Two weeks to college finals. Two months of tutoring. But the student ultimately becomes the teacher once an unusual sexual talent is revealed.
NOTE: This story appears in Rob Rosen's best-selling collection, Short Spurts.
Pre-law. Midwestern liberal arts college. Classes ran the educational gamut: political science, philosophy, English, nothing I couldn’t handle. Still, I had to take at least one science or math class in order to get my degree. Math was out. My GPA couldn’t tolerate what was sure to be a less than stellar grade. So I opted for Biology. I knew my ass from my elbow, so I thought I had a fair shot at it. Easy enough in high school, anyway.
Then again, college wasn’t high school. And asses and elbows weren’t on the syllabus.
Meaning, I was fucked. Royally. And no lube for miles.
Still, there was one saving grace. Professor Marks may have been a hard grader, but he was easy on the eye. Tall, thin, scruffy, always wearing those tweed jackets, bow ties, loose slacks, horn-rimmed glasses. A nerd who grew well into his adult body. Sexy brainiac. Not that any of that helped me with my grades, which were lackluster at best, but at least I had reason to come to class every day.
Then midterms. Fucked again. Hell, I was fisted, still no lube, not even a gob of spit. Law school in danger, parents way pissed. Then a saving grace. A glimmer of hope. A fickle finger of fate to loosen me up. Two fingers, in fact.
One showed up in the unlikeliest of places. Library stacks, archeology section, quiet bathroom. A guy could whack his willie in private, in between studying. Me especially. One foot on the toilet paper dispenser, legs wide, back arched, the tip of my longish cock making it into my mouth. Practice made perfect. By my junior year, I could suck myself off while pulling my nuts, send a stream of come down my throat and make it back to my books in no time flat. A nifty trick, to say the least.
That’s how I spotted it, jeans down to the linoleum, my dickhead throbbing in my mouth, close, so fucking close. It was in black ink. Mister Marks trades blowjobs. I shot a hefty load just thinking of it, a trickle of jizz gliding down my chin.
“Huh,” I whispered. “What’s he trade ‘em for?”
And that second fated finger? See, turns out, Mister Marks kept after-hours. Tutoring. Just sign up and show up. By then, I needed the help. Desperately. But how does a student broach the subject of trading blowjobs without getting expelled? Or having his butt kicked? Or both.
Guess I’d have to play that one by ear.
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