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 it is not allowed, depart. Though not observed in this story, care enough about yourself and humankind to practice safe sex.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed without the author's consent.
EBradley33@Excite.com Chapter 3
Nibbling at the Bait End of the previous chapter:
The letter--
"When we finished making love, Mr. Halsey, my bud suggested that he do a sketch of me to show you what a teacher in our scenario would see-at least in part. It took him half an hour to complete the sketch. We hope you liked it. We hope you used it to get off. Would you care to guess who the teacher in our scenario was?
Two friends of yours.
P.S. Oh yeah, we're going to have your ass too, Evan, and not in any imaginary scenario either!"
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After I finished reading the letter, my mind teemed with questions and impressions!
A student of mine complained about homework . . . that's not the point, you dolt; a student of yours created the sketch . . . hairy legs rubbing together . . . they think I'm hot . . . they let me watch their lovemaking . . . they wanted me to feel their lovemaking . . . damn, teeth sliding gently down one's cock-it's almost like the lion tamer sticking his head in the lion's mouth . . . hot . . .what oral love-making . . . they've done it a lot . . . is the guy in the sketch a student of mine . . . why isn't there anything in the letter to tip me off to their identities . . . maybe they like me . . . naw . . . all the other guys in the other scenarios are sexy . . . could be a big joke . . . a trap . . . careful, Evan . . . guys have never been interested in you . . . how did they find out about each other enough to become fuck buddies . . . their nipples are sensitive too . . . if they caressed me-- . . . it can't be real . . . why me . . . it has to be a joke . . . just a way to string me along . . . I'd have to look up to see into the tall guy's eyes . . . hot . . . they have to be watching closely if they want any payoff from the joke . . . I need to pay more attention to who's observing me . . . how different would the two cocks feel up my ass . . . they know me better than I want them to . . . they knew the sketch would hook me . . . could I have done something to give that impression . . . I could explode thinking about the guy in the sketch making love to me as the letter describes . . . there's nothing about me to justify this attention and effort . . . it has to be a joke . . . they want my ass . . . what does that mean . . . yeah, could mean have sex with me . . . but maybe it means "my ass in a sling" . . . I'll be hurt . . . cause me trouble . . . they created the scenarios perhaps because they were getting bored . . . this sketch stuff is just a game . . . to what other career do I go if this blows up into a scandal . . . that last line in the letter could be a threat . . . what could a man my age possibly give these two students that they would value . . . has to be a joke . . . a way to out me . . . I've been careless . . .
This push-pull swirl was overloading my circuits, and my stress level was rising, so I focused on the sketches of the cocks and the letter. The sketch artist is good! I need to walk around the classroom while students are working and look at their doodling. Maybe I might see something reminiscent of the sketch I was sent. But I would have to be careful. Since the artist is in one of my classes and he's way ahead of me in this script, he would most likely know in a second what my hidden motive was. I could check to see if one of my students is taking a drawing class in the art department. Of course, the artist doesn't have to be enrolled in such a class this semester.
There is nothing in my life, absolutely nothing, that suggests I have any business believing that this turn of events is exactly what it seems, that the letter is really complimentary to me. But nobody can really have it in for me that much either.
Group work is occurring in most of my classes tomorrow. At the height of the groups' interaction, I'll stroll around the room, glancing at notebooks. Students are used to my restlessness during group work or tests (I hate waiting for anything). I would be relatively invisible if I were careful.
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The next morning I was button-holed by a colleague down the hall, so my classroom was full of students when I entered. No banter with Susan or anyone else this morning. In our studies we had been working on shaping a literary response. Today, I was reading a poem about struggling to recapture the past in order to determine the meaning of the present, stopping at certain points in my reading and asking the students to quietly record their impressions of the poem at that point. In future class periods, they would study how various texts ("texts" being interpreted broadly) prompted impressions, how students might interpret those impressions, how they might negotiate conflicting impressions. Why? So that they could field accurate impressions, not be captive to false impressions. So that they could ride the crest of the waves of social, political, and cultural intercourse rather than being wiped out by them. "Physician, heal thyself," I heard that snotty interior voice challenge. "Shut up!" I shot back at it.
Upon completing this part of the activity, I placed the students in structured groups (a leader, a good support person, a follower, a weaker student-with students always rotating through the groups). I then set them to sharing where they thought the poem was going, what caused them to shift impressions, where they found themselves at the poem's end, and what this experience taught them about reading communities.
I allowed five minutes for the groups to really move into discussion, and then I walked to the windows, looking out, a common habit of mine when students were working in groups. I slowly turned and walked around the outer rows, glancing outside and around the room, ending with a glance at the nearest desk.
H-m-m-m-m. Susan Connolly and Troy Morgan were talking animatedly to each other. As I live and breathe! Susan tossed her head, flirting with Troy. I'd never observed her behave so flirtatiously! And Troy's eyes were as big as silver dollars and as bright as klieg lights above a stage. He had it bad! I hadn't seen either of them interact like that in class. A sparkle graced Susan's dark eyes. When Susan glanced my way, I quickly looked outside. I didn't want to discourage any new developments for them. Susan obviously appreciated Troy's tall, surfer body, made hunkier by broad shoulders tapering to quite a thin waist and butt. Blond, blue-eyed, all-American boy-next-door. And the lucky dog had dimples! I wondered if Troy turned Susan on as much as he turned me on. He was on the quiet side, always sitting at the back of the room. I suddenly realized that today was the first they had rotated into the same group. They looked good together. This situation would bear watching. Maybe a little help moving it along? Perhaps it was time to pair students for some future assignment. "And just what pedagogical theory informs that method?" I heard that snide voice in my mind charge. "Helping students realize their potential," my inner voice responded smugly.
I made a circuit of the room, pausing at the windows. Moving on, I had again reached the back of the room when I looked down on a desk and saw a sketch of a guitarist. DAMN! There was my sketch artist!
This was too quick, too easy. But if, from many hours of study in graduate school, I can recognize a drawing from the medieval Utrecht Psalter or the work of other medieval illuminators without any prompting, I can recognize my sketch artist. There he was- little, quiet, shy Kenny. Who would have imagined?
Like my sketch and those in the letter, the longer strokes in this sketch seemed as though the artist were a little too aggressive, were losing a little fine control, for there was a wildness, a boldness about the longer stroke. The long lines were also thicker. Cute little Kenny! I'll be!!!
I moved on casually, not wanting to give myself away and not varying my behavior other than to pause a slight bit longer. I wasn't particularly noticed, I think, by anyone, let alone Kenny. A member of his group who was making a point boisterously had captured the group's attention.
Kenny Walters was a good B student when he worked at it. He had the potential to do better, but I probably would not see it. It would happen on down the road from this academic year. As a junior, he was too busy internalizing other factors to focus on achieving an A in my class. Since Modern English is a pattern language, when we had conferences over his writing, I made a point of revealing to him good patterns in his thinking and writing and encouraging him to amplify those in his future essays. I had been somewhat successful in drawing him out about his goals, dreams, and intrests. I could never break through his guardedness.
A bit of a dreamer, Kenny sat at the back of the class, walked at the back of a group, was among the last to arrive in the room, and hung back in discussions. But he was a good kid. Drawing was not a skill I had known he possessed, but it was not out of character with the category of student he represented. I hated seeming Freudian, but introverts often prefer solitary activities. Drawing is certainly that.
Kenny stood about 5 feet, 6 inches tall, thick dark brown hair, blue eyes, with a complexion on the pale side and just a few freckles sprinkled across his nose. Small ears flat against his head. A pert nose and nicely curved lips. Nice body shape, slim like a runner's. Wow! I suddenly remembered. He had a neat dick-shorter than his friend's but wider! A smile moved across my face. How many teachers knew what a particular student's dick looks like?
So now where did that leave me? Well, I'd have to pay attention to Kenny's buddies. Fuck buddies were probably going to be together as much as possible at school. If I got out of my classroom and sauntered the halls, I might catch him with the subject of the sketch.
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Once again, I was beginning to feel defeated. Two days of patrolling the halls revealed no Kenny and no friend. They must leave campus during the lunch period. Of course-it was the only way they could steal some time together during the school day. If they hadn't a lot of time outside school to be together and they were as close as the letter portrays, then lunch periods would be precious time alone. So I had extended my walk after lunch to pass by the halls looking out on the parking lots.
On Friday, near the end of the lunch period, I was thinking that I'd best be heading back to my classroom. I had started moving away from the windows and doors looking out on the west parking lot when I saw a car whiz by with someone who caught the "corner of my eye." I returned to where I had been standing as the car parked. Kenny crawled out of the passenger side and a tall fellow, dark hair, great bod, crawled out of the driver's side. As they drew closer to the entrance, I recognized the fellow as Robert Martin, not a student of mine. But he was a well-known wide receiver on the football team. As Robert was walking closely behind Kenny, he reached out, grabbed the back of Kenny's jeans, and pulled Kenny tight up against himself. Robert quickly leaned around and nipped at Kenny's left ear lobe. My cock jumped and my back arched involuntarily. I groaned, wishing just once in my life someone would do that to me. (Well, someone to whom I was attracted anyway.) I glanced around quickly to assure myself that no one was watching me. Kenny blushed and giggled (I couldn't hear, but it had to be a giggle). He quickly ground against Robert's groin in a sexy little circle. As Kenny moved forward, Robert laid his hand gently but possessively on Kenny's neck. Kenny looked up at Robert shyly and worshipfully. "That is just too cute for words," I thought.
Not wanting to be caught by Robert and Kenny at the door, I walked quickly toward the hall taking me to my classroom. The afternoon's classes and Friday Fever among my students kept my mind from mulling the new information it had received. Fortunately, I could ponder the day's events all evening, for I didn't have to worry about classes for a couple of days.
Deep thought made for a slow dinner that evening. I was glad to know the identity of the young man in the sketch and even happier that he and Kenny were buddies. It seemed certain that the author of the letter was also the subject of the sketch. Still, I just couldn't work this situation out: I knew little about Robert, and it was virtually certain he knew even less about me. Kenny and I had only a formal teacher-student relationship. So why all this business of the sketch and the letter? Again, my mind told me mischief was afoot: "Be wary, Evan."
With a Bachelors in English, essentially a literature degree, I had read hundreds of plots and studied their dynamics. I could create multiple plots for any set of circumstances. 'What if Kenny drew the sketch of his buddy Robert, but it was lifted by a third party, who set this scheme in motion by placing the sketch in my mailbox. Then he wrote the fictitious letter. Achieving enough of the right information would lead one to a resolution, but I was far from possessing that level of knowledge. Ambiguity reigned. I was impatient with but not intolerant of ambiguity.
I prowled around the house, listening to poignant music like Mahler's "Adagietto," mulling over the day's events. Mahler didn't improve my mood this night. After a glass of merlot, I retired hopeful.
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I saw myself in the darkened school exercise room, my hands tied over my head to one of the parallel bars, with a handkerchief tied over my mouth. Shadows, one taller and the other shorter, were kneeling around me, squeezing the muscles in my arms, chest, ass, stomach, and legs roughly. Then the shadows reached up and pinched my nipples hard. They bent down and started nibbling up the inside of my legs, not at all gently or sensuously. The short one started biting my scrotum and pulling on it to the point of pain. The tall one moved behind me and started thrusting fingers into my ass. Every movement of theirs remained now on this side, now on that side of pain. I couldn't understand why their behavior contrasted so much with that of the two buddies in the letter. Finally, the shorter one started sucking on my cock, nudging into the muscles just above my cock like a nursing colt. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant so much as unexpected. The tall one was teasing me by inserting just two inches of his cock past my sphincter, then pulling it out after a quick jab. I could tell that my cock was only semi- erect, most likely because all of this unpredictable behavior put me off balance in every way. None of this was feeling romantic as the account in letter had seemed.
Suddenly, the short one pulled off me roughly and the tall one pulled out of me abruptly, sprinting away into the darkness. Something wasn't right. Was I having a nightmare? The hair on my shoulders, back, and ass began tingling and rising. I looked over my shoulder and saw another shadow, tall, shapely, nicely muscled, standing akimbo with hands on hips. The silence was eerie, then threatening. The shadow was motionless. I couldn't speak because of the gag. The more I looked at the shadow, the more threatening it seemed, becoming less a person and more an omen. Eventually, I had to turn my head forward to ease the strain on my neck.
I heard something slicing though the air before the lash landed on my back. It took my breath away from surprise. It kept coming, up and down my back to my ass and then legs and back up again. Oddly, I didn't cry out. The next blow was HARD, the pain rippling not just through my body but through my soul as well! I bolted upright in bed, sweating profusely, breathing heavily. The threat and foreboding weighing upon me didn't end with this nightmare. What did this disturbing dream portend?