Date: Sun, 26 Sep 2010 05:06:21 +0200 From: Michael West Subject: Learning Curve: Part 2 All of the usual disclaimers apply to this story. This is a work of fiction, it portrays consensual sexual acts between a man, a teenage boy and a preteen boy. If this is not to your taste or illegal for you to read, please stop here. Feel free to send me an email with your comments! michaeljwest@gmx.com ========================== LEARNING CURVE: Chapter 2 The school bell rang out, signalling the end of the lunch hour. "Fucking bastards!" I muttered, staring at the door. My science teacher had just given me the best blowjob I'd ever received in all my sixteen years and then fucked the face of a twelve year first-former in front of me, but both had left me without making me come. So I was stood here with my trousers around my ankles and my stiff prick dripping pre-come on the floor of a disused storecupboard, aching for release. I was just about to finish myself off when the second bell went: that meant I should be in afternoon registration now. Sighing, I pulled my trousers up and, with difficulty, tried to tuck my hard-on back into my y-fronts. Slinging my satchel over my shoulder and attempting to arrange it so that it hid the obscene bulge in the front of my grey uniform trousers, I snuck out of the storecupboard and rushed off to registration. The rest of the afternoon was absolute hell. First period was Latin, which I hate. I sat at the back of the classroom, next to my mate Dave and let my mind drift while the rest of the class conjugated the pluperfect indicative, or whatever it was that they were doing. Unfortunately, my dirty, sexually frustrated mind drifted back to what had happened over lunch. All over again, my mind's eye saw Mr Dixon taking my stiff prick in his mouth, Mr Dixon's thick jism dribbling down Mickey's chin, Mr Dixon's heavy, hairy bollocks swinging back and forth. Without even realising it, I reached down below the desk and started stroking my prick through my trousers. I must have moaned, because Dave punched me in the ribs and muttered "there's a time and a place, Jonesy." My cheeks went bright red and I snatched my hand away from my aching prick. The next and last period of the day was Games. I was looking forward to it: a brisk run around in the open air would clear my head and (hopefully) calm my prick. No such luck: my mind kept going back to lunchtime. I kept on fumbling the ball when it was passed to me, and evil Gareth Edwards the games master pulled me out of play to give me a piece of his mind. As he was bawling at me, my eyes kept straying down to the crotch of his tight white rugby shorts. There was a hell of a bulge there, and I couldn't help but think about what his prick looked like. I felt myself beginning to bone up. "Bloody useless, boyo! Twice around the field!" Mr Evans' command jerked me to my senses. He turned his back on me and blew his whistle: my eyes dropped back down to his muscular arse, the cloth was so tightly stretched across his buttocks that I could make out the straps on his jockstrap. This wasn't doing anything to get rid of my growing hard-on. He looked over his shoulder at me. "Well, boyo? Run!" Again brought back to my senses, I sprinted off to do my two punishment laps around the playing fields. I resolutely pushed all thoughts of cock from my mind and concentrated on the feeling of my rugby boots pounding the ground beneath me. What was I doing thinking about other men's cocks and arses anyway? I wasn't queer. I repeated that like a mantra: I'm not queer. No sir, not me. I was close to finishing the second lap when Evans blew his whistle. "Shower and change, boys! Hop to!" Back in the changing room, I stripped out of my sweaty kit and couldn't help but look around me. Everywhere there were boys in various states of undress: boys bending over to take their underpants off and exposing their arseholes. Boys casually scratching their balls. Tall boys, short boys, well-built and scrawny, fat and skinny. All waving their equipment about and waggling their buttocks. And, god damn it, my treacherous prick began to rise in response. I quickly kicked my socks off and almost ran to the showers. Standing under a jet of lukewarm water, I closed my eyes and tried to make my prick behave itself. No such luck: with my eyes closed all I could see was the images of naked boys sucking on my prick conjured up by my filthy mind. "Fucking hell, lads! Three-legs is on a rampage!" My eyes snapped open and I span around, my cock pointing straight out in front of me. It was Alasdair Brown. A boy who was thick as pigshit and stank twice as bad. "Fuck off, Browner," I snarled back. Unfortunately, in spite of being a gormless twat, Alasdair was bloody good-looking. He was the opposite of me in almost every way, tall where I'm short, blond where I'm dark. He's lithe, I'm stocky. His defined torso was smooth and hairless, while I was already showing the first signs of what would turn out to be a thick rug of chest-hair. I stared at him, and felt my dick get harder. His eyes were locked on my stiff cock, and I noticed his own was beginning to thicken. I turned and stalked out of the shower, and got dressed as quickly as I could, stuffing my semi-hard prick into my y-fronts and hoping to god that nobody would notice the bulge. After school, on the bus home, I stared out of the window, willing the bus to go faster so I could get home and have a wank. My prick had been hard since I'd sat down, I could feel it stretching out my underpants while it throbbed against my hip. Unable to wait any longer, I glanced furtively around the bus to see if anyone was looking my way. The coast was clear. I slipped my hand into the pocket of my school trousers and started to slowly fondle the head of my cock through the fabric. Gently, with just my fingertips, I slid my foreskin back and forth, grunting softly under my breath. I closed my eyes and relaxed, letting my mind conjure up whatever images it wanted. I saw Mr Dixon and Mickey again, both of them sucking on my engorged prick. I saw Mr Edwards slowly undressing in front of me, peeling off his shorts and jockstrap to reveal a cock and balls much bigger than my own: I saw myself fall to my knees and take his prick into my mouth. Then I saw him turn and bend over, my hands coming up to caress his hairy, muscular arse-cheeks. Then I saw Alasdair Brown, on his knees in front of me, looking up at me with his blue eyes, and with my prick deep in his mouth, my balls banging against his chin. I tensed up and my cock-head exploded, dumping a load of sticky jism inside my underpants. Relieved at last! Good thing too, my stop was coming up. I got off the bus, walking past a bunch of first-formers from the local girls' school, who giggled and nudged each other as I went past. I scowled at them. One of them whispered something into her neighbour's ear and pointed directly at my crotch. Looking down, I saw a growing damp patch on the front of my school trousers, the light grey material showing dark where my load had soaked through the material of my y-fronts. My cheeks flushed a deep crimson and I fled. Back home, I found an empty house and a note from my dad. Mum and my sister had gone to visit Grandma in Surrey, and Dad had gone to the pub. The note told me to fend for myself. I went to my room and took off my uniform, balling the trousers up and sticking them at the bottom of the laundry basket, hoping Mum wouldn't notice the stain when she came to wash them. Just wearing my vest and underpants, I padded down to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. I stared blankly out of the window eating it, growing steadily more aware of the sticky feeling around my balls. The drying jism was making my y-fronts stick to my bollocks, and the feeling was making my prick start to grow again. I had to get out and clear my head. Dave Johnson and Chubby Chambers might be at the park, I thought. I could go and see if they were there, knock a ball about for a bit. Anything to stop me thinking about queer stuff all the time. I got dressed and then hopped on my bike. I rode around the park about three times, with no luck. Johnson and Chambers were nowhere to be seen, and it was starting to get dark. My bladder was informing me of an urgent need to piss as well. In the fading light, I pointed my bike in the direction of the public toilets, hoping they'd still be open at this hour. I was in luck: the lights were on and the door creaked open when I pushed it. The toilet was fairly standard issue: a couple of cubicles, a long trough-like urinal and an overwhelming stench of stale piss. Apart from me, the place was empty, silent except for the noise of my piss hitting the metal. Suddenly the door creaked again and I paused in mid-flow. An older man in his forties or fifties walked in. He was tall and wiry, balding on top and closely-cropped grey-black hair around the side. He was wearing a navy blue business suit and carried a briefcase, which he set down next to him at the urinal. As the man was fiddling with his trousers, I couldn't resist the urge to sneak a peek out of the corner of my eye. The man was reaching inside his fly, beginning to pull out his prick. I caught the glint of a wedding ring as his cock came out. My god, it was huge! I looked ahead again. When I heard the sound of another flow of piss hitting the metal, I risked another quick look. His prick was a long, thick slab of pale flesh, with a bulbous head covered by a foreskin that must have jutted out a good half inch from the end of his prick. The man held it delicately between his forefinger and thumb, lazily waving back and forth like a little boy, making patterns in the trough with his piss. I swallowed hard, and felt my own prick beginning to get hard again. "Got a good eyeful have you?" asked the man quietly. My gaze jerked up to his face: the man was looking at me with narrowed eyes. For some reason, I noticed they were green. And angry-looking. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered. "Of course you don't," the man said. He finished pissing and shook the last few drops from his cock, but made no move to put it away. "You were staring at my knob, boy." "I wasn't! I swear mister, I wasn't!" I protested. I was blushing again, and the stiffening prick in my hand was calling me a liar. "You like it that much, let's give you a proper look at it, eh?" the man said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder and propelling me to one of the cubicles, our cocks still hanging out of our flies. He pushed down and I sat heavily on the toilet seat. He loosened his tie, shrugged off his suit jacket, and turned to hang it from the hook on the door. Turning back to me, he put his hands on his hips, his thick knob straight in front of my face. "Go on then, son," he said, thrusting his hips towards me slightly. I licked my lips and hesitantly reached towards him. A part of my brain was screaming at me, jumping up and down, trying to attract my attention. Getting a gobble from a first form queer is one thing, shouted my brain, but sitting in a toilet cubicle and fondling prick of a man old enough to be your father? What kind of fucking queer are you? The man saw me hesitate. He unbuckled his belt and let his trousers fall to his ankles. Then he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and put his hands back on his hips, showing me most of his body. He had been sweating, his skin was damp and the dark hairs lay in whorls on his chest. The buzzing fluorescent light overhead made his pale skin look sallow, almost unhealthy in contrast to his green paisley y-fronts. He wasn't an attractive man. His thighs were skinny, his belly bulging. But somehow this just made the massive slab of meat sticking out of his underpants look all the bigger. "Come on, what're you waiting for lad? You know you want it." I reached out and grasped his dick around the base and lifted it slightly. Soft, it was a good six or so inches long, and almost too thick for me to get my hand around it. This was the first time I'd seen a cock bigger than my own. I leaned closer for a better look. The smell of his crotch hit my nostrils, overpowering the toilet's stink of piss. I recognised the smell: sweat and musk, like an unwashed jockstrap, or the changing room after games. With my other hand, I reached out and cradled his bollocks through his y-fronts, feeling the warm dampness of the fabric and the weight of his balls. The man reached down and hooked the crotch of his underpants to one side, letting his balls fall free. They were probably bigger than average, but against the size of his prick they looked small and lost, hanging low in their fur-covered sack. I rolled them around in my hand, stroking the silken-smooth hairs. They were so long, much longer than Mr Dixon's pubes. I guessed that Mr Dixon must trim his bush, while this man let everything just grow naturally. With me fondling his balls, the man's prick began to swell, lengthening and thickening in my hand. Soon, his prick was fully hard, solid as a block of wood. His foreskin still covered the helmet. I bent my head towards it and got another whiff of his crotch, sweat and musk again, but this time cut with something sharper: a final few drops of piss still hiding inside his foreskin. Gingerly, I stuck out my tongue and swiped it across his wrinkled foreskin. It tasted of piss and sweat, and something more bitter. Grasping the shaft with both hands, I skinned his foreskin back to reveal the thick head, glistening slightly with pre-come. I stuck out my tongue and tasted again, making the man grunt softly. "Put it in your mouth," he hissed. Ignoring the protesting voice in my head, I lowered my mouth over the head. It was big, almost too big to actually fit in my mouth. My jaws were stretched wider than was comfortable, but I kept on going, slowly feeding his prick into my mouth, trying to let my jaw get used to it. I was clearly going too slow for his taste: the man grasped the back of my head and firmly guided me further down his prick. The head slid along my tongue, slimy and oozing pre-come. I felt like I was going to choke on his dick and my eyes were streaming with tears, but he kept on pulling my head further and further down his shaft. Before I knew it, I felt the hair of his bollocks against my chin. The head of his prick was lodged deep inside my throat, and I felt like I was drowning in his pre-come. I could barely breathe, and was starting to feel faint. My hands grabbed at his bony arse in a desperate attempt to get him to pull out. "Got enough of my knob now, son?" he sneered, holding my head firmly in place. I started to panic, but then he slowly pulled his prick almost all the way out, leaving his head resting on the back of my tongue. I frantically gulped in air and tried to swallow the build-up of my drool and his pre-come but soon he was pushing his prick back down my throat. He steadily began to build up the speed of his thrusts until his hairy bollocks were banging on my chin like the pedal on a bass drum. He moaned and held my head in place as he fucked my throat, a steady stream of drool and pre-come dripping from the corner of my mouth. I remembered Mickey fingering his own arsehole earlier and got an idea: I slid my hands up the man's thighs and underneath the cloth of the man's underpants, into the damp, hairy cleft between his arse cheeks. With every forward thrust, his cheeks clamped down on my hands, but I found his hole easily and started to tickle it as gently as I could. The man's moans got louder, and as I slowly pushed my finger into his arsehole he thrust his cock all the way into my throat and held it there. I felt his prick throbbing in my mouth and throat, heard him grunting as he shot his bolt straight down my throat and into my stomach. He held me fast until his orgasm subsided, his bollocks against my chin, my nose squashed against the cloth of his y-fronts. Eventually he released me and withdrew his prick with a slurp. Staggering back to lean against the door, he looked at me. "Wank yourself off. I want to see you come," he said, frowning slightly. I needed no encouragement. I quickly stood and pushed my jeans and y-fronts down to mid thigh. My prick was rock-solid and oozing pre-come. "Big boy," the man commented. Holding my shirt out of the way with one hand, I urgently started fisting my prick, whimpering slightly. He stared at me, intently, idly toying with his deflating prick. "Yeah, that's it son, show me what you've got," he muttered and reached forward to stroke my balls. I moaned loudly and started shooting, my legs buckling beneath me. My load landed everywhere: on the cubicle walls, my jeans, his shirt, the piss-stained floor. Gasping to get my breath back, I sat back down on the toilet seat, my hand still wrapped around my prick. I looked up at the man. Suddenly, his face broke into a broad grin. He leaned forward and ruffled my hair. "Good lad. Well done," he said. Oddly, I felt a strange warm glow of pride. This man had virtually raped me in a public toilet, but his words of praise made me answer with a smile of my own. "What's your name, son?" he asked. "Uh, it's Gav. Gavin Jones," I said, puzzled. He stuck out his hand. I stared at it. "Trevor Barrington. Pleased to meet you," replied the man. I stared at him. You're standing in a public toilet, with your trousers around your ankles and your prick dripping jism, and you want to shake the hand of the schoolboy who just swallowed your load. Bloody hell, the English can be fucking weird at times. Shrugging, I shook his hand. "Same to you, mister." He tucked his dick and balls back into his underpants and started buttoning up his shirt. "You'd best nip off, lad, before anyone catches us," he said, jerking his head towards the door. I nodded. So I pulled my pants and trousers back up and slipped past him, trying to wipe off the worst of the come. "See you then," I said as I went out. I retrieved my bike, hopped on and cycled home. Later that night, as I was lying in bed, fondling my prick under the covers and reliving the day's events, it suddenly clicked. Trevor Barrington. Mickey's dad. Christ, I've sucked off Mickey's dad. He always said that his dad was a bit of a square, a prude who went to church every Sunday. Fuck. I wonder if Mickey knows what his dad keeps in his pants. I wonder if his dad knows what kind of cocksucker he's got living under his roof! ========================== NEXT TIME: Gavin finds himself in detention with Mr Dixon...