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Remember, this story is fiction. The author does not recommend you try this stuff at home (Unless you absolutely must)
My Student Writes A Porn Story
"I need a beer," I said to the pile of student stories laying on my desk. They represented the final efforts of the students in my Creative Writing I class. After reading ten of the twenty-five stories, I wanted to get drunk and forget why I ever thought that agreeing to teach this advanced high school English class represented normal thinking on my part.
These students were of the opinion that they were a gift to the writing world, especially the girls. Most of the boys thought I would be an easy grader since they knew Mr. Buckley was gay. Therefore, the boys thought they would have an advantage. Their thinking was erroneous. I would judge them harder so as not to appear biased.
The school prided itself on being inclusive. The administration knew I was gay. They had no problem with my gender identity. Teachers, no matter how they identified gender-wise, were not interested in kids that way. Me? I just wanted to finish grading these final exam stories and relax.
Another ten stories down and I needed more beer. Maybe I'd better have two more. I stared at the pile. These kids were seniors. How the heck did they expect to develop writing skills if these were their best efforts, despite all my teaching. Most of the kids were eighteen. A few were nineteen. My class was an honors class.
I opened my fifth beer, staring at the last paper. Would this be the gem? I choked on the laugh trying to escape my throat.
I looked at the name. Foster Douglas. If I could describe any boy in my class as a Twink, Little Foster would be one. He couldn't weigh over 120 pounds, even if he loaded his pockets with dirt. His thin, freckled face looked too delicate to belong to a boy. If he turned sideways, he probably would disappear. He wore his hair in a blond surfer boy style. His Ts revealed his skinny body. Sometimes he wore mesh Ts that let his nipples poke through. He always wore tight jeans that revealed a bulge so sizeable that a worn spot on the fabric revealed the tip of his cock. Yeah, I looked when he left the class. He always chose a front seat and sat with his legs parted, sometimes moving them in and out as I lectured. I felt drawn to Foster, little Foster.
Of course, I could do nothing. He was a student, even if he was nineteen. Still, I enjoyed his show during the class. I think he knew how I felt. During a lecture, sometimes, he would suck and lick his pen as if it were a cock. I almost always lost my train of thought when he did that. He would smile and lick his pen harder when he saw me falter.
Some breaks, I would duck into the teacher's John and rub one out. I did that whenever Foster would rub himself, in a way that only I could see the hardness of the outline of what had to be a seven or eight-inch piece of teen meat. Those were the days I thought of him as a tease. He knew when he had aroused me, for I would move to sit behind my desk to hide my arousal. At those times, I could see the amusement in his eyes and the quirky smile on his lips. He knew what he was doing to me, the little Twink. Though he was off-limits, I could dream.
Sometimes in the John, I imagined all the fun things I would do to Foster or what I would let him do to me. I imagined my hands on his tiny, boyish body, stroking moans of deep passion from within him as he cried my name. He had to have the same inclinations as I did, though what I dreamed of with him could never happen. He was my student. Still, I enjoyed my dreams. I wondered if he swung the same way. I thought he did. That made me wonder if he preferred to top of bottom. I dreamed he was inexperienced and he would allow me to be his first.
I took another drink of my beer. I had left Foster's story until the last. I hoped he wrote something interesting. I caressed the pages. Foster had held these. His skin had left cells and fluids on these pages. I placed my tongue on the top sheet.
Then I read:
A Boy's Adventure by Foster Douglas
No one guessed the deep feelings I held for the person in my life who was forbidden to me. I imagined so much we would do if we could. I would show him the depths of my soul as I revealed my deep love in every way for him.
He had learned that I lived in my apartment as I was emancipated. I survived on the trust fund left by my grandparents.
I wrote him a letter letting him know I wanted him more than anything. I told him of the dreams I had about what we would do. He responded and asked to meet me outside of town, where he would not be recognized and get in trouble.
I drove to the river park. I hoped he would show. I waited an hour and was just getting ready to drive away when a car appeared and parked next to me. He had come. He wanted to meet me.
I got out and went to his car, sliding inside.
We looked at each other silently. He spoke first.
"What do you want?"
"I think you know," I said. "I see you during class. You watch me. I know you like me."
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"I think you do," I said. "We want each other."
"Whether or not we want each other is beside the point. You are my student. We can't."
I put my index finger on his lips. "Shhh," I said to him. "Relax. We won't do anything now. Let's get to know each other, not as student and teacher but as people who have hopes, dreams."
"We shouldn't," he said.
"I know we both want it. I do things thinking of you as I do them. I think you do the same."
I returned my finger to his lips. He moaned, then lightly licked it.
Backing away, startled, he said. "I have to go."
"Tell me, please. At least tell me you think of me like that. I think of you like that. You know I do. I think of you in my arms, and you holding me, protecting me. I need a protector. I am always lonely. I have never had someone that way. Plus, I am alone, on my own.
"I dream of us, together. For each of us, this will be the first time. We have nothing between us, only skin and hardness. We kiss, both moaning our love. Tell me you have not had those thoughts."
I can see the struggle in his eyes. I know I had nailed it. He wanted me.
We sit staring. Then he speaks.
"It's too risky. Bad things would happen to me. I do love you. Maybe someday."
"No someday," I breathed. "Who would know? I have two months until I graduate. I would not be your student, then. We could be open."
"Until then, I am your teacher," he said. His tone was less knowing now. I sensed he was weakening.
"Do you want me that way? If you don't, we can return to being student and teacher and tonight never happened."
His breathing sped up and his hand found my thigh. His face closed on mine. He stopped before he let his lips reach mine. I sense a warfare in his spirit. I wait.
My mind snapped away from this story. Holy crap. The little scamp was letting me know how he felt without overtly linking the story to me. I opened my sixth beer. Maybe I should shred his paper, tell him I lost it. Tell him it was good and I read it and he earned an A. Tell him I wanted more. But how?
I returned to his story...
We agreed to meet at my apartment. He would walk from his to mine, which was located off the road, hidden so no one could see who visited.
I would let him inside. We would have drinks. We would talk. I would share my dreams with him. He would tell me he approved. We would move closer until we were almost touching. He would ask me if I was okay with what we were going to do. I would nod that I was okay doing this. He would be so gentle as he took my face in his hands, drawing it close until our lips met. I would moan, giving permission for more. We would make out until our mouths were like one, our saliva mixing against our tongues.
He would move off me, asking if he could do more. I would say please. With care, he would have me stand and he would remove my clothes until I showed him my entire body, pink and smooth. He would suck in a breath as his eyes roamed over my nudity. Then he removes his clothes, though he tears at them in a frenzy.
He steps in. We wear nothing between us. Carefully, he envelops me, so protectively, and we resume kissing.
"The bedroom?" He asks. Without breaking apart, I guide him to it. He lays me on my bed, covering me. We lay together hard and needy. I am beyond thinking. I am raw need. He senses this. He is so loving as he trails kisses down my torso, licking at places no one has ever licked before him.
Then he kisses my tip, tonguing my slit before taking me to my root. After a few hard passes, he pulls up and stares at me.
"I've never," he says. "Have you?"
"We are each other's firsts. We will be each other's many firsts. Can I taste you? No, I need to taste you."
"Please, he says breathlessly."
I instruct him to get on his back. He lays there spread for me. No secrets now. He is beautiful. He is hard, throbbing. His body is that of an adult. I want to make it mine. I want him mine. I want us sharing each other, holding, kissing, tonguing every inch of each other. I moan as I see the want in his eyes. I know I am his. All that remains is for me to claim him.
I know he is just four years older than I am, twenty-three. I am nineteen. We are young, so young, and we have so much to learn and teach each other. I take him in me. He tastes delicious. I want him to release so I can taste everything he can offer. I worship his hardness. I give no mercy until he is grabbing my hair and moaning my name. He tastes sweet and so creamy. I could drink his nectar forever.
He takes no time to calm himself, flipping me over and claiming my hardness for himself. I belong to my teacher, now and forever. I surrender fully to my lover.
I know I am longer than he is. I am almost eight inches. He tries to take all of me but chokes. He backs off and laughs.
"Someday, I will, you know." He resumes until I am out of my mind in my passion for him. He takes all the liquid I offer and sucks, seeking more. I want to give him more. I want to give myself to him in every way possible. I moan his name like it is a prayer.
In the end we lay wrapped together, lightly kissing.
"I love you, you know," he says.
"I love you too," I say back to him.
- Foster.
I sat back. I needed no more beer. I needed to think. I rubbed absently at the hardness between my legs, thinking of Foster, my student. How should I react? What comment could I put on his paper? My mind imagined a world with the both of us together. I shouldn't go there, should I?
How long I stared at his story, I did not know. I knew I needed to comment and grade his paper. I rubbed myself.
Then, with my teacher's red pen, I wrote, grade is A.
Next, I boldly wrote as a comment. See me in my room after school. We need to have a talk.
***Every so often, a reader gives me an idea for a story. The idea for this one came from Jeffery B. Maybe he or someone can suggest further escapades for Foster and his teacher.
Comments and suggestions at: acgib1943@protonmail.com.
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