But we were both adult men, grown men, gay men; this time, fantasies could become real.
His lips tasted sweet and his body firm and solid. His cologne was still as fragrant and was fitting; he smelled good, he looked good, he tasted good; my senses overloaded with his inputs. I could feel the firmness of his ass; the shape of his back; the strength in his arms. I pushed back to take a breath and to gather myself. “Wait. This is … is this real?” I was able to gain my voice and ask. He simply looked into my eyes and nodded his head.
He stepped back and asked “Do you want it to be real? Do you want this to happen? I could tell, even back then, that you’d noticed me; you’d noticed that I was not just a teacher; that I was a man. And I was a man you had thoughts about; thoughts of carnal desire; thoughts of lust and passion and longing. In your mind, you had thoughts of raw, animal and primal sex.”
I nodded my head slowly in agreement, feeling my face heat with passion and desire; blush covered my face completely, admitting to those long ago desires.
“We can now follow through on those thoughts; that passion…. Unless,” his voice grew quiet, “there’s another reason why you can’t?” His eyes looked at me, beseeching an answer.
There was no reason I could not — would not — should not — give in to those long ago desires; I should rekindle that flame that burned so bright and so hot when I’d dream of his naked body and the things we’d do. I just had to slip from teacher and student to man and man. My cock yearned to be free of my clothes; my body burned for his; but my mind still threw blocks in the way.
A hesitant moment can seem like an eternity. He cast his eyes down and started to turn.
That’s when my desires rammed through the blocks my logical head created; I reached for him and pulled him to me. I kissed his face, cupping his chin. “I can’t even begin to tell you the number of times I dreamed of this — of you, Mr. Ada… Todd. How many nights I … I did things … thinking of you. You mentioned the shower before. I, too, had those fantasies, of you and me making love — fucking — in the shower, our bodies entwined, water, lust and desire washing over us.” I leaned and kissed him again.
I reached to his chest and began to unbutton his shirt; I slid my hands to his belt and his pants. I could feel his body tremble and his muscled contract as I slowly worked at undressing him. After a moment, his hands began to do the same — pulling at my belt, slipping down the zipper, tugging at my shirt.
Soon we were standing, naked, body to body, kissing and holding each other; our tongues explored mouths, necks, chests. Our hands explored torsos — legs, stomachs, ass, cocks. Sex and lust mingled with passion and desire, our bodies responding to each others. I kissed my way down his body — from his neck to his wonderfully furry chest. I licked his nipples, shudders of rapture coursed through him. My lips followed a trail of fur to his navel; and beyond.
Soon, my lips and tongue were just above his cock, his musk and sweat filling my nose, his tastes filling my mouth. I slipped my tongue across the head of his cock, tasting his sweet pre-cum; a drop glistening before the onslaught of my mouth.
He moaned as my lips slid over the head of his cock and down the shaft. I cupped his balls and rubbed them, my other hand on his pelvis, fingers slipping through his pubes. His cock slipped down my throat and fit well. Long, hard and with a surprising thickness, it filled my mouth and rocked my senses. My tongue danced across the flesh and swirled around the head, slipping into the slit, tasting more of his flesh and his pre-cum.
His hands rubbed my scald, rubbed his abs, teased his nipples. My mouth worked his cock, flashes of fantasies splashing across my mind, driving my actions. I sucked and swallowed his cock for all I was worth, wanting more from him. I pulled my lips from his cock, grabbing his waist, and turned him around. My hands grasped his ass, pulling the cheeks apart and I leaned in, licking and tasting his round ass. My tongue slipped in his hole, tasting his depths. Gasps and guttural grunts escaped his lips — for an English teacher, he was short of words to describe his feelings. Primal urges, instead, powered his voice. My hands pulled on his ass, his balls, his cock. Each movement brought forth more primal grunting from this well spoken man. He leaned forward, using the bookshelves for support as I ate his ass.
My own cock was hot and throbbing and dripping pre-cum. I wanted to bury that rod deep into his ass, pressing and pounding, living out the images of my youth, making him moan, driving him to reach new heights of desire and lust, as he’d driven me to new heights of thought and learning so many years ago. His legs quivered and trembled with the onslaught of my tongue, my hands. I could feel his balls tense and grow hard, filling with hot cum, yearning to burst free.
And burst free it did. The first shot of cum from his cock brought a cry to his lips, “Oh, fuck!” His sphincter tensed and tightened around my tongue as I licked and sucked his ass; another shot of cum exploded from his cock, landing on the floor, under the drippings of his first shot onto the shelves. My hand continued to pump on his cock, pulling more and more of his creamy white liquid, pooling it on the floor as it left his spurting cock. His breath came in deep, short heaves and his body trembled with the force of his release.
The stream of cum from his dick slowed to a trickle of white hot ooze, running over my hand and down his cock before dripping to the floor. My own cock yearned for release, throbbing and dripping pre-cum, slicking my cock and the floor. I began to stroke my cock, feeling my own balls fill with cum, wanting freedom.
Todd turned around and pulled on my shoulders, standing me up. He kissed me hard and his hand joined mine on my cock, pulling and yanking on the shaft, driving me closer and closer to cumming. With a groan and a grunt, the first wave of orgasm wracked my body, spasms running through my legs as cum exploded from my cock, spraying his cock and abs with my fluids.
Wave after wave of cum burst forth from my cock, covering him with my sticky hot juice; he continued to stroke my cock and his own, pulling my climax from me. Soon, drained of cum, my cock slipped from hand; he raised the hand to his lips and tasted the remnants of our mingled orgasms. I did the same, tasting the sweetness of our cum, mixed and melded on my fingers and his.
We recaptured out breaths and came back to reality. We were standing in the back of his classroom, splotches of white cum marking where our orgasms had impacted our pasts. A sudden flush of embarrassment crossed his face, as he realized what had just happened. I pulled him close and hugged him, reassuring him of my own desires for our adventure.
We embraced that way for minutes before pulling apart and dressing. We were quiet, but I didn’t know if the silence was good or bad; whether embarrassment or memories powered the somber sound; only the ticking of the clock was the only sound we could hear. We dressed, wiping cum from our bodies as we did, cleaning cum from the floor and the shelves. Books had been spared his release; no cum had touched a Shakespeare spine.
After we were dressed, I looked at Todd — Mr. Adams — trying to gage his reaction. He was still quiet and seemed to be avoiding my eyes. I could not tell from his face — passive as it had been in my youth — what emotions flared inside of him. As a teacher, his passions had been the great literature and his emotions would flow and glow from his face as he read certain poems, chapters, passages; he lived for the literature and it showed.
Finally, I could take no more of the silence. I reached for him, touching his shoulder. I was about to give words of encouragement and approval for our actions, when a single tear slid from his eyes. I pulled him close and held him as sobs wracked his body.
“I … I … we,” he stammered, trying to put words to the war of feelings inside. “I’ve wanted this for so long, but now that I’ve done it — done what we did — I can’t help but feel it was wrong. That I’ve broken some kind of trust that should not be breached.”
I could feel the conflict within him; comforting words seemed to elude me. He clung to me and I held him tight. Finally, I said “Todd. This is something we’ve both wanted for so long. I wanted you when I was a kid. And you wanted me. And now we’ve found each other — as adults — and we’ve been able to find a moment of clarity from the jumbled passions we’ve had.”
He stepped back from me; his eyes bright and clear, his cheeks traced with tears. “But, what if I want more?” he asked simply.
I was taken aback for a moment. Here was a man that I’d desired and yearned for, so many years ago, for so long, and he was wanting more than just our quick slip into primal sexual urges. Here was a man I knew the so much about and yet so little; here was a man I’d wanted for 20 years, admitting that he’d wanted me — he still wants me — and I’m finding that I want him.
“Let’s talk about that over dinner, wine, and after we’ve examined our bodies in the softer light of candles, in a warm, soft bed. Let’s go.” I held his hand and headed towards the door.
Hours later, we were in my home, in my bed, Scott just down the hall. His teacher and his parent were having another conference — a joining of our bodies — a joining of our passions — as we had wanted for so long. We had eaten and had probably consumed too much wine. Our passions were reignited and we were following those desires. Just after getting home, we’d gone to my bed, stripped naked and allowed our bodies to touch again.
We climbed into the bed and began to suck on each other’s cocks. I slowly ground my pelvis against his face as his cock slipped in and out of my lips. Silent moans and groans slipped from his mouth into my cock, driving my desire and fuelling the flame. He admitted that he wanted to feel my cock in his ass, filling him with my lust. I obliged.
I rolled onto my back as he squatted above me, his own cock jutting hard, throbbing with desire; he slowly descended down, taking all of my cock inside of him. Pre-cum oozed from his cock and dribbled on my abs; I used my fingers to capture the golden fluid and brought it to my lips. It tasted as sweet — if not sweeter — than it had just hours before in his classroom.
He slid up and down the length of my cock, his eyes closed and a smile on his face. A look of even more pleasure would cross his face each time he slipped to the bottom of my cock, taking it all deep inside. I was wracked with my own pleasure, snugly encased in him. I leaned up to kiss him, to hold him as we rocked together. We rolled over, and my cock was able to go deeper into him, filling his ass completely, my balls touching his body. His cock throbbed and twitched with lust and fire.
As he lay on his back, his ankles on my shoulders, his ass warmly consuming every inch of my cock, I could see that I was now the teacher, he was my student and I was teaching him how to live his dreams. We rocked together, slowly and lovingly fucking our past into our present.
As he stroked his cock and began to cum, another load of white juice on his abs, my own climax released, filling him with my cum; our futures were now melded into our past and present as we drifted in our desires and our satisfaction.
Tomorrow had come and would be here forever.