Date: Wed, 08 Dec 2021 06:11:12 +0000 From: Art Subject: My Student Writes A Porn Story C-6 Please keep this site alive by donating to Nifty. http://donate.nifty.org Remember, this story is fiction. The author does not recommend you try this stuff at home (Unless you absolutely must) Thanks to all of you who have responded and given suggestions. My Student Writes A Porn Story. C-6 END OF C-5: "Well, how about I come over this evening and you show me more than your freckles?" Why not plan to stay the weekend? Attend my graduation. Then back home and do what loving men, not teacher and student, do." "Oh yeah. We can do that." Foster did not know my plans for him or the graduation gift I had bought him. **** I stopped home after school. I needed a beer. I would not take any to Foster's apartment. He was nineteen. Then again, what we had done the last weekend and worse, today, broke the law. I sat and sipped my brew and tried to resolve my conflict. The weekend we shared at his apartment seemed caring and loving and remote. We declared our love, and he shared how much he needed my protection. All was good until today in class. I felt used. Foster was not the sweet boy of last weekend. He planned to seduce me in my classroom, knowing he was taking liberties that might cost me my job, or worse. Then he follows me to the bathroom, locked the door and, oh god, I allowed Foster to have sex with me. His classroom behavior triggered my lizard brain. I let him enter me like I was a cheap hook-up. Sure, we expressed love and said the right things, afterwards. I was sure my expressions were the afterglow of the physical act of release. Our coupling was animalistic. Foster saw an opportunity to use me for his pleasure and violate my ethics because he could. All his professions of love and needing me were a scam. I pulled on the beer bottle. My eyes saw my gift to Foster for graduation on the table. That black velvet box with my surprise for him inside. Next to the box was the ticket packet for the seven-day cruise I had planned for us. I stared at them as tears welled in my eyes and overflowed. I went to the refrigerator to be sure I had enough beer. I needed to get wasted and forget. I took two bottles back with me and sat. Foster did not know my address, so he would not find me. The little shit. I would turn off my phone. I had to attend graduation. The school required faculty to attend and wear a cap and gown. I would duck out immediately after. As soon as I closed my classroom, I would visit Hudson in Traverse City, where he was playing summer ball. I decided, before I turned off my phone, to call my brother. He knew me and supported me. He was aware of Foster and the way I felt, did feel, about this kid. "So, you are telling me that until today you had love feelings for Foster. Then, today he acted animalistic to get you to cum in front of your class, not once, but two times. Further, he took advantage of your lowered defenses and raped you." I stopped Hudson. "It was consenting. I wanted Foster. I did not say, No." Hudson was quiet for so long; I thought the call dropped until he spoke. "Parker. My host family has an extra bedroom. You would be welcome. Why not come up after you finish closing your classroom. Then again, Foster might have an explanation for his behavior." "There can be no explanation. I thought we had something. What he did, well, there is no reasoning. To think I allowed that to take place. I'm the adult. I have to go, bro. Thanks for listening." I powered off my phone. I drank two more beers, then went to bed. Friday was a teacher prep day. No students. For students to enter, they required a pass. I did not see Parker. I worked boxing files to store for the summer. The time to leave arrived. I left, making my way to the car. A small shape sat against the driver's door, Parker. I closed the distance. He must have heard my steps. He looked up. His face was a mass of snot and tears and dirt. His eyes were empty of joy. The weather was hot, but he wore a workout suit. When he looked at me, I saw sorrow, despondency, a look that sank into my heart. "You must hate me." He started. "When you did not come over last night, I tried to call. It went to voicemail. I did wrong. I have no excuse. When my grandparents were living, they paid for counseling. The doc diagnosed me with antisocial personality disorder. That means I engage impulsively, even engage in unlawful activities with no regard for the consequences. I will show no regard to the needs of others. I try to present myself as desirable. I use methods designed to put partners at ease, then I take advantage. My motivation is getting what I want with no regards for others." He stopped his summary of his health issues. I stood staring down. He had a stick he poked at a stone. "I waited for you. I needed to tell you it wasn't you. I never wanted to hurt you. I did. I'll be going. I will not bother you again." Foster stood. I said nothing. Watching him. His face looked worse now that I was near to him. I resisted the urge to touch him. As he walked away, I hollered, "Have a good life." My car was hot. I turned on the air, waiting for the air to cool. My phone rang. Hudson. "What's up, bro?" "I thought about what you told me. Maybe there is some reason for his behavior. You should talk to him. Yesterday might have been a cry, a cry for help." "Hold on. Give me a moment." I placed my forehead on the steering wheel. I knew nothing about antisocial personality disorder. "You there?" "Yeah." "He waited for me next to my car after school. He was a freaking mess. He said he had this mental issue, antisocial personality disorder. Made it sound like he had no control over his behavior. What a crock." "No. No, bro, APD is a genuine issue that needs treatment. One of my teammates sees a counselor weekly. He has APD. Talking to a therapist helps." "Another alphabet disease," I snorted. "Give it up, Parker. APD is cyclical, and when it takes over, the subject loses control. I ain't saying you need to take the kid back. Just have a talk with him. Show him someone cares." "Yeah, maybe." "No, do it. If you don't talk to that kid, I will come down there and show you another way to use a bat and I will hit two balls into left field. Git me Teach?" "Yeah. Talk at ya later." I sat in the car. Hudson called me Teach. Foster called me Teach. If I was Teach, I needed to do what a teacher does and care for this student, even when he messes up. I put the car in drive and went to Foster's. I knocked at his door. No answer. I tried the knob. The door was open. I called his name. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. I checked just to be certain. The place was empty. I remembered Foster had told me about the antique car storage underneath. I retraced my steps and searched for the lower level door. The door was open. I looked inside. No lights on. "Foster?" I called again, "Foster?" I heard a faint, "Go away. Leave me alone." I followed the sound to a 1965 Mustang convertible. Foster sat behind the wheel. I got in the passenger side to sit silently. I waited. He began in the softest of voices. "It'd be cool to drive one of these ponies. You know, they called the Mustang a pony. This is a convertible. Four on the Floor. Could you see us cruising Route 66 to California? My left arm on the door, yours on the right door. Our hands together in the middle singing a crazy tune like Johnny Be Good. We'd stop for food and gas. At night we would get a single bed motel room. We'd spoon together, holding each other. Maybe we'd make out. Maybe we'd make love, you know go all the way. When we would stop in the desert, drive down a lane, with the top down. Yeah, we'd stop, rest our heads, and look at the stars, the zillions of stars. We'd talk about the future, you, and me. Maybe we'd talk about getting married or how many kids we would have. I want two. I know you would agree. We would have a three-bedroom house near where you taught so you could walk to school, save on gas, you know. When we got to the Pacific, we would skinny dip. We would hold each other. Later, I would start therapy to get my head on straight. We'd love our kids and never abuse them even if they were gay or trans." Foster stopped. He was crying, softly. "Shit. I'm a wreck. Before yesterday, we were good. Now, well, why did you come here?" "I found about your mental issue; Hudson informed me. I came here to do some talking. Shit, you said it all. You said my dream for us better than I could articulate it. I want this. I want this with you. I want us to be forever. How about we go inside? Talk it over?" I took his hand and together we entered his apartment. I can't say we settled everything that night. Many days, even with counseling, Foster struggled. Time passed. SEVEN YEARS LATER: Who knew. Foster's therapist discovered he had a talent for drawing. Now one of our bedrooms is an artist studio slash den. Foster and I share space. He has sold some of his art and he has a growing demand for his work at the local level. I still teach at the high school and bring in some money doing technical writing. Foster encourages me to write fiction. I am working on short stories for now. I sold a couple and have an agent sniffing around. The three-bedroom home had to be a four-bedroom. Hudson plays major league ball, and he uses one to live with us during the off-season. The third room started off as a nursery. Next it became a youth bedroom. As Conner and Cameron, the twins born nine months after Foster and I married are almost six. They finished kindergarten and are eager for first grade to begin. They love their papas and their Unkie Hudsie. They gave up on the idea of wearing clothes as soon as they were out of diapers, maybe they got the idea from their papas. We realized too late; they absorbed what they saw even as infants and copied their papas. Hudson is comfortable being undressed when it is just us five in the house. When ball club friends of Hudson visit, or he brings a female friend to visit, we dress and we insist they wear something. Those squirts discovered kiddie thongs online and bought two pairs each. They argue those are clothes. I tell them they hide almost nothing and just wait a couple of years. We did take the cruise I bought, just later than planned. The Celtic ring I presented Foster that was in the box became his wedding ring. I bought a matching one. If you wonder about that porn story Foster wrote to his teacher. Well, we keep it locked away. On our anniversary, we read it to each other. When the boys, someday, want to know how we met, and they are of age, we plan to read it to them. Maybe on a winter evening when we all cuddle together by the fire and Papa Foster will read us, "A Boy's Adventure," ***Every so often, a reader gives me an idea for a story. The idea for this one came from Jeffery B. Since I began this story, the many suggestions you readers provided have given me direction. I ended it in a manner different from my others. Hope you like it. Comments and suggestions at: acgib1943@protonmail.com. Donations to Nifty help support these stories.