The following fictional story deals with sex among males. If you are offended by such material, are too young, or reside in an area where is is not allowed, depart. Though not observed in this story, care enough about your self and humankind to practice safe sex. The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed unless the author consents.
scriptor55@hotmail.com
Chapter 1
The Lure
The sketch in my hand took an ordinary day and turned it on end!
I had been sorting through the mail that I had pulled out of my faculty mailbox that morning. The usual flyers for special school events, notices of meetings, and announcements from the principal's office left my mind to wander ahead into the day's tasks-until I opened the envelope. I pulled out the plain sheet of paper and unfolded it. "Damn," I said softly. I was clutching a pencil sketch of a nude teen male. The dark hair slightly bushy atop the head; the broad shoulders; the squared pecks with large, dark nipples; the chest narrowing sharply to a small waist; a beautiful dark bush around a long erect cut cock with a hairy ball sac hanging low beneath; long, muscular legs, also hairy; and long feet-it all made my dick go hard. I quickly glanced around my classroom, noting that I was alone, so no one would notice the bulge in the front of my trousers or my shortened breath.
My eyes moved back to the sketch, noting its secondary details. The nude male was sitting on what appeared to be a nicely shaped ass with his arms resting on the floor behind him. Dark hair peeped out from his pits, and his legs were thrown wide with the heels resting on the floor, with his rosebud peeking just under his balls. Not much of the face could be viewed because he was looking obliquely off to his right, teasing any viewer to imagine what the features were. After staring at the beautiful figure, I made myself examine the envelope. Plain white business size, it bore a computer-generated address label bearing only my name, Evan Halsey, on the front. Obviously, someone had just chucked it into my mailbox.
Glancing at the drawing, I could not match it with any of my students. Of course, in such a large high school, it could be any guy. What did it mean? Was someone playing games with me? Did the sender suspect me of being gay? It just couldn't mean that somebody was attracted to me, a bespectacled, 30-year-old English teacher. Of course, the sender did not have to be the male in the drawing, didn't have to be the sketch artist, or even a student for that matter. Was a colleague playing games with me? Couldn't be. I was too solitary for a colleague to play a joke like that. Despite my years of teaching at the school, I was cordial and professional but not really close to anyone in the large faculty.
Today's bell ringing for the start of classes was clangorous, irritating me for some reason. "Ha!" that smart-ass interior voice said: "You just want to keep looking at that sketch. Admit it-this is one of the most exciting events to occur in your pathetic, common life. If you don't watch it, you'll be on the bone when your first class arrives. Susan Connolly, who never misses anything, will spot it, and she'll have told her clique of girl friends before the lunch period." I quickly folded the sketch, returned it to the envelope, and tucked it deep into an interior pocket in my Land's End attache case. Susan was not to be trifled with or underestimated. Throughout Junior English, Senior English, Honors English, The American Novel, and Advanced Comp, I studied my male students carefully, trying to see if one of them betrayed his role in placing the envelope in my mailbox. I detected nothing suspicious. There were several tall, well-built males with dark hair who could have passed for the subject in the sketch, but not enough for me to decide that I was looking at the sketch's model. I was not going to go off the deep end by reading too much into a student's ordinary demeanor.
By day's end, I was weary of trying to decipher behavior and deconstruct comments my students made to me before and after class and in the hallways. I dreaded what would come that evening-fears about what my being the recipient of this sketch meant about my future at the school and my career. Somebody may know a lot more about me than I ever intended!
I was right to be afraid. That evening at home, all I could do was sit in the family room, sipping Merlot, trying to figure out what the sudden appearance of the sketch portended. I moved to a critical-thinking stance, seeing and feeling myself following the mystery sender's behavior. Then when I was well into that mindset by acting out the process several times in my mind, I asked myself what value I was serving since no behavior is valueless even if the perpetrator is unaware of his motivation. Too many possibilities presented themselves. At the least, the sketch was not a random act; someone had to create the sketch, target me, create the label, and slip it in my mailbox. But there were plenty of ways to embarrass or humiliate me that could provide the perpetrator a more immediate pay-off ("Could be a she," the politically correct dimension in my mind contributed uselessly). I hadn't hurt anyone so that he would attempt to end my career by exposing my gayness. Among all the school's teachers, as tough as I had a reputation for being, I was also considered fair. I didn't think the school harbored a Richard III who was so bored that he wanted to set people at each other's throats for his own gain or an Iago who was going to bring down an Othello simply because he could. In my world, they lived only in a textbook.
The clock in the living room chimed ten times, startling me with the realization that I had spent all evening studying the sketch and ruminating over its being sent to me. I could tell that I wasn't going to achieve anything more by sitting there that night except drinking too much wine, futilely hoping that answers would arrive. So I gave it up for the evening.
In my bedroom, studying myself in the mirror as I disrobed, I tried to look at myself realistically. Short, blond, nondescript, but shoulders and arms in which the fine bundles of muscles would become visible upon certain movements. A hairy chest with developed pecs and nipples the size of pencil erasers. Well-shaped, moderately muscular, hairy legs. I had started working out three years ago, and it was paying off. My calf muscle was developing, and my lightly haired ass was no longer flat. Like my arms, the muscles in my legs would separate themselves into bundles upon movement. But nobody ever saw these features because they were covered by the sports shirts and Dockers I wore at school.
I did work out sometimes in the school's exercise/weight room, but I did so at a time when few if any would see me, mostly a Saturday morning or late periods on school days when guys were involved in practice for varsity sports. Otherwise, I worked out at home where I had a small gym set-up. When I worked out at school, I wore running shorts and a tee shirt. I never showered at school, for I was too self-conscious. I still had a fading remnant of a layer of fat on my stomach that kept me from showing myself to those beautifully built males. Besides, as the family klutz who was a sibling to jocks, I was uncomfortable in a locker room or in a sports setting. When my father had introduced his sons, I was the "brain" among his boys, a comment that was always followed by a detailed recitation of Ted's, Tim's, or Brad's recent exploits in their sports activities.
Before I stepped into the boxers in which I slept (briefs by day, boxers by night), I studied my cock. Soft, ringed with plenty of light brown hair, it looked ordinary. I had always wished there was something about it that hinted at its seven inches when erect. I mused ruefully sometimes about how it could expand to so much from what promised to be so little. One of Mother Nature's little jokes!
My cock started to elevate. I gently brushed just the tips of my fingers down its length. Oh, it liked that, levitating at least 35 degrees. I reclined on my bed and opened the sketch, studying it. As I devoted feather-light caresses up and down my dick and over my hairy ball sac, back up to even more lightly encircle the bottom my my mushroom cap, then up to lightly embrace my nipples, I imagined that nude male lying on top of me, his cock beside mine, his hairy bush tickling my skin, his body weighing down heavily on me, his hairy legs brushing sensuously against mine as his lips gently brushed mine, and brown eyes mesmerizing me. My breath was quickening. Though precome usually does not occur much with me, a line was oozing out my slit and running down my shaft.
I moved my hand back up to my nipples, gently circling them with my fingertips, ramping up the pleasure by a factor of three. Adopting the posture of the nude male, I placed pillows behind me, laid the sketch down between my legs, pulled out some Wet, squirted a fair amount in my hand, and started caressing my cock and balls. Oh, especially the balls-man, I don't know what it is, but they like Wet smeared slowly over them!
Controlling myself (usually among the world's most impatient people), I slowly slid my Wet-slick hand up and down the shaft of my cock, not stroking actually, occasionally moving down to caress and cup my balls. Back up to the cap and frenum, all the while studying the nude male, animating the two of us in my mind.
He pushed my hands above my head, lacing his fingers into mine, but in a way that established that he was in control. He gently moved our arms up and down so that our skin and muscles glided over each other. He stared into my eyes, then again brushed his lips over mine, sliding his tongue along my lips but not allowing it to enter. Then he began kissing my throat and licking its hollow, eliciting a gasp from me, while he slid his hands down my arms and gently pumped his cock along mine. I moaned with pleasure. Somehow, I knew he wanted me to keep my hands above my head, but I began to move my chest against his so that he could feel my hairy pecks tickling his smooth chest, and I pumped my hips too, evoking a moan from him. I murmured my approval softly, feeling his hairy balls glide over mine. He suddenly moved his legs, which had been inside mine, wide apart, moving my legs accordingly, making me feel more vulnerable to and controlled by him, making the hair on our legs tickle their corresponding limbs. His eyes sparked. I was his!
Wham! I was cumming before I was ready. My back immediately, uncontrollably arched as I imagined the two of us cumming simultaneously. I don't cum a large amount, and it is usually quite thick, but this time it flowed out of the slit in my penis. My toes curled. I lay there for a minute, regaining my breath, just reintegrating with my surroundings, feeling the cum run down my hand onto my balls.
Why couldn't something like this really happen? I arose and walked into the bathroom to clean myself up, thinking that if my mysterious lover were there, I would allow our cum, the product of our joining, to anoint us. Returning to bed, I set my alarm. I placed the folded sketch on the nightstand so I could look at it first thing in the morning. "Get a grip, Evan," snapped that interior voice again. "You are overplaying this random missive."
In the moments before I drifted off to sleep, I wondered again about where today's events would lead. Surprisingly quickly, I realized that one of two possibilities would occur. Either I would never hear anything again from the mysterious stranger, leaving me wondering the rest of my life about that unfinished script, or, having worked up the courage to activate his plans, the mystery man would communicate again. I hoped for the latter.