Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2000 21:22:06 -0800 (PST) From: Brew Maxwell Subject: Nick's Adventure with the Dean Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or situations is purely coincidental. The story involves sex between an older man and a young man of eighteen, and it is intended for adults. If you are offended by stories of this type, or if you are not legally an adult in your political jurisdiction, please leave the story immediately. This story is being posted to the Nifty Archives and may be read and downloaded for the enjoyment of individual readers. It may not be altered, reposted, or otherwise reprinted in any other medium without the written permission of the author. Nick's Adventure with the Dean Author's Preface: If you've read some of the other stories about Nick's adventures, you know that he's not a mean kid and that he often goes out of his way to protect people from ridicule and harm. But Nick, like most adolescents, sometimes has a problem with authority figures, especially when they're mean or pompous. This story reveals a side of Nick you haven't seen before, but it's a part of his adventures. "Stop right there, young man. Where do you think you're going?" I recognized the familiar voice of Mr. Slappit, the Dean of Discipline. Since the seventh grade I had been wary of that man and had made it a point of staying out of his way. Now, six weeks before graduation, the encounter I had feared for six years was about to happen. "Sir?" I decided that the dumb-innocent approach might be my best strategy to stay out of trouble. Slappit had a reputation as a real hard-ass, and more than one of my friends had been on the receiving end of his wrath. "Don't be cute, Mr. Quarterback. You heard me and know exactly what I meant. You were cutting school, weren't you?" "Dean Slappit, I . . . ." "Don't argue with me, Marshall. Get into my office this second, or you're going to be in some very serious trouble." I didn't argue, or say anything, for that matter. Instead, I walked toward the Dean's office, as instructed. Slappit came in right after me and closed the door. I was standing with my hands clasped in front of myself. Slappit didn't offer me a chair, and I didn't know what to do as he sat behind his desk. "All right, Nick. Come clean. What were you doing?" I was surprised to be addressed by my first name. Colton Academy, like many all-boy prep schools, was usually a strictly last-name kind of place, at least when it came to adults addressing the boys. There were kids in my class that I had known for years whose first names I was unsure of. Before I could answer, Slappit spat at me, "Stand up straight, with your arms at your sides." I complied reluctantly, but comply I did. "Answer me," Slappit said. "Sir, I was going home . . . ." "I knew it. What gives you the right to think you can traipse out of here any time _you_ decide you want to leave. Don't you realize your parents entrust you to us from 8:00 to 3:00 every day?" Slappit's face took on a stricken look as he remembered that my parents had been killed in a plane crash earlier that year. He immediately regretted the remark. "Sorry, Nick." I stood stoically in front of the Dean. The remark hadn't really wounded me, but I didn't want it to show on my face or in my posture. "Why were you going home? You're not the kind of student who cuts class. What are you--fourth in your class?" "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. No, I'm not the kind who cuts class, and yes, I'm fourth. Sir, I was going to come back. It would have just taken five minutes, and I only live a couple of blocks away." Slappit knew very well where I lived. My house was one of the mansions on Live Oak Lane, a street so named because of the canopy of huge live oak trees that covered the sidewalks and road. The house was set far back from the road, and a high brick wall concealed it from passers-by; I knew he knew the address. "Well, tell me, Marshall, what was so urgent at home that you were leaving school without my permission?" I didn't answer right away. I had to figure out how to play my cards on this one. I had been aware of Slappit's burning stare since I was in the seventh grade. There were all sorts of rumors about Slappit's being queer and stalking some of the better-looking boys, especially the jocks. More than once he had turned up in the locker room after football or track practice in time for showers, when he should have been long gone. I had noticed him watching the guys naked, and I was aware that Slappit had checked me out a time or two. I hated categories like "queer" and "straight" because I thought they were meaningless and derogatory, but I couldn't discount Slappit's motives, especially in light of my reason for wanting to leave school. "Well," Slappit asked. "Er, it's personal, sir." "Personal. Personal? How dare you tell me you were about to leave school in the middle of the day and that you won't tell me why." Again, I decided to think this through before I said anything. The seconds were ticking away relentlessly, and Slappit began to fidget. I decided to tell the truth. "I was going home to change my jeans." Colton Academy was perhaps unique among upper-class prep schools in that the uniform consisted of a white shirt, school tie, navy blazer, and jeans! Specifically, Levi 501 jeans. Some of the boys who transferred to Colton from other prep schools were appalled at first, when they heard of this tradition. Then they, too, like the old-timers, took to it quite well. It had started in the '60's as a concession to a group of very rich trouble-makers who demanded an end to a uniform of any kind. The jeans were a concession to them, and by the 1990's, it was taken for granted. We were known as the Colton Cowboys because of them. "Change your jeans? Did you spill something on them?" "Er, yes, sir." "Well, you could have easily gotten permission to go home to change. What was it? A chemical?" "No, sir." "Well, what, then?" "That's kind of personal, sir." "For God's sake, Marshall, cut the nonsense. What did you spill on yourself?" "Er, . . . ." "I'm warning you, boy," Slappit said, his face reddening and his patience nearing its end, "if you don't give me a straight answer, you're out of this school." Slappit again immediately regretted saying that because he knew he could never make his threat stand. Like everyone else who had anything to do with Colton, he knew that the building we were in was called Marshall Hall because my family had donated the money to have it built. If he tried to expel me, Slappit knew that the Headmaster and Board would never uphold his decision and that he would be in the unemployment line on Monday morning. Though I thought I knew better, I decided to take Slappit at his word. "Sir, I had to go change my jeans because I accidentally came on myself during third period." Slappit's eyes doubled in size, and he leaned forward in his chair. "I beg your pardon. What did you say?" His voice was soft. I decided to continue my dumb and innocent act. "I said, I accidentally came on myself during third period. You know, I had an orgasm." Slappit was all ears. He couldn't believe I was actually saying that to him. I wondered how many times my image, naked, had popped before his eyes as he masturbated? How often had he wanted to walk up behind me in the hall and fondle my buttocks? How many times had he stared at my crotch as he approached me in the hope that I would be hard? Then, I suspect Slappit wondered how much I would tell him. "Go on. Tell me exactly what happened." "Well, sir, I got a hard-on in class. I wasn't trying to or anything. It just happened. Does that ever happen to you?" I had decided that if this guy wanted to pry into my personal life, I'd let him have it. "Go on." Slappit tried his best to be stern, but his voice didn't cooperate. "No, really, sir. Don't you sometimes get hard for no specific reason? I do all the time. So do the other guys. Just yesterday, Winfield got hard when we were taking showers after PE Everybody noticed, and a few guys made cracks, but old Winfield couldn't help it, and we all knew it." I think Slappit felt his penis start to stir. He seemed proud of how composed he'd been until then, but that was too much. "Get on with your story, Nick." Slappit's voice almost broke on that statement. "Well, I got hard. I really tried not to think about my cock, or about sex, but it wouldn't go down. I didn't touch it or anything, and I sat really still because I knew if I moved I'd probably come all over myself. Anyway, I stayed hard for about thirty minutes, and all the time I felt myself getting closer and closer to coming. Then, all of a sudden, wham! Bingo! I came." "Go on," Slappit said, his voice thick and rough with his own excitement. I thought he couldn't believe his fortune in having discovered me trying to escape or my candor in telling what happened. "Well, after I came, I asked to be excused. Mr. Freemont doesn't ordinarily let anybody out of class to use the restroom, but he did this time." Every time I used the word "came," I was sure Slappit's penis responded. He probably had a mental image of what must be nine inches of hard dick, based on the size of my _soft_ dick, spewing semen. The thought must have been making it difficult for him to concentrate on what I was saying. "I went to the restroom, and there wasn't anybody else in there. I took off my briefs, but my cock had been sticking out of the top of them, so I had cum all over the front of my jeans, too. I don't usually wear underwear, but I had worn some today. Anyway, I wrapped the briefs up in a paper towel and threw them away in the trash can. Before I did that, I used them to wipe as much cum off my cock and the inside of jeans as I could, but my jeans were really wet in front." Slappit was much too agitated to continue this rationally. "Hold your coat back and let me see," he said. I complied with the request. My jeans were worn and faded, and there was a definite wet spot down the right side of my fly. I don't think Slappit could believe he hadn't noticed that before. "I see," Slappit said. "Keep on." "That's just about it. I've got to give a presentation in my sixth period class, and I didn't want to have to stand in front of the class with cum on the front of my jeans. That's why I wanted to go home." Slappit said nothing for several long moments. Then, he recovered his composure somewhat, and he said, "Nick, boys your age will have erections from time to time, but rarely, if ever, do they result in spontaneous orgasms. Are you sure you didn't cause this to happen?" "Well, maybe I did, indirectly." "Explain yourself, young man," Slappit said. "I haven't had sex in four days, so I was really horny." He nodded for me to continue. I wondered how long it had been for him. "This morning I decided to wear a butt plug to see just how horny I could get. I think it was the butt plug that did me in. Do you know what a butt plug is, sir?" By now I was enjoying myself. I could tell that all this talk was making Dean Slappit really hot, and I relished the idea that this guy was about to boil. "Yes, Marshall, I know what a butt plug is." "Have you ever worn one? Usually they keep you about half hard all the time, but today it really worked. It's probably because I haven't fucked anyone in four days. How long has it been for you, sir?" "Er, Marshall, I think my private life is just that. Private." He hadn't said anything about my language, which I knew had been outrageous, because, frankly, I thought he was enjoying it. I resisted the urge to ask him why my own private life wasn't private. "Er, you say you threw your underwear away. Let's check out this part of your story. Come and show them to me." I suspect Slappit knew that what he was saying and doing was out of line for an administrator in a school, but he couldn't help himself. If he couldn't have me, I thought, at least he could have my cum-soaked underwear. This had gone way beyond a disciplinary task for Slappit; it was then very personal, and I knew it. Slappit got up from his chair and started toward the door. I noticed the protrusion in his crotch and decided not to ignore it. "Dean Slappit, you've got a hard-on," I said. The dean didn't respond. He kept walking toward the door of the office. "Which restroom was it," Slappit wanted to know. I told him and followed him down the hall. In the restroom, Slappit told me to find my underwear. I fished them out of the waste basket in a second and presented them to Slappit. He opened the paper towel to reveal a pair of white Polo briefs. He held them up to see the wet spot, then he fingered it in obvious delight. "You say your penis was sticking out of the waistband when you ca. . .ejaculated?" "Yes, sir. That's why I got so much cum on my jeans." "Well, this seems like a large amount of ejaculate, to me," Slappit said. "I find it difficult to believe that you would have also gotten a substantial amount on your jeans." I knew I had Slappit by the short hairs on that one, so I decided to play it out. "Oh, yes, sir. When I come, I come a lot. Especially if I haven't fucked anyone in a while." I saw the tent in Slappit's pants bounce up and down when I said that. "You see, sir, it had been four days since I'd fucked anyone, and that, plus the butt plug, really made me come a lot. I probably spurted fifteen times. It was really sweet, but I couldn't fully enjoy it because I was in class and all. I couldn't moan, for instance. I love to moan when I come. I also like to pinch off my muscles inside. That makes me come harder. Do you ever do that? I mean, when you come?" I wondered how far I could go with this guy. I felt as though I was stretching the outer limits with that question, but Slappit didn't respond. "Another thing, my nipples are real sensitive. In fact, sometimes I come just by rubbing them. Anyway, I had a pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. Marlboro box. That puts a little pressure on the nipple, and it really is a turn on. That probably helped make me come, too." Slappit was breathing hard. I knew his hard-on must be killing him, so I wasn't surprised when he went to the door, fished out a big wad of keys, and locked the restroom. Then he said, "I'm going to have to determine just how wet you are, young man." With that he grabbed my crotch. Instead of pulling away, as would be natural, I decided to play with the man's head. I didn't move a muscle. Instead, I let a bright smile light up his face. Slappit spoke: "Nick, I've wanted to do this for a long, long time. I don't think you realize how beautiful you are, or how incredibly masculine. None of you boys do. It's so hard for a man like me to be around you day in and day out. You have no idea how many times I've thought of you as I've, er, done things to myself. Please let me bring you to orgasm again. Please give me the pleasure of giving you pleasure." If I was anything, I was cool. I hadn't expected that, but it was okay with me. "Dean Slappit," I said, "do whatever you want." In a heartbeat the dean was on his knees, and in a second heartbeat he had my fly open and my cock out. In a third heartbeat he had my cock in his mouth. While I had never had a blow-job at school, I had had many a blow-job. At eighteen, I was no virgin, to either sex. Dean Slappit was obviously no stranger to blow-jobs, himself. I thought he was maybe an eight on a ten-point scale, and I reacted appropriately, feeding him all nine inches and genuinely enjoying his attention to the head of my cock. I grabbed his hair and fucked his mouth because I thought that's what he wanted. And I was right. In a few minutes, I came down his throat. It wasn't the best come of my life, but it wasn't the worst, either. Slappit came the first time after five minutes or so, and he came again when I was almost ready. I had never before seen a man so eager for cock. When we had finished and both had recovered, he spoke first. "You won't tell anybody about this, will you?" "No, sir. I won't. Who'd believe me?" The whole fucking senior class, I thought, that's who, and probably the whole fucking school. "Good. You can't ever know what this has meant to me, Nick. You are really one beautiful boy. I think we'd both better go home and change our pants. If you hurry, really hurry, you'll be on time for your presentation sixth period." I did, and I was. When I graduated a few weeks later, Dean Slappit hugged me on stage. I was the only student to get that kind of treatment. I wonder why?