Date: Sun, 24 Oct 2010 20:07:29 +0200
From: Michael West <michaeljwest@gmx.com>
Subject: Learning Curve 4

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 4

I stood and pressed the thick blunt head of my prick against Mickey's
arsehole, still swollen and oozing Mr Dixon's jism. I was about to slowly
push my prick inside the twelve year old boy when Mr Dixon stopped me.

"Wait! You can't just fuck the poor boy dry. You'll tear him to pieces. Get
your cock wet first," he said. "Barrington, get your mouth around Jones'
dick and get it nice and wet ready for your bum-hole."

Mickey climbed off the desk and kneeled before me. He stared at my prick,
as if realising for the first time exactly how big it really was. He looked
up at me, his face uncertain.

"That's going to really hurt," he said, flatly. I looked down at him. There
was real fear showing in his eyes, making me hesitate. He'd been sucking
happily on my prick for a few months now, sliding my length down his throat
at virtually every opportunity. After some initial discomfort, he'd just
taken Mr Dixon's prick up his arse without injury. But I had to admit that
the teacher's six inches was not only shorter than my own prick, it was
also considerably thinner, even if his bell-end was wickedly flared. I
wasn't going to force the kid to do something he really didn't want to.

"Just suck it, Mick," I said, looking him in the eye and winking at
him. "It'll be fine, I promise."

I pushed my y-fronts down to mid-thigh, releasing my balls. The cool air on
my sweaty ballbag made my bollocks draw up towards my body. Hands on my
hips, I shuffled forward slightly and slapped my prick against the twelve
year old's freckled cheeks, leaving a glossy trail of precum across his
cheekbone. He grinned up at me slightly and wrapped his small, pale hand
around the base of my thick shaft. He skinned my foreskin back over my
bell-end and bent his head forwards, taking the very tip of my
foreskin-covered prick between his lips.

He nibbled gently at my wrinkled foreskin, making me groan. I felt an ooze
of pre-come escape my prick, to be lapped up by his quick little tongue. He
skinned my foreskin back again, revealing my glistening head. He started
lapping at the tip of my prick with short, quick strokes of his tongue
which made me go a little weak at the knees. I placed one hand on the back
of his head, running his shaggy red hair through my fingers. Opening his
mouth, he took my entire bell-end past his lips and began to suck
gently. Fuck, the boy was good. After everything I'd seen that afternoon, I
was as horny as a boatful of seamen on a nine-month cruise. With Mickey's
talented mouth hoovering up my prick, this wouldn't last long.

Slowly, gently, I pulled his head closer to my crotch, carefully feeding my
full seven inches down his throat until his nose was buried in my thick
bush of black pubes. Holding him there for a second, relishing the wet
warmth of being fully inside the boy's mouth, I jerked my prick slightly in
his mouth. I looked down and saw that the insatiable little bastard was
hard again, his hand lazily working his pale little prick.

Holding his head firmly in both hands, I began to thrust back and forth
into his mouth. All the way out, just leaving my bell-end between his lips
and then all the way back in, my bollocks against his chin. His hands were
caressing the tops of my thighs now, squeezing just below my
buttocks. Normally he'd knead my hairy arse cheeks with both hands when I
was fucking his mouth, this time he had the decency to leave my caned
buttocks alone. I glanced across at Mr Dixon. Still in his stained vest and
still with his cock hanging out of his boxer shorts, he was staring at us
intently, frowning slightly. He folded his arms and looked at me with
raised eyebrows.

"Any time you're ready, Jones," he said.

"Not... quite.. wet.. enough.. yet.. sir!" I grunted back, my thrusts into
Mickey's mouth punctuating each word. The boy increased his suction on my
prick. I closed my eyes and threw back my head. So close. So fucking
close. Mickey's hand strayed across my abused arse cheek and into my damp,
hairy crack. With his finger tip, he tickled my arsehole, making me groan
louder and thrust quicker. Using only my own arse-sweat for lube, he gently
pushed his forefinger inside me, past my ringpiece, and then started to
thrust it back and forth.

"Fucking Christ!" I bellowed. A twelve year old boy fingering my
arsehole. It sent me over the edge. I thrust my length all the way down his
throat, mashing my bollocks against his smooth chin and holding him tightly
against my crotch as I shot spurt after spurt after spurt of teenage jism
straight down his throat.

There was no sound in the room but the buzz of the overhead lights, my
panting and Mickey gulping down my load. Mr Dixon was still frowning at
us. All at once, he grunted and crossed the classroom in three quick
strides to grasp the cane he'd abandoned on the desk at the front of the
room. Flexing it between his hands slightly, he glared at us; Mickey wiping
the last of my jism from his chin, my deflating prick still glistening with
the boy's saliva.

"Did I not tell you, Jones, to simply get your dick wet before shoving it
up Barrington's arse?"

"Sorry sir, I couldn't help myself sir. Got a bit carried away. Heat of the
moment, like," I said, my face radiating honest sincerity. Mr Dixon stared
at me for a long, silent moment. A final drop of come oozed out of the end
of my prick, hanging there for a minute before hitting the dusty parquet
floor. The teacher snorted and pointed the cane at me.

"Sling your hook, Jones. Don't let me catch you again. Barrington, you stay
where you are."

I hesitated, looking down at Mickey, who was still naked on his knees
before me. The boy gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

"Move, Jones, before I change my mind," said Mr Dixon sternly. I pulled up
my underpants, grabbed my clothes from the desk and scarpered.

* * *

The following day at school, I didn't see Mickey at all, which was odd and
worried me slightly. On Monday morning I did see him, briefly, at the other
end of a corridor, joking around with some of the other boys in his form. I
breathed a sigh of relief: Mr Dixon hadn't hospitalised him or anything
after I left on Thursday. Grinning slightly, I hefted my bollocks and
turned my thoughts to the morning break: normally Mickey would come and
find me by the cricket pavilion and we'd arrange a rendez-vous for the
lunch hour.

I spent the whole twenty minutes lingering behind the cricket pavilion,
waiting for Mickey to show up. He never did, which left me a little put
out. The following day, the same thing. And again on Wednesday. On Thursday
I was getting royally pissed off by this, as well as highly sexually
frustrated. Once you're used to getting your end away on a regular basis,
going solo just doesn't quite cut it anymore. Besides, with my noisome
little sister hanging around all the time, tugging one out at home was
essentially off the cards. My prick was getting hard at the slightest
provocation, even a boy brushing past me in the corridor was enough to get
my prick hard and leaking in my y-fronts. Changing for games was utter
torture for me. I even went back to the toilets in the park where I'd
sucked off Mickey's dad, and spent the best part of an evening with my cock
out at the stinking urinal waiting for someone, anyone, to come in and take
advantage of my horny sixteen year old prick. Nobody did.

By the time Friday rolled around, I reached the conclusion that Mickey was
avoiding me. When I cornered him between lessons, he confirmed my
suspicions immediately.

"Where the fuck have you been all week? My prick's going to explode at this
rate," I snarled, seizing his throat and pushing him against the wall of
the boy's toilets.

"Ow! Let go, Gav! You're hurting me!"

"Only if you tell me what the fuck is going on," I said, easing up slightly
on his windpipe.

"Gav!" he wailed. I lowered him to the floor and let him go. With
exaggerated care, I brushed invisible lint off his shoulders and
straightened his tie for him. "Fucking ape-man," he muttered, glowering at
me.

"Come on, then, spill. Why have you been avoiding me and my little friend
all week?" I demanded.

"Look, Gav, you know I like you and you know I love sucking on your, hah,
'little friend'," he said, miming quotation marks in the air. "But it's
simple, right? Mr Dixon said that if I keep on sucking your knob in school,
he won't bum me any more. And I want him to keep on bumming me."

"What?!" I exploded. "Fuck Dixon! I'll bum you if that's what you want," I
said. "Fuck, I'll bum you right here and now!" I made a grab for Mickey,
but he danced easily out of my reach.

"Not with that bloody thing, you won't!" he said. "Look, Gav, you're just
going to have to find some other impressionable first-former to corrupt."

"What? But it was you who..." I began, but he cut me off.

"I'm going to be late for English Lit," he said moving towards the door,
where he paused and looked back at me with that silly grin of his
again. "Adieu. I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave!" Seeing
the utterly puzzled look on my face, he rolled his eyes. "It's Shakespeare,
you pillock. Merchant of Venice," he said. Exeunt omnes.

* * *

My own next lesson was Games. Rugby again. I was distracted, frustrated and
pissed off, which affected my play pretty badly. Only fifteen minutes into
the match, I completely fucked up a pass, letting the ball thump into my
chest and drop to the ground without even bringing my hands near it. I
stopped stock still and looked down at the ball, puzzled. A body barrelled
into my back and knocked me flat, face down on the pitch. Mr Evans blew his
whistle and I stood, spitting out grass and mud. It was Alasdair Brown
who'd tackled me. He stood panting and bent over, resting his hands on
mud-stained knees and glaring at me from lowered eyebrows. Mr Evans jogged
over. Brown straightened and spat on the ground at my feet.

"Fucking poofter," he said loudly, looking me square in the eyes. A red
haze descended over me. I raised my fist and sent it sailing straight
towards Brown's face, knocking him flat on his back. I came back to my
senses and saw the other boys staring at me, stunned. Mr Evans was crouched
beside Brown, trying to get him to his feet. Rage in his eyes, the games
master turned to me.

"Jones! That is just about bloody enough. The headmaster's study. Now!" he
bellowed.

I turned and started trudging back towards the school buildings. Mr Evan's
voice followed me up the field: "Run, boy!" I set off at a jog.

I stood waiting outside the headmaster's study. His secretary had buzzed
him a few minutes ago, letting him know that I was waiting for him. I had
gone straight from the playing fields, and was still in my games kit. Thick
white cotton shorts, a rugby top in the school colours, blue and white
football socks pooling around my ankles. All covered in mud and grass
stains, the same as my face and bare legs. I clutched my muddy boots in my
left hand, and felt my stomach turning over and over. The headmaster, Dr
McEndry, had a fearsome reputation. He possessed a strange power to make a
corridor full of jostling, chatting, laughing schoolboys all freeze and go
utterly silent simply by bellowing "YOU BOY!" at the top of his
voice. Everyone within hearing range would go stock still, even tremble
slightly, until the object of Dr McEndry's wrath had been singled out of
the crowd and escorted to his study.

Like every other boy at the school, then, I lived in awe and fear of Dr
McEndry. In spite of his reputation as an ogre, he was actually quite nice
and unthreatening when not roused to anger. Tall and broadly built, Dr
McEndry had been in the paras during the war, and he still marched around
the school with a firm, confident stride. Thick grey hair covered most of
his head, aside from a large bald patch at his crown, which along with his
thick grey moustache always gave him the air of a rather muscular monk. He
habitually wore a navy blue regimental tie and blazer over loose, pleated
grey slacks and black brogues so shiny that you could see the ceiling
reflected in them.

After what seemed like an eternity of nervous anticipation, Dr McEndry's
voice, tinged still with a faint Scottish accent, summoned me inside the
study. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside. He
looked up from his desk.

"Ah, Gavin Jones, isn't it? Fifth form, Mahler House," he asked.

"Yes sir," I mumbled.

"What brings you to me today?"

"Mr Evans sent me, sir." His eyes narrowed.

"Oh? And why would that be?" his voice became harder, his accent more
pronounced. I looked down at my socked feet, wriggling my toes slightly in
the plush carpet.

"Punched someone, sir," I mumbled. He frowned.

"Speak up, boy! I can't hear you!"

"I punched Alasdair Brown during a rugby match, sir. Mr Evans sent me to
you for punishment," I said clearly, looking him in the eye. He sighed and
reached for the cane that hung prominently behind his desk.

"Fighting is a serious infraction of the school rules, lad. Six strokes
would be appropriate, I feel. Bend over," he said, indicating the desk and
swishing the cane back and forth. I gulped and braced myself against his
desk, my cloth-covered arse pushed out ready and my eyes shut tightly in
anticipation of the first cut. Whack! It landed and I opened my eyes in
surprise. Dr McEndry's stroke was feeble in comparison to what I'd received
last week at the hands of Mr Dixon. This was almost pleasant. As the cuts
came down, my mind went back to that classroom after school last Thursday,
Mr Dixon raining down firm swipes on my naked buttocks. My prick stiffened
at the memory. By the sixth stroke, I was completely horned up, my leaking
prick straining at the confines of my rugby shorts.

"There," said Dr McEndry, placing the cane on the desk. "Hands on your
head, boy, and turn around."

Cheeks flushed with shame, I turned to face my headmaster, my throbbing
erection unmissable in my brief rugby shorts. He looked at me, looked down
at my bulging crotch and back up at me again.

"Why, you filthy little pervert," he hissed. "Six of the best enough to get
your dander up, eh? Disgusting, dirty little boy." In a hoarse, tightly
controlled whisper, Dr McEndry explained to me exactly what kind of
depraved worm I was. Seemingly of its own accord, his hand moved slowly
towards my bulging crotch. Still muttering "dirty, filthy boy," over and
over again, the tall, muscular old man grasped my shaft through the fabric
of my shorts and began to gently squeeze it, massaging it up and down. His
other hand undid the button at my fly. He released his hold on my prick and
let my shorts fall to the floor. Caressing my stiff prick through my
jockstrap, his hand went to his own crotch and undid his fly.

Eyes intent on my crotch, he pulled the pouch of my jockstrap to one side,
releasing my dribbling prick to the chilly air of his study. With one
massive hand, he gently stroked along the length of my prick, his calloused
thumb coming up and rolling my foreskin around my bell-end. He placed his
other hand on my right buttock and pulled me slightly closer to him. I felt
his hot breath on my face, little flecks of spittle landing on me with
every whispered name he called me. "You disgusting pervert, you dirty boy,
filthy little swine." I looked up into his flinty blue eyes.

"Give me your hand, boy," he said, staring back into mine. He grasped the
wrist of my right arm and guided my hand to his own crotch. I slipped my
hand inside his fly and cupped the bulge of his bollocks through his
underpants. His balls were large and heavy, and his crotch radiated
heat. The material of his underpants was damp with sweat, feeling slimy as
I rolled his bollocks around in my palm. Taking his hand away from my
prick, he shrugged off his blazer and chucked it over the back of a
chair. He pushed his braces off his shoulders and undid the buttons of his
shirt. Then he undid the button on his slacks, letting them fall to the
floor. With an undignified struggle, he kicked off his shiny black brogues
and stepped out of his trousers.

He stepped back slightly and pulled off his vest. His chest was covered in
wiry grey hairs, which swept up on to his shoulders and down across his
belly to disappear into his tight white y-fronts. There wasn't a spare
ounce of fat on his tall, broad frame. The front of his sweat-damp y-fronts
bulged out obscenely. I could easily see the outline of his stiff prick,
bent to one side as it snaked upwards along his hip. It didn't look all
that thick, but it looked fucking long, probably longer than my own. He
flexed his hair-covered shoulders slightly and I got the impression that he
was proud of his toned body, and enjoyed showing it off to a cocky teenage
squit like me.

My impression was quickly confirmed as he turned around slowly. He wanted
me to see and appreciate his entire body. His back was broad, and covered
in the same grey hairs as his chest. His arse bulged with muscles,
stretching the shining white fabric of his y-fronts across his buttocks,
amazingly pert and firm for a man in his sixties. His hairy thighs were
thick and covered with hair. The tops of his calves bulged with tension as
he moved, almost threatening to break the bands of the suspenders holding
up his black socks. I tugged my rugby top off and, retuning my gaze to his
firm buttocks, I took my hard prick in my right hand and started tugging at
it. Unable to stop myself, I reached out with my other hand and ran my palm
over my headmaster's arse, which made him spin back round to face me, his
face black as thunder. He grabbed my stiff prick and used it to drag me
close to him.

"Filthy pervert," he hissed into my face. He started to roughly jerk on my
prick with one hand, and placed his other on my right buttock again. His
fingers slipped into my arse-crack and he began to force his dry forefinger
up me. I groaned in a mix of pain and pleasure, my ringpiece clamping down
on his violent assault on my virgin arsehole. "Don't try to resist me,
boy," he warned, his breath hot on my face. "I know what dirty little
sodomites like you want." Without warning, he spun me around and kicked my
legs apart. With his hand on the back of my neck, he forced me to bend back
over his desk. He moved up close behind me and bent over my back to whisper
in my ear.

"I'll show you what's what, young man. Make so much as a whisper and I'll
have your guts for garters," he warned. I felt the hair of his chest
scratching against my bare back, the bulge of his cloth-covered crotch
pressing against my buttocks. He straightened, and I looked nervously over
my shoulder. He pushed down his y-fronts and kicked them across the room,
leaving his long, thin prick to bounce free. It was a good eight or so
inches long, made to look even longer by its thinness. A monstrously
disproportionate pair of egg-sized balls hung low beneath his prick,
nestling in the wrinkled hairy sack. He span into his palm and wet his
prick. I was pretty certain what was going to come next when he parted my
arse-cheeks and spat a great wad of saliva straight onto my arsehole. He
skinned back his foreskin to reveal the glistening, bulbous tip and
levelled it straight at my twitching hole.

"Sir, please, don't, it'll hurt me, please, don't bum me sir!" I babbled in
terror. With his free hand he gave me a quick, hard slap across the
buttocks, shutting me up. He pressed his bullet-shaped cockhead against my
frightened hole and started to slowly ease himself in. I couldn't help it,
as his widening bell-end started stretching my virgin arsehole like never
before I let out an involuntary groan of discomfort. Dr McEndry leaned
forward and clapped a hand over my mouth.

"Not a sound, son, not a sound," he hissed into my hear. His hand clapped
over my mouth and the weight of his hairy torso pressing down on my back,
he continued to stuff his length inside me. Inch by agonising inch he drove
his prick up my backside, until I felt his hairy, pendulous balls pressed
against my own. My eyes were streaming with tears as he took his hand away
from my mouth and straightened up and slid his length almost all the way
out of me. Taking hold of the waistband of my jockstrap, he drove it back
inside with one quick thrust, his hips smacking into my buttocks. Again and
again he thrust his entire prick into my arsehole, every time his heavy
bollocks smacked into my own. Each thrust was pure, exquisite agony. My
prick was rock solid, jerking and smacking against the side of Dr McEndry's
desk with every thrust of his dick into my arse. He pounded away at my arse
with no signs of slowing down or reaching orgasm, all the while muttering
obscenities under his breath. All of a sudden, he pulled his prick entirely
out. The chill air across my gaping, abused arsehole, made me moan and
shiver. Using the waistband of my jockstrap like the reins of a horse, he
pulled me back and upright.

"Get up on the desk," he said. I climbed up onto his desk on all
fours. "No, you stupid boy, on your back." I tuned over and laid back
across the warm green leather of his desk. Taking hold of my thighs, he
pulled me towards him. With my ankles on his broad, hairy shoulders, he
pulled me back onto his erect dick. I moaned as his prick slid up my hole,
smoother and easier this time. As he started pounding into me again, my
hand found my aching prick and I started to beat it. He knocked my hands
away from my dick and grabbed my wrists. He forced my arms above my head
and leaned over me, restraining my hands. His eyes bored straight into mine
as he spat out insults with each thrust, calling me a nancy-boy, a queer, a
dirty little boy-whore. Each time he drove his full length inside the
coarse hairs on his belly caressed my bollocks, making me moan with
pleasure.

The insults stopped and he fell silent, the only sounds in the study were
the slap of his bollocks against my buttocks, my moans and his heavy
breathing. Sweat poured off his armpits, dripping onto my chest and filling
the room with the stink of his body. The pace of his thrusting increased,
his breaths came quicker. All at once, he released my hands and
straightened. One hand came down and slapped me hard across the face. With
that, he drove his prick all the way inside me, threw back his head and
groaned loudly as he shot his bolt. I felt his prick jerk in my arse,
shooting blast after blast of jism deep inside me.

His cock still up my arse, he looked down at me and scowled, as if he were
displeased to see me still there. He pulled himself out and collapsed in
his chair.

"Get out," he said quietly, not looking at me. I lifted myself up off his
desk and hesitated, looking over at him.

"Sir?"

"OUT!" he bellowed, pointing to the door. I struggled back into my shorts
and rugby shirt and scurried out, grabbing my boots as I went. As quickly
as I could, I made my way to the nearest bogs, darted into a cubicle and
wrenched my shorts down to my ankles. Dr McEndry's jism ran from my sore
arsehole and dripped audibly into the toilet bowl below me. I gathered a
handful of paper and gingerly wiped the rest away from my ring, flinching
at the roughness against the abused skin. I wadded the paper into a ball
and chucked it down the lav. Reassembling my games kit into some semblance
of decency, I flushed the toilet and walked gingerly back to the changing
room.

The stench of the abandoned changing room hit me as I pushed open the
door. Unwashed jockstraps, dirty socks, mud and above all, a lingering
scent of adolescent sweat. I sighed and went over to the peg my uniform was
hanging from and sat down on the bench. A bad idea, my abused backside
protested, so I stood and started to strip ready for a relaxing shower.

"Jones! My office, now!" Standing only in my jockstrap, I turned and saw Mr
Evans glowering at me. The punishment wasn't over yet.

==========================

NEXT TIME: Mr Evans shows young Gavin what's what!