|
School of Hard Cocks
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Boys School
Hi, I found this in alt.sex.stories, thought it may be interesting.
SCHOOL OF HARD COCKS
Towards the end of the week we began seeing teachers around
the place. The older guys over in Vincent hall already knew
most of them, but we new boys in Howard knew none of them. A
few were new hires, unknown to anyone. They were all men. We
thought them *ancient*, though the youngest was less than
thirty. When one is only 13, thirty seems "over the hill".
Classes began and routine was established. Despite the
"Military" in Harde- Knox's name, the curriculum was really
just "Liberal Arts", the usual Lit, Math, Science and
Languages stuff. Music and Arts were electives, but Phys Ed
was required. In fact, if there was anything "military" about
Harde- Knox, it was the P E program, which took up more time
than at a public school. Besides the morning calisthenics,
there were mid-day work-outs and another round just before
dinner as well, all this in addition to two full periods each
day of whatever sport we chose. I, of course, went for
swimming, and soon found I was better than most of the kids my
age. I had good lungs, and could stay under water past a
minute, so it was from this vantage point that I checked out
my mates, and chose those I wanted to play with later in the
showers or after "lights out" at night. Long familiar with the
"shrunken pecker" phenomenon of swimming, I was a good judge
of what a water-logged willie might "get up" to!
But the question on our dirty minds was, how long before the
staff will get horny enough to fool around with *us*? The
pillow-talk made it clear that most of us had a crush on one
teacher or another, but the most popular of the staff, a
new-hire named Schwartz, seemed aloof and unapproachable. He
taught first-year General Science, and was very good at it. He
was also *very* handsome: tall and lean, with long but sparse
blond hair, he cut a good figure in his uniform. He had a sexy
sort of walk: not "swishy" or anything, but unhurried,
purposeful and "liquid". I was not alone in idolizing Mr.
Schwartz, and did my best to please him with extra projects,
but nothing seemed to work.
I was, therefore, startled one day when he told me to remain
after class: ordinarily I'd have rushed off to swim, but being
a "good little boy", I waited. When we were alone, Mr.
Schwartz took from his desk a recent paper of mine. He leafed
through it briefly, then left it open on his desk. Gripping my
shoulders, he bent me down and told me to look at the open
page at a severe angle and tell him what I saw. What I *saw*,
was the impression of a drawing I'd done on another sheet of
paper (the cheap ball-point pens we had took a lot of pressure
to make them write). Despite having later done a light pencil
drawing of an oil well on *this* sheet, there was NO mistaking
the outline of a big cock dribbling jizm down its exaggerated
length and over a big pair of balls!
"Uhh, sorry, Sir, Mr. Schwartz, uh, I, uh - I guess I fucked
up, didn't I?" I said. "Oh, oh, *shit*, I shouldn't have said
'fucked up', should I? Awwww..., I mean *heck* ... I'm sorry,
Sir - uh - Mr. Schwartz, Sir!"
Schwartz was stern. "Have you nothing better to do on study
time than to draw dirty pictures?" he asked.
"Well, usually I prefer jerking them off to drawing them," I
blurted out, immediately aware this might be the wrong thing
to confess. "Uh, that is, well, you see, Sir, my pecker isn't
all that big, and I guess I fantasize about having a big dong
like the other guys, so when I have the time, I draw these
pictures, and..."
Schwartz still had his hands on my shoulders; he moved me back
upright. My face was only a few inches away from the fly of
his pants, and I thought I saw the outline of his cock there.
"It's tough to tell whether your drawing was much good,"
Schwartz said. Do you still have the original?"
"Oh, no, Sir, I throw that shit - uh - I mean stuff - away!"
"Young man, you have a filthy mouth!" Schwartz said
emphatically. "However, I suspect you also have some artistic
talent, and I should like to see it improved. You will come to
my quarters tonight and we will discuss this further. And you
will tell *no one* about it: do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, *SIR*!" I replied, snapping to attention. "At what time,
Sir?"
"Eight o'clock, *sharp*! Dismissed!"
Truth was, the *only* thing I'd ever drawn in my life was
endless repetitions of cocks and balls: I had no real interest
in art, so Schwartz's "invitation" held no promise.
Nevertheless, I knew better than to disobey, and I tapped on
his door at *exactly* eight o'clock. He ushered me into his
cozy suite which was done up nicely with antique furniture
original to the house. Schwartz was not in uniform: in fact,
he was not in much of *anything*, as far as I could tell,
except a silk smoking jacket and soft slippers. His legs, bare
from about his knees down, were lightly adorned with very
blond hair. My heart sank when I spied a large drawing tablet
on his ornate desk, with an array of pencils and chalks.
Schwartz led me to the desk and pushed me into the chair. Then
he drew up a sort of love-seat thing, and arranged himself on
it. I nearly jumped out of my seat when he untied the belt of
his jacket and let it fall away; he had *nothing* on under it,
and his dick was already rising to the occasion.
"Draw *that*!" he ordered, running his hands along his thighs
and up to his balls.
Well, sheeeit! I had no clew how to draw: scribbling a cock &
balls on a scrap of paper or toilet-stall wall is as natural
to a horny teenager as jerking off, but to take pencil in hand
and try to actually *draw* something takes a whole different
talent. Erect before me was the first truly adult male phallus
I'd ever seen: the *last* thing I wanted to do was draw a
picture of it! My pants were getting tight in the crotch.
"Aw, shucks, Mr. Schwartz," I said, "I don't know nuthin'
about art! But if you need help with that toad-stabber of
yours, I think I could make it feel pretty good." It was a
cheeky thing to say, but I had my reputation as a hellion to
uphold! "Besides, if you want a picture of it, a camera would
do a better job."
"Over here, then, on your knees - NOW!" Schwartz ordered.
Happy to comply, I shed my coat, dropped to the floor in front
of the sofa, and boldly gripped his rigid tool. Its
comparative hugeness amazed me, and it felt hot to my palm. I
caressed it with one hand, and ran my other hand over his firm
thighs, then rose up slightly, intent on sucking him. This put
my bulging crotch within his reach, and within seconds he'd
expertly opened my pants and had a firm grip on my little
member. My mouth could not accommodate all of him, but I did
my best, and slobbered enough to wet my palm below my mouth.
Schwartz groaned and thrust himself up towards me; I found it
very exciting to get him "worked up". There seemed to be a
qualitative difference between this older man and the many
teen-age dudes I'd sucked off: the youngsters all seemed able
to shoot off in a manner of minutes, whereas it was clearly
going to take Schwartz a bit longer: this gave me more time to
revel in the workings of his powerful leg muscles, and to
fondle his large, heavy balls. The feeling of his big hand
massaging my prick was not unpleasant, either, but I was
getting near to popping my cork, so I stopped sucking,
intending to remove the rest of my uniform. But Schwartz had
*other* ideas!
He arose, gripped my arm, propelled me into his bedroom and
pushed me roughly onto his bed. Within seconds he had pulled
my pants and shoes from my body, and all but ripped my tee
shirt off; he cast aside his silk jacket and began a frenzied
licking of me *all over*. I was still a tad ticklish in a few
spots, so I was soon giggling and writhing as his tongue found
a whole *collection* of erogenous zones: I'd not yet learned
how sensitive nipples are, nor had I experienced the joy of a
wet tongue slathering under my arms, but these new feelings
exploded into my consciousness. When I tried to return
Schwartz's favors, he pushed me back flat on the bed,
apparently desiring no reciprocation. But I could not relax,
because his hands, his tongue, and his long hair seemed to be
all over me at once. Crouched over me, he ran his massive tool
along the insides of my thighs, then poked it at my nipples,
wiping the head of it across them repeatedly. My tits got
hard, imitating my pecker, now aching for release of the
juices gathered in my loins.
Schwartz sat back on his haunches, grasped my ankles, and
raised them up and back over my head: he bent down and tongued
all around the backs of my legs, slowly working his way
towards my bum: when his tongue found the opening in my
backside, I thought I would explode! Never, among my
adolescent friends, had anyone thought to explore this part of
my anatomy, so the feeling of a wet tongue on my pucker - even
penetrating it slightly - was totally *new*, and *totally*
wonderful! Lost in wave after wave of new sensations, I did
not immediately recognize the touch of his penis to my bung,
and when I did, the image of his prong going into me was too
much! "No, NO!", I screamed. "Please, Mr. Schwartz, Sir,
please don't, Sir..." Fear washed over me: I knew guys fucked,
but I was so small, and Schwartz was so *big*: "Jezus, Mr.
Schwartz, you'll tear me up with that wang of yours: just let
me suck it off for you," I pleaded. I was on the verge of
crying; "Oh, please, no, Mr. Schwartz, Sir, not *there*!"
But Schwartz was beyond reason: fortunately for me, he was
also beyond control. I eventually learned that what got him
off was the element of *fear* he could instill with that
monster between his legs, so my entreaties were just the
ticket: he let go of my legs, which dropped along side him,
squeezed his dick viciously, began babbling in German, and
loosed an immense spray of stringy cream out over my stomach,
chest and face. My gawd, what a hosing! I expect he hadn't
dropped a load in weeks, and it just kept on coming, spurt
after ropey spurt; it pooled around my navel and between my
pecs; it ran down the sides of my face. I gathered up what I
could of it and sucked it from my fingers. When at last his
orgasm was over, he fell heavily beside me, buried his face
under my arm, licked furiously, gripped my little thingy and
pumped it vigorously: within seconds my long-pent boy-juice
arched up and over us, almost matching his quantity. I thought
my mezzo-soprano moans would raise the dead, but of course the
old house absorbed sounds like a sponge.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Schwartz, Sir," I said softly. Actually, I
began to cry, so relieved was I that my virgin ass was intact.
"I'm sorry, I know how much you wanted to fuck me, but I don't
think you could *fit* in there, and..."
"Ach, halts maul!" Schwartz muttered. I didn't know what that
meant, but figured silence might be best. Slowly, our
breathing returned to normal. Schwartz might have been asleep,
but abruptly he arose and headed for the bathroom. "Get
dressed, go: say nothing," he said as he disappeared. I did my
best to put myself back together, feeling a bit weak in the
knees, and beat a hasty retreat to the attic and comfort of my
bed. Once there, I replayed the experience with Schwartz, and
decided I had not really enjoyed nearly being raped. I was
shaking, feeling lonely, when my bed moved and Bart slid in
beside me, all warm and fuzzy. All he said was, "Go to sleep,
little man," as he pulled me against himself and wrapped his
arms around me. I was asleep in an instant.
Schwartz never took me again, and I didn't "rat" on him. But
my experience brought to light an unwritten rule at H-K:
Howard boys didn't get fucked. Vincent boys *did*, as I would
learn the following year. Short of anal penetration by
boy-dicks, though, "anything went": I can't remember any
variety of "vanilla" sex that someone in our dorm didn't try
at one time or another. As the year progressed, I had so many
sessions with just about every guy there that I lost count.
Many encounters were unremarkable, but some remain in my mind
as if they'd happened yesterday.
One such was with Frankie, whose bed was on the other side of
the light- well from mine, and of whom I saw little as a
result. In fact, Frankie was a "loner", a real book-worm, and
known to be very smart. We all envied his straight-A report
cards. None of my friends could recall seeing Frankie get it
on with anyone else, and my perverse mind decided he might be
missing out. One Saturday I found time on my hands, and was
sitting in a patch of sun on the massive porch. Frankie came
around the side of the building, looked around furtively, and
struck out across the lawn towards the trees; there was about
an acre of thick forest between the school and the road. On
impulse, I decided to see what Frankie was up to, so as soon
as he disappeared from view I ran around from another angle
and went in among the trees myself, calculating a path I
figured would cross his. A real game of hide-and-seek!
Presently I glimpsed him; he seemed to be searching for some
special place. He chose a spot where a small tree had fallen
over and lay horizontal a couple of feet above the ground. He
looked all around again, and seemed satisfied that he was
alone. Then, his back to me, he dropped his pants and sat upon
the fallen tree, his butt hanging over. I crept forward until
just a few feet behind him: it was evident that he was going
to take a dump, an event I had never witnessed directly. I had
a perfect view, and as I watched, Frankie expressed a long
brown log of surprising proportions: watching this turd emerge
from his backside was very arousing, and I pawed at myself
through my pants pocket. Frankie reached around and pulled his
cheeks apart, and his lump fell free: I heard it hit the
ground. He produced some paper and wiped his ass, then stood
and peered over the fallen tree to see what he'd produced.
That's when he saw me: forgetting his pants were still at
half-mast, he tried to turn and run, but tripped and fell
instead. Before he could get up, I was at his side.
"Hey, Frankie, that was neat watching you shit," I said,
"don't be scared". I offered my hand to help him up, and
that's when I saw *him*! He wasn't hung like Schwartz, but on
his small frame what he had between his legs loomed large; it
was only half hard.
"You won't tell on me will you?" Frankie said faintly.
"Heck, no," I said. "Fact is, I think I could prolly add to
that pile there myself, if ya wanna watch *me* do it - and if
you have some more bum-wipes with ya."
"Jeez, I thought I'm the only person in the world that gets a
kick outa takin' a shit," Frankie replied: "yeah, I got more
paper..."
"You don't know *me*!" I said: "there ain't nuthin' I don't
like - well, except maybe getting fucked in the ass."
So, saying, I dropped my pants and put my ass over the tree
just as he had done. Frankie hobbled around behind to get a
good look. Squeezing one out "on demand" proved more difficult
than I'd expected, but before long I had about half a loaf
pushed out; the tree began to shake rhythmically as Frankie
wanked excitedly. I spread my cheeks as he had done, and
finally, with one last *push*, my offering fell from my butt
with a dull thud.
"Where's that paper?" I asked.
"Stay put," Frankie replied. Suddenly I felt my bum being
wiped for me, something I suppose I hadn't felt since I was a
baby. It was startlingly different from doing it myself. Then
I felt something else, which proved to be a finger, fondling
my puckerhole.
"Stay put," Frankie said again. I turned to see that he was
squatted behind me, his pants still down, his dick much harder
than I'd seen it before. Something wet - spit, I found - was
now being spread around my hole, and without warning, Frankie
pushed a finger into my backside. "Push!" he said. I pushed,
and his finger slid in and found a spot inside that had never
been touched before.
"Aaaooouu, *wow*! Jeez, Frankie, whatcha hit in there?" I
asked as I felt unfamiliar sensations moving along from my
backside up to the head of my cock.
"Your prostrate", Frankie replied. It's where yer spunk is
stored." His finger moved inside of me, exquisite feelings
emanating along the path to my peckerhead yet again.
"Gawd, it feels terrific when you do that," I said. By this
time I had a grip on myself, and it seemed like I might cum at
any moment. Frankie's wicked finger found it's mark again...
and again... and again...
That's when I stopped jacking myself, and watched as my spunk
flowed from the head of my dick, almost like I was peeing. It
wasn't the usual spurts, just a long, drawn out dribble that
increased slightly every time Frankie stroked that magic spot
he'd found. My cum ran down my cock, along my balls, and
dripped; Frankie caught it in his hand, and when he had a nice
puddle there, he gulped it down as if it were manna from
heaven. Then he pulled his finger out of me slowly, wiped me
again in back, then hobbled around in front of me to mop my
still weeping hard-on.
"Where in hell did you learn to do that?" I asked, still
somewhat breathless.
"I found it in an old medical book in the library," he
replied. I guess it felt pretty good, eh?"
"Yeah, really, well, *neat*!" I said.
"Would you do it to me?" Frankie asked. I've never felt it
myself. I've tried smooth sticks and a zuchini squash, but I
can't do it to myself quite right."
Frankie's handsome prong stood proud. Ordinarily, I'd have
preferred to suck on it, as it looked *very* suckable. Frankie
was a little shorter than me in stature, but his dick was
bigger than mine. His skin was darker than mine, but smooth
and essentially hairless like my own.
"Sure, buddy, I'll try, but I'm not sure I'll get it right."
Frankie shucked his pants entirely, bent over away from me and
pulled his shirt up over his back. "Use lots of spit on your
finger," he said.
Frankie had a cute butt. The muscles in the back of his thighs
stretched tight were nice to behold. He spread his cheeks for
me, and if I'd still had a hard-on I'd have been tempted to
stick my dick in there. But, I wet my finger generously and
shoved it slowly in between the hairless crack. I put my free
hand on his shoulder to keep from pushing him off balance. I
pushed more.
"Ahhhh, that's right," Frankie's strained voice floated back
to me. "When you're all the way in, turn your palm up, and
move your finger in the 'come here' sign - ohhhhhhh, yes,
that's the way."
The tip of my index finger sensed a bit of a bulge about where
the base of his pecker should have been: that seemed to be the
spot, so I stroked it very slowly. I reached under and felt
the end of his cock: sure enough, it was damp and slippery.
"Ohhhh, ohhhh, ahhhhh!" Frankie moaned with each stroke of my
finger. "Ooooh... unnngh... unnngh..." I was getting hard
again, and my palm was slowly filling with Frankie's juice.
"Unnngh... unnngh... oh, that feels *so* wonderful! Unnnngh...
unnnnnnnnnnnngh... Oh, jeeezus...
I glanced around to see that his dribbling had slowed, so I
carefully withdrew my finger. Frankie straightened up; his
face was ruddy, his breathing rapid. His hard-on still
dripped, so I quickly lapped up the pool of jism in my palm,
then squatted down and plunged his dick into my mouth. I
grasped his buns and savagely fucked my face with his
delicious tool, and was rewarded by an immediate eruption of
boy-cum from his delayed orgasm. When he calmed down at last,
I stood, turned and backed up against him, grabbed his right
hand and wrapped it 'round my prod: he took the hint
immediately and pulled my pud, bringing me to a rapid and
violent climax.
As we tried to make ourselves presentable, I asked Frankie if
he'd show me those books in the library; "There's no tellin'
what other neat things we might find in there," I said as we
headed out of the trees.
**END**
|
|
