Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 16:12:23 -0500 From: Charles Hughes Subject: HE LOVED HIS TEACHER - Part 2 (M/b oral) This story is fiction and describes the sexual relationship of an adult with a young boy. If you are not 18 years of age, or if it illegal for any reason for you to read such material, you are to leave now. Copyright 2008, Charles Hughes All rights reserved I will try to answer all emails: the.empty.room@hotmail.com HE LOVED HIS TEACHER - Part 2 (M/b oral) Dear Mr. Hughes: It seems bizarre to me, as I'm certain it does to you, but I am familiar with the handwritten note you have found in an old textbook in your store. I know who wrote it. I am the "Mr. Richie" to whom the young author referred. I'm sure you don't believe this coincidence, but if you will look again at the note you'll see that most, if not all, of the letters "i" are not dotted. That was a habit I could not get him to break for some odd reason. And I suspect there were no paragraphs in the note at all; I suspect you introduced them to make the note easier to read. My name is not actually "Richie." That was a joke between me and the young boy I'll call "Dillon." My name, when mispronounced, is a synonym for "wealth;" it was one of young Dillon's jokes. I can only assume he was hiding my identity, even though his note doesn't seem to have been intended for the light of day. ("Dillon," I will write nothing that will identify you, either, if by some additional bizarre coincidence you happen to read this. If lightening strikes one, I suppose it's not unreasonable to suspect that it might strike again!) You see, Mr. Hughes, my experience with young Dillon was one of the sweetest things that has ever happened in my life, and I will do nothing to embarrass him. I will do nothing to dim the memory of that one shining period of happiness he allowed me to share with him. I became a teacher because of my love for children, my ability to connect with them, and my desire to share in the building of young lives. There is nothing perverse about this statement at all. I'm sure it is part of the motivation of all good teachers. Along the line I discovered I had a particular fondness for boys. I was surprised at this, but after a time I could no longer deny it. I was finally assigned classes for youngsters ages seven and eight; I was a third grade teacher for many years. And I was a good teacher. I feel I made an important contribution to the lives of many boys and girls. I loved watching boys of that age. They were so curious and eager to learn new things. Their interactions with each other would always begin tentatively, but they could build such strong friendships! And, of course, I found them to be simply beautiful. Watching their movements, listening to their high sweet voices, looking at their expressive faces -- it was all a wonderful experience for me. I never touched a boy, except for an occasional shoulder or arm when necessary. Even on the playground, I refrained from any kind of contact that could be misconstrued by them or my co-workers. And I did love to watch them run and play. Simply beautiful! And then Dillon came along. He was sitting in the front row the first day I walked into the room of that third grade class. I was always eager to see my new boys, to see what pleasures I would be watching in the new year. But that year my eyes went immediately and directly to Dillon. He was a little more slender than most of his eight-year-old classmates. Perhaps that only drew my eyes upward to his exquisite face. His pert little nose was the center of one of the prettiest boy faces I have ever seen. His thick but baby-fine light brown hair had clearly been combed that morning, but it had fallen casually into a nest that caught the lights from above. His soft brown eyes looked gentle and lively at the same time. His little pink lips were closed into a small smile, as though he were wondering about me, "Will he be nice?" Dillon was seated quietly, his slim legs held together under his desk. His shorts stopped at some point I could not see, but I could clearly see the pale curves of his knees and the gentle line of his calves. I could see the smooth skin of his neck above the collarless shirt he was wearing. For just a moment I couldn't tear my eyes from his. It was as though we were introducing ourselves to each other in some kind of intimate way I'd never experienced with a student before. In the first several weeks of class I discovered that Dillon was one of the bright ones, one of those students any good teachers dreams of having. He asked exactly the right questions, indicating that his mind was alert and searching. His eyes would light up when he discovered a connection for the first time. He had a wonderful sense of humor, laughing at some of my simple jokes; his laughter was a joy to hear. His smile would broaden when he realized he knew the answer to a question. I am a teacher, so I loved him for that, too. As he wrote in his little note, I frequently set books aside for my class to use. I encouraged them to use the small collection of books in what passed for a school library, but I kept several shelves of books available in the classroom for the really curious. Dillon was one of the first to take advantage of them; he was an avid reader. And I often asked students for assistance with little chores. There were always papers to collate, things to distribute or collect, rearrangements of bulletin boards, etc. I was, to tell the truth, flattered that students frequently volunteered to help. Dillon was one of those. He was always ready to help -- not just me, but his fellow students. Most seemed to appreciate it, but there were those, as he pointed out, who referred to him as the "teacher's pet." Yes, he was. I have lived a long time since those days with Dillon. And I have remembered him. I have often wondered about him, too. The note you found reassures me that he really was the sweet fun-loving little boy I remember. And I am reassured about his feelings for me, too, I must admit. The incident about which he wrote happened essentially as he described it. I was moving the shelved books to another wall, and I'd asked him to help me after school. He was eager to show how helpful he could be, and I'm afraid he picked up a stack that was just too much for him. He lost his balance and tripped against one of the desks, and he fell, the books scattering along the floor. When I got to him I could see a little blood on his leg. Apparently there had been a rough edge on the desk. I could tell it wasn't a serious cut, but I knew his leg must have twisted beneath him and caused some pain; there were tears in his eyes. "Dillon," I said as I knelt beside him, "are you all right?" "I dropped... my leg, it hurts some." I always loved hearing his soft, sweet voice, but this time it was tense. He was in pain. The hurt in his voice hurt me. "Here, let me see," I said. I carefully moved his leg so it was straight in front of him, and I ran my hand up and down it from his ankle to above his thigh. Nothing was broken. Not even sprained, apparently. And, yes, I admit it. I was aroused at this touch. His leg didn't really seem injured seriously, but I wanted to take care of the cut. I helped him to the front of the room and lifted him to sit on the edge of my desk. He seemed light as a feather, and I was very aware of his arms around my neck as I carried him. "Let me get my first-aid kit," I said as I rummaged through a side drawer. My hand was searching the drawer, but my eyes were on his legs, no further than a few inches from my face. I swear I could smell the boyscent. I opened the kit and found some antiseptic wipes, opened them, and began to wash the cut. He tensed for a moment, but only because the wipe was cold on his skin. The cut was on the outside of his right leg, and I held his leg up with my hand around his calf. His skin was so warm and soft. I watched his face as I moved the wipes gently. He was watching my hand as I cleansed his cut. But he glanced up at me once, and he smiled tentatively. I pressed the wipe to the cut for a moment. The bleeding had already stopped; it was hardly more than a scrape. I decided a bandaid wouldn't even be necessary. But I could not let go of his leg. I dropped the wipe to the floor and knelt in front of him as I moved my right hand gently up his lower leg to his knee. A boy's knee is a beautiful thing. So functional, but so perfectly beautiful. And, in a boy, always moving, even when the boy is sitting "still." I rubbed his skin lightly, but he had to know that this had nothing to do with his injury. Still, I couldn't remove my hand, my fingers lightly stroking the warm underside of his knee. I continued to move my fingers gently and lightly up beyond his knee, moving them inward along the slope of his thigh. His head was down now, watching my hand move, and I could hear his soft breath in my ear. My left hand tightened a bit around his calf, feeling the fledgling muscle there, and I slowly moved it upward, stroking the softness under his knee, until the fingers of both hands were lying around his upper thigh, just inside the leg of his shorts. How often I had looked at those young thighs! And now I could feel the softness of his skin, the heat of him! I was actually touching higher than I had even been able to see. I was holding between my hands the smooth but strong thigh of a pretty boy who continued to smile at me. And I became acutely aware of the stiffness in my pants. "I... Is this... You seem to be all right..." I stammered. He looked at me, and his eyes communicated such trust. Is it possible that he was even enjoying my touch? I slid my fingers downward again in a kind of caress, gently kneading the muscle of his thigh, then his calf. All so very smooth. "Is this all right?" I asked him quietly. "It feels nice," he said, simply. He seemed so matter-of-fact about it, accepting my touch as though it were almost expected, certainly welcomed. At least, he hadn't told me to stop. I flattened my left hand so that my palm was lying along the inside of his calf. I slid my hand upward again, my entire palm sensing the warmth of the boy's leg and the smoothness of his thigh. How often I had watched those thighs, never imagining that I would one day actually touch them! He made a little sound, perhaps a sound of pleasure, and I allowed my fingers to continue beyond where they had been before. Did I dare move even farther? Our eyes locked. His small smile reappeared. That smile encouraged me to move my fingers lightly over that incredibly smooth skin of his upper thigh. He sighed again, and there was no question this time. He was enjoying it. Then, instead of sliding my fingers from side to side, I moved them up slightly. I stopped when I found myself touching the hem of the leg in his little briefs. I froze. I only rarely got to actually see the underpants my boys wore. Occasionally a tee shirt would lift so I could catch a glimpse of an elastic wasitband. Now I was touching, actually touching, the most intimate piece of clothing a young boy wears, the soft cotton that surrounds and holds his most precious possession. It was too late to refrain from any improper touch of this boy. But I could have stopped. I remember thinking how thrilled he must be at the touch, and I realized I was thinking about my own boyhood -- how thrilled I would have been. "You are such a pretty boy, Dillon." I spoke without thinking. No, I spoke exactly what I was thinking. He was, indeed, one of the most beautiful boys I'd ever seen. My fingers moved inward a bit. And then I found myself touching the warm cotton pouch at his center. My forefinger hesitantly moved around until I was unmistakeably fingering his little penis. He started just a bit, but then he sighed again. When I dared to look at his face, he was smiling down at me. Without saying a word, I moved my fingers until I was surrounding his boyflesh through the cotton. It felt like no more than a nub under my fingertips, but as I massaged it gently the wonderful thing began to respond. How marvelous, that a penis, even one so tiny, can produce an erection so pleasing to its owner. It was hardening, stiffening. I stroked it with one finger. "Is this all right, Dillon?" I asked him. His smile became dreamlike, and he nodded slowly. He also opened his legs a bit. I could only hope that small movement was an invitation. My finger traced the tiny dick from the roundness of his pubic bone just below the waistband of his briefs to the tip of it. He sucked in his breath when I circled my finger over his cotton-covered dickhead softly. His breath was coming more quickly now. And so was mine. After massaging his dicklet for a moment, I asked, "Does this feel good, Dillon?" "Yesss..." Dillon's voice was high, quivering with pleasure. "Oh, yessss..." "If you want, I can make it feel even better," I said. My hands were shaking, and I wondered if he could feel that. My heart was pounding. Dillon nodded and smiled. I didn't hesitate. It was an opportunity I'd never had before -- and one I might never have again. All thoughts of consequences fled my brain, and I could only think of the boyflesh I would soon touch. I reached for the waistband of his shorts, unfastened them, and pulled them and his little white briefs down. He wound up sitting on the wad of clothing under his little butt, but his shorts and briefs were far enough down in front that his crotch was fully exposed. It was the most beautiful thing. All that smooth skin at his pubic bone. And, sprouting from it, a thin, taut boymuscle, a boydick, a sweet cocklet not even two inches long. His skin, always hidden from view under his small briefs, was milk-white. His circumcised little dickhead was pink; his peehole was so tiny it was almost invisible. The shaft of his dicklet was a paler shade of pink; it would have been white as snow had it not been engorged by his arousal. And the scent! It wafted to my nose the moment I opened his shorts, and when I moved my face closer to his boyhood I inhaled it deeply. Such sweetness! A touch of sweat from the playground, a touch of boypee from the last few drops, and then... the light but heady scent of boy! No nectar ever smelled more intoxicating. The mere memory of it makes my cock throb. Of course, I was engorged, too. I could feel a spot of precum in my own briefs. I simply opened my mouth and ate him. I closed my lips around his hard little dick and felt its heat warm my mouth. My lips felt his heartbeat as his cocklet throbbed. My tongue lapped around it, tasting the sweetness and encouraging its erection -- the boy-erection, the boy stiffie, as I knew they called them. It was hot, delicious meat the likes of which I'd never tasted before. I found his tiny dickhead and washed it with my tongue. The skin was tight around the little nub, and I knew it was extremely sensitive. "Ooooooo... uhhhhhhhhhhh..." Dillon's high voice was soft and musical. I could feel his hand on my head. "Ooooooooooo..." I knew instantly that mine was the first tongue ever to taste this boy treat. I reached up as he rocked back and forth and worked his shorts and briefs out from under his butt, letting them fall to his ankles. I moved my hand back up between his legs, intending to help hold him so he wouldn't rock himself off balance, but my fingers brushed again two little bumps. They would someday be his balls, working to produce for him. They would become big; they would drop to hang below him. But now they were mere tiny eggs covered with such smooth, soft skin. I let my fingers massage them gently as I sucked on his dicklet. "Aaaaaaaa..." His sweet music filled the room. I remembered playing with myself when I was his age. I remember how much I loved the feel of my hard boyhood. That sweet and wonderful discovery! I wondered if Dillon had already discovered the joy of playing between his legs. Both his hands were on my head now, one of them clutching my hair though his fingers and the other one pressing my head into himself. Yes, this pretty boy knows where the pleasure of boyhood can be found, I realized. I began to suck on his little toy more regularly, pursing my lips and pulling upward from against his pubis to the tiny ridge of his dickhead. There wasn't much to suck, but it was so delicious, so sweet! I sucked and pulled, sucking harder. It looked so tiny between his legs, but in my mouth it felt so alive, so tender, so powerful even in a child such as Dillon. I devoured him. I filled my mouth with feast he was offering me, tasting every pore of it, washing it over and over again. I flattened my tongue to lick slowly upward from the base of it; I pointed my tongue and caused it to spin around in my mouth, the tip brushing against my inner cheeks. I sucked it in and out, always careful to be gentle with him. Dillon's little moans had stopped now. He was panting. I wondered. How far had he gone in playing with himself? Did he toy with his dicklet for long periods of time in bed at night? Did he handle it in his bathtub or shower? Had he yet discovered the wonders of orgasm? What was going through his sharp mind at this moment? His hands urged me on, and I tightened my fingers around his tiny balls just a bit. One finger slid a bit farther and reached into the warm crack of his little butt. His dicklet began to throb more; the soft skin of his belly began to quiver against my cheek. He was very close. Did he know? He made a sound deep in his throat. He froze against my face for a moment. Then he shook deeply, and his dicklet began to thrash around in my mouth. "Eeeeeeee..." His voice moved up the scale quickly until I could hear no sound at all, but I could hear the air rushing from his throat. I continued to suck, realizing that I was feeling his dry cum. He wiggled against my hand and mouth. His dicklet grew even harder as it moved rapidly inside my mouth. He bucked his hips once into my face. Then, with a little whine, he almost collapsed over me. I let his boyhood drop from my mouth and raised my hands to keep him steady on the edge of the desk. I don't know that he was even aware that I kissed his cheek. I held him by his shoulders for a moment, and when he raised his head to look at me his mouth was open slightly and his eyes looked dazed. Then he focused on me. His mouth curled in a small smile, and then his smile broaded. I helped him pull his shorts back up, my hands shaking but so very aware each time I touched his warm skin. I helped him hop down from the desk. He threw his arms around my waist and hugged me tight. And he ran out of the room. So, it happened that first time essentially as he wrote about it. Of course, there were many other times, too. Such a sweet, pretty boy. But, yes, it was all essentially as he wrote. Perhaps, if I decide to do so, I'll write you again some day and let you know about them, too. At the moment, however, my memories of Dillon are almost overwhelming me. And I am very aroused. I need to relieve myself. Sincerely, Mr. "Rich" ------------------------- Mr. Rich: Thank you for your unexpected email. You are correct about the note. The letter "i" is never dotted, and it was all written in a single paragraph. I did not say, however, that the boy had actually signed his name. The name is at the top of the paper, as a child would write on a school assignment. I will not reveal the actual name; I will simply say that I understand why you chose to use the name "Dillon" in your email. I would be very pleased if you decide to write again. Sincerely, Charles Hughes