The Further Adventures of Justin & Billy Chapter 6 - Part I From Justin's viewpoint
For the past couple of days, I've thought something seemed wrong with Billy. It was like his mind was somewhere else. I could ask him a question and there'd be this long delay before he'd say something like, "Were you talking to me?"
Like who else would I be talking to?
It seemed to always happen while we were fucking around. Sucking. Jerking each other off. It was even worse when we were having serious sex. Particularly when I had my cock buried deep in his ass. Sliding my cock in and out of his tight, warm glove of an asshole. He should have been on top of the world while I was building up a load to unleash in him. But sometimes in the middle of a great fuck, he was like a million miles away.
He'd be hard, but not like he sometimes gets. And when he sucked me or stroked my cock, sometimes he showed real passion. But then other times I'd find him distracted by something. And I didn't know what.
I had my suspicions. Todd, of course. I'd finally asked him about the night he and Todd had dinner together. He said they'd talked a long time while they watched a video Phil made while he was taking the photos of Todd. The photos they'd showed us that night we were both at their place.
I asked Billy if the video was hot and he said that a lot of it was boring setup stuff. Adjusting the lighting. Checking the backdrop. Stuff like that. But he said that he and Todd had both jerked off a couple of loads while watching Todd cum.
Billy said he'd been surprised Todd got so hard watching himself. We talked about what it would be like to watch a video of yourself jerking off. Or even looking at the pictures we had seen that night. We discussed whether each of us could get hard watching vids of ourselves just jerking and cumming.
I said I couldn't. Probably wouldn't even get hard. Billy didn't seem so sure.
On Saturday night, things seemed to be going about as well as they had in weeks. We'd started off talking about some vid we'd both seen on dudetube. The next thing I remember . . . Well, I had Billy bent over the little kitchen table with my cock buried in his butt. I was pumping away. Starting to feel the tension build. My breathing getting raspy. I was getting ready to go over the top when I realized Billy was at one of his away games.
I pushed my hard cock as deep in his ass as it would go and then just stopped. Buried to the hilt in his ass. My cock near ready to explode. I thought after a little bit he'd ask me what was up or start to get some action going again. But nothing. He didn't seem to even notice.
Finally I asked him straight up why he was so distracted. He said it was his car. He was really worried about how he was gonna replace it. Because the one he had seemed to be beyond any reasonable repair. At least that we could afford just then. Even as he told me that, he didn't even act like I was still rock hard. That my full nine-inch cock wasn't still shoved all the way up his ass. He was just talking like we would during a TV commercial or something like that.
I know that all week he had been saying how worried he was about where the cash was gonna come from for his car. He was adamant that he didn't want my mom slipping us the cash to get a replacement. I thought maybe that really was what the problem was. But still my gut churned every time I caught him drifting away.
Then there were times, particularly on days I had one of Professor Allen's classes, when I thought maybe it was me who was distant. Not Billy. I had caught myself more than once this week lost in thought about my teacher and what he might really want. What I might really want from him. The more I saw him, the more I thought about him.
One morning taking my shower, I'd been thinking about my strange encounter with him last Sunday morning. Only in my fantasy, when Professor Allen saw me holding my hard cock through the fabric of my jeans, he'd stepped toward me. Unbuttoned my jeans. His long, elegant fingers reached in and hauled out my aching cock. All nine, throbbing, dripping inches of it. Hard and aching in his hand. It felt fabulously sexy. Older guys really seemed to know how to please. And in my fantasy, Professor Allen pleased me.
In my fantasy, as we stood there in the entryway to the art studios, he slowly and lovingly jerked my cock. Stroking my long, thick shaft. But also giving special attention to that point on the underside of my cock where the cockhead and shaft meet. That fleshy area that even cut guys have that is so sensitive.
My hands roamed up under my teacher's shirt. Over his hard chest. Tweaking his nips.
My hips thrust, sliding my cock back and forth into his expert hand. His mouth was at my ear. The heat of his body was driving me insane as his hand seemed to know just what I liked. Just what I wanted. Just what I needed. To cum. To blow a huge load all over him. The wild feelings he was generating as he stroked my cock were getting me close. The tingle was starting. My cock got stiffer.
As my fantasies ran wild, my nuts pulled up tight. My guts churned. My body went weak as I slumped against the shower wall. I grabbed for the soap tray to steady myself.
"Oh, fuck," I bellowed out loud as my body began to spasm. I was about to come. The sound of my voice surprised me. Shook me from my fantasy. My eyes opened. Just then I came. My hand, not my professor's, was wrapped around my throbbing, hot cock. I could feel the cum rise through my shaft. Feel my cock swell and get even hotter. I couldn't catch my breath. And for a moment I was back with Professor Allen again. Getting the perfect handjob from a really sexy older guy. A huge shot of thick cum flew from my cocklips. Its release so powerful I could barely keep my knees from buckling beneath me. My hot cum flying toward the glass shower door. Splattering across the very top of it, well above my head.
And as I watched it start to slide downward the door, leaving a path in the steamy mist on the glass, I noticed, there on the other side of the door, watching me cum, was Billy. He was naked. Ready for his own shower. I couldn't help but notice he was rock hard.
As I looked from his throbbing cock back toward his intense eyes, I opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and slurped up a glob of my dripping cum from the shower door even as my cum continued to splatter everywhere. My fresh shots of cum ran down the door in rivulets. Gobs and streams and strings of my cum. In the steamy mist from the shower, with Billy's image clear enough through the glass shower door to see his shit-eating grin.
I sort of imagined my cum was dripping off Billy's face and running down his chest. At least that cleared my mind of Professor Allen for a minute. Professor Allen and the handjob. Professor Allen and the incredible urge I had to see him. Touch him. Taste him. Suck him. Even fuck him. Maybe be fucked by him.
I had to clear my head. What the fuck was going on with me? I can't even focus on my boyfriend whose standing right in front of me. Billy's watching as I jerk off to fantasies of my professor. My hard cock in my hand. My head is so fucked up.
As my last cum shots hit the door, Billy said, "I sure hope that was me you were thinking of."
"Holy fuck," was all I could say in response to Billy's comment. And then a lame, "I didn't know you were up yet."
"I'm up alright," he said looking down at his eight-inches of hard cock and giving it a wicked squeeze. "Thanks to you and your little shower show."
I tried hard to catch my breath, as I continued to squeeze the last of my cum from my mostly hard cock. Trying at last to make this a show for Billy. Maybe he'd never know the truth. I could only hope.
"I wish I'd gotten here a minute earlier. I could have skipped breakfast," Billy said. "I love protein shakes." Apparently he didn't take my early morning jerk-off session to be anything but my normal routine. And it wasn't. Except for what was going on in my head. That was anything but normal. And the force with which I had cum. The images of Professor Allen had been a power propellant for my cum. God had it made me cum. So hard. The images of Professor Allen flickered in my mind again. I couldn't help it.
Doing shit like that made me wonder if the distance, the tension, the recurring disconnect between Billy and me wasn't really my fault. Not his.
To make matters worse, I'd had to work late almost every evening all week so that I could get my weekly project done for Professor Allen. I wasn't going to be able to work on it Sunday morning, so I had to get it done earlier in the week. It seemed everything in my life -- and maybe some shit in Billy's -- was tugging at us. Tugging us apart.
I'd also had to find time at home alone to pick out what I was going to show Professor Allen. What naked pictures of Billy would I share? Could I share? I really wanted to ask Billy what he thought. He was a great judge of my work. And always honest. Sometimes painfully honest. I valued that in him. A lot.
I would have loved to have dragged out all those drawings and paintings of Billy naked, Billy hard, Billy jerking off, Billy cumming. Spread them all over the floors so I could have studied them with Billy and talked to him about each of them. Asked him which he wanted shared. What he thought was good. What he thought wasn't. As much as I valued his judgment, this time I couldn't ask for it. I still hadn't been able to tell him about last Sunday. And Professor Allen.
By the time Sunday rolled around, I was relieved that soon this meeting with Professor Allen would be behind me and I could work at getting things right with Billy again.
When I showed up at school, Professor Allen was already there. Waiting for me.
I almost didn't recognize him. He was sitting on a modeling stool, casually dressed in a pair of really expensive jeans and a shirt that fit him so well it showed every turn of his body. Every muscle. Every elegant movement he made. I could only wish that I were dressed in something that hot.
I was probably standing there with my chin on the floor. Staring at this incredibly sexy guy. Hardly connecting with the fact that this was my teacher. This was the guy who at first had creeped me out because he wanted to see my nude drawings. In a week's time he'd somehow become the guy I had jerked off thinking about way too many times.
"Want to get some breakfast?" he asked just like any guy might ask. It was so casual. So familiar. So normal. So goddamn exciting. "I'm starved," he said, pulling up his shirt and patting his tummy. He was so ripped. So tanned. So trim. And sexy. He held his shirt up for an extra second or two. I thought sure he must know I was appreciating the view.
After he lowered his shirt again, I was still staring at his abs, or where they had been. What a sight I had seen. I couldn't have imagined . . . but I had.
"Sure," I said.
"Got your stuff?" he said as he nodded toward the portfolio case I was carrying. "Let's go." And with that, he stood and slapped me playfully on my ass. "My treat," he said as he walked toward the door.
He drove us to a really trendy restaurant for breakfast. The kind of place you go to watch people. Or for some people, the kind of place you go to be seen. Don't ask me which we were. I didn't have a clue about shit at that point.
As we sat at a small table in a quiet corner studying the menu, I couldn't believe the prices. I ordered what I wanted, because that's what Professor Allen said to do. "And please, Justin, call me Joe. I'm only Professor Allen in class and around school."
While we were waiting for our food, Professor Allen . . . Joe . . . started talking almost non-stop. He told me all about his wife's family's business - a string of first-class and oh-so-expensive art galleries along the East Coast. I knew about that. Everyone knew about his ties to the galleries.
He'd met his wife while he was putting up his first big one-man show at one of her father's NYC galleries. They had hit it off. His show was a success. The merger of hot young artist and top-notch gallery heiress seemed too good to pass up. And a year later they married.
His career and the gallery business, which he now officially ran, both went exceedingly well for the next few years.
Then last year, he'd started to get bored with his life. He wanted to freshen it up. Add something new. Original. Out-of-bounds. I remember him using that phrase so clearly. "Out-of-bounds." It struck me as odd, but at that moment I thought I knew what he meant by "out-of-bounds."
He had contacted my school and made a proposal. He would teach for one year full-time. For free. In return he would be given access to all the art students and could hand pick them for special classes. During that year, he would pick one, or maybe two students to become his special protégés until they graduated. He would tutor them. Employee them during the summers. Help to develop their talents. Introduce them to the real world of top-end art. The most important people. Artists. Agents. Gallery owners like himself. And, of course, collectors. He would be these students mentor in the art world.
Then he would guarantee them their own show at an appropriate one of his galleries and, he assumed, build a life-long connection to "a top, up-and-coming artist."
He said it was his way to "cherry pick" the best of the best. And from the connections he built with the school, he would continue to seek out future students to lavish this opportunity on from time to time. To sign exclusively to show and sell through his galleries. It was just good business and it would give him a chance to do something a little different. "Perhaps a little out-of-bounds." He'd said that phrase again.
He stopped talking and he stared into my eyes. It was the strangest feeling. Then he said in the calmest, smoothest voice - a voice more compelling than any I had ever heard - "And I think what I really want is you."
"Thank you," I said, having hoped through his whole explanation that he was telling me I was a candidate. And before this very morning, I hadn't even realized there was such a possibility.
"I haven't picked anyone yet. I don't want to rush this important decision. But you seem like a very intriguing candidate. One I find most entrancing. I can imagine the two of us working very well together. Collaborating in so many ways. Are you interested in exploring these possibilities with me?"
"Of course," I said. "I'd be honored."
"You're an exceptional young man in so many ways," he said and rested his hand on my thigh. I looked around to see if anyone noticed, but the tablecloth was surely concealing his gesture. Then I realized for the first time that I was rock hard and had been for some time. Probably since we first sat down together. Since I first began staring into his eyes as he talked.
"Good," he said, and finally resumed eating his breakfast. He stopped eating almost as soon as he started and gestured subtly for our waiter.
When the waiter appeared beside our table, Joe looked up at him and said, "Our breakfasts have gotten cold. Can you please prepare them for us again. And more coffee for me and my friend, please."
As the waiter left, I remembered my drawings. The nudes I had assembled for Professor Allen . . . Joe. God, this was weird. "Will you need to see my drawings that I brought."
"There will be plenty of time for that after breakfast. We'll just go to my apartment. It's nearby and we can get comfortable. Relax. Start to really get to know each other."
To be continued . . .
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the second book in the "I Thought I Knew" series. It is not necessary to read the books in order, although Book 1 chronologically precedes this book. It can be found under the title "I Thought I Knew" in the High School section. /nifty/gay/highschool/i-thought-i-knew/
The characters in this project are real. The names and some other identifying information in this story have been changed to conceal the identities of the characters described. The Copyright for this story is held by Hardreader. The story may not be reprinted or distributed elsewhere in print, electronically or digitally without the permission of the author. I would love to receive comments on this story from readers. Email me at hardreader2000@aol.com
While you're waiting for the next episode, I hope you'll stay happy. And stay hard! -- H.R.