Date: Mon, 30 Nov 2015 08:34:29 -0800 From: deacon mushrat Subject: A Passing Grade, chapter 5 The characters and events in this story are fictional and any resemblance to real people is purely co-incidental. The following story contains sexual situations. If this is illegal in your area, you are underage or you find it objectionable, do not read any farther. This story is brought to you by the generosity of Nifty. Without Nifty, no stories, no fun. Keep this site alive by donating: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html The backstory: Scott Barnes teaches English in middle School. Trevor Sanders is a student of his who is exchanging sex for grades [sexchanging?] A Passing Grade, chapter 5 "Okay, people, in your rooms by 9:30. I'll run a room check before ten to keep you honest. Breakfast in the Sea Shell Buffet on the second floor at eight, and the first workshop tomorrow is at 8:45. Look for signs that tell you which workshop you're in. I'll take attendance at breakfast, so don't try to sleep in. Until then, you're on your own. Go meet other journalists, don't just hang with each other. Questions?" Scott's four advisees were too eager to get off on their own to ask questions. No matter how confused they might be, they would figure things out for themselves, which was good. Scott didn't like students who were dependent on adult help. He had volunteered to chaperone his middle school newspaper staff at the convention for the weekend, from Friday evening welcoming speeches to home Sunday afternoon after the awards ceremony. The four-hour drive was hardly a deal breaker. When he had mentioned it to Trevor, Trev had said, "Hey, while you're there, if you run into a guy named Jesse from Fairview, tell him Trev says Hi." "So how do you know Jesse?" "Jealous, Mr. B? A little note of anxiety there?" "Hardly. Jesse doesn't have a grade book. You need me." "Jesse and I go way back. He used to live next door. Our families went on vacations together. He's an editor at Fairview or something." "You guys are close?" "Not as much as we used to be, but enough that I've told him about you. We email occasionally and send each other photos." "I wish you'd keep that stuff to yourself. You could get me in trouble. What kind of photos?" "X-rated, duhhhh." "Should have guessed. What's he look like?" "Looks like a boy, double duhhhh. Ask him if he still wanks left handed." "Won't do." "Okay. At least say Hi for me." "Will do." Driving to the venue had taken longer than Scott had planned. When he got to the hotel, he checked the rosters, and there was a Fairview, and yes, there was a Jesse in the team. But Scott had gotten his kids to the venue late and he had no time to follow up. He picked up his advisor's swag bag, shepherded his charges through the name tag bottleneck and the welcoming speeches, gave his little chaperone talk, and dismissed them. Then he drifted down to the bar, ordered a martini on the rocks, and looked over the program. It had pictures of each team, and that made good fodder for fantasies. He was impressed with the turn out: a lot of the budding journalists were boys, and a lot of the boys were just his type. He found Fairview on page 5, and there was the team, a group of six, with Jesse second from the right. Just as Trev had said, he was a boy, duhhh, a generic boy looking boy, with a hatchet of black hair over his left forehead. Scott got a good look at him and then let his eyes wander to boys from other teams. When Scott had nursed the martini to the water stage, a hot young man--he looked almost too young to be a teacher--stopped at his table and squinted at Scott's name tag: "You're from Lincoln Middle School?" "My tag tells the truth." "I'm Martin Simpson, from Fairview." He showed his tag. "Fairview? Whoa. Scott Barnes. Nice to meet you." "Same. One of our editors, Jesse, wanted to be sure to say Hi to a friend of his, Trevor something." "Trevor Sanders." "That's it. You know him?" Scott fought to keep from laughing: "I do. He's one of my students." "What luck. Say Hi for Jesse." "Will do. Trevor said to say Hi back. Say, what kind of a kid is Jesse?" "Well, he's different. Lively imagination. Great possibilities as a journalist, good photographer. Spends a lot of time with Photoshop, knows the ins and outs of digital work. Big help on the technical side. Good with the web page, too. We're lucky to have him. It's my first teaching job, and I'd be screwed without his help. Pardon my French." "No worries, man. Thanks for stopping by. I'll tell Trevor." "And I'll tell Jesse. See you in the Sea Shell tomorrow morning. I hear they put out a great breakfast." "I'll be there." Scott was sorry to see him go. Nice body, lots of possibilities there. Martin wandered off into the gloom, and Scott drank the last of his martini water, left a twenty, and headed up to his room. Once inside, he checked his cell phone, changed his button down for a tee from the swag bag, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the king bed in unaccustomed luxury. He opened the program and started to fantasize about all those boys downstairs and in their rooms: so many boys, so little time. He even added Martin to some of the fantasies. And some good lookers at this convention. He filled his room up with them, in all states of dress and undress, in all states of experienced and not, in all states of tall and short, large and small, long and short, hard and soft. He enjoyed constructing lives and personalities around the faces in the photographs. He drifted off and woke with a start a little after ten. He jumped up, trotted down the hall and knocked on the rooms housing his charges; the doors cracked, he looked in and made a head count and headed back. He turned the corner to his room and was just opening his door when two worried boys wearing only plaid boxers and holding armfuls of clothes bunched up and clutched to their chests--socks, shirts, pants, shoes, jackets--stopped him. The shorter one had a hatchet of hair over his left forehead; Scott recognized him immediately. The taller one said, "Sorry to bother you. We're with the journalism weekend." "Yeah. What's up, guys?" He noticed Scott's tee shirt: "You're one of the Journalism advisers, aren't you. Can we come in? It's cold here in the hall." "Well... what's going on. What's up?" They kind of pushed their way in and took turns explaining: "Our roommates locked us out." They dropped their bundles in the entryway inside the door. "We got kicked out of our rooms." "I heard. Why?" "It's a long story." "Well, I've got time, but you've got to get back to your rooms before your chaperone finds you missing." "They've already done bed check for both of us. No one's going to check until breakfast. And our roommates sure don't want us back." "Who are you guys, anyway?" "I'm Neal from Acton Prep and this is..." Scott finished the sentence for him: "Jesse Horton from Fairview. I'm Mr. Barnes from Lincoln." Jesse jerked: "Barnes? Scott Barnes? Trev's teach?" "One and the same. Why'd you guys get kicked out?" Jesse ignored the question: "Wow. Mr. Barnes. That's awesome. Trev told me about you. How'd you know who I was?" With a smile: "From one of Trev's photos of me?" "No, from the journalism program. Hope Trev didn't tell you too much about me." "He did. Listen, this has possibilities. We got kicked out 'cause we were taking pictures in Neal's room and his roomies walked in. They got all upset and pushed us out and locked the door. Then they threw Neal's clothes into the hall." Neal picked up the narrative: "So we went over to Jesse's room and by the time we got there, his roommates had locked him out and his clothes were in a pile in front of his door." Scott was confused: "They threw you out for taking pictures? What kind of pictures?" Jesse laughed; he put his hands on his crotch and gave a little push: "Kind of x rated. Maybe triple x." Neal turned to Jesse: "Dude, shut up! What are you doing? Stop!" "It's okay, Neal. Scott's cool. He's into this. Trust me." He turned to Scott: "We take x-rated pix and sell 'em on the internet and stuff. This is totally cool. You could take the pix of us. It's a pain just doing each other all the time." Turning back to Neal: "Dude, this could be great." Neal warmed to the idea: "Hey, he could be our photographer, like a professional. He could even take videos with both of us in it." Jesse turned to Scott, "We'd share the money with you. Like ten percent or something." Scott laughed: "I don't want your dirty money. But I will take your dirty pictures. You got cameras?" Neal shook his head: "We use cell phones. They're in the pile of clothes somewhere." Scott said, "Well then, all quiet on the set. Let's roll 'em. Take one." Excited by the possibility of being in videos together, the two boys joyfully threw off their boxers and jumped on the king bed; they wrestled and groped, they fucked doggie, missionary, upside down, inside out. They sucked and blew, they chewed on each other's feet, ears, hands, dicks. They drank off bottles from the mini bar and used them for dildos. They found lotion in little bottles in the bathroom and emptied them on and in each other. Martin was right: Jesse had a creative imagination. Scott freaked out playing the Hollywood director, moving in for close ups, stepping back for full body views, ordering retakes, playing with angles, checking lighting. He was a hands on director, constantly adjusting the boys to get the perfect shot, and his hands lingered. When both the boys' cell phones ran out of juice, Scott brought out his and used that up. With no more camera power, the two beautifully naked boys lay on the bed and invited Scott to join them. He undressed and the three relaxed on their stomachs, one on each side of Scott, and enjoyed reviewing the vids while Scott casually groped and rubbed and massaged: twelve-year old bubble butts are irresistible. After the films, Scott couldn't resist sucking dick, and he had a special fondness for dicks that weren't fully hard, which was the case given the workout the boys had given theirs. Then in lieu of payment for his filming activity, Scott had them lie on their backs on either side and jack him off together, a joint effort. He told them to take their time. He gently massaged their boyhoods, one in each hand, as the boys traded turns on his larger version. It was awesome. He held off as long as he could, but when he came, he exploded. They had to clean up afterwards, and the three just fit in the shower. Scott made sure they were washed all over. They dried each other off and got ready for bed. As they climbed under the covers, Scott asked, "You guys go to different schools. So how'd you two meet?" Neal said, "On the internet." "How'd that work?" Jesse laughed: "He bought one of my pictures once. I was into porn before he was. He was just a little snot nosed rich kid from a private school diso porn." "Diso?" "Desperately in search of. Wow. Just remembered. Something weird: that picture was a picture I took of Trev. Dude, we're all family."" Scott said, with one boy settling down on either side, "Well, family, Papa Bear says it's time to get some sleep. Breakfast is at 8. Night, boys." He turned out the light. After a long pause, just as Scott and Jesse were nodding off, Neal started reciting, "Good night, room, good night, moon, good night cow jumping over the..." Jesse cut him off with laugh: "Moon. Shut the fuck up, little rich kid. Night, all."