Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2000 21:22:06 -0800 (PST)
From: Brew Maxwell <brew_drinker23@yahoo.com>
Subject: Nick's Adventure with the Dean

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to real people or
situations is purely coincidental.  The story involves sex between an older
man and a young man of eighteen, and it is intended for adults.  If you are
offended by stories of this type, or if you are not legally an adult in
your political jurisdiction, please leave the story immediately.  This
story is being posted to the Nifty Archives and may be read and downloaded
for the enjoyment of individual readers.  It may not be altered, reposted,
or otherwise reprinted in any other medium without the written permission
of the author.


Nick's Adventure with the Dean

Author's Preface: If you've read some of the other stories about Nick's
adventures, you know that he's not a mean kid and that he often goes out of
his way to protect people from ridicule and harm.  But Nick, like most
adolescents, sometimes has a problem with authority figures, especially
when they're mean or pompous.  This story reveals a side of Nick you
haven't seen before, but it's a part of his adventures.

	"Stop right there, young man.  Where do you think you're going?"  I
recognized the familiar voice of Mr. Slappit, the Dean of Discipline.
Since the seventh grade I had been wary of that man and had made it a point
of staying out of his way.  Now, six weeks before graduation, the encounter
I had feared for six years was about to happen.
	"Sir?"  I decided that the dumb-innocent approach might be my best
strategy to stay out of trouble.  Slappit had a reputation as a real
hard-ass, and more than one of my friends had been on the receiving end of
his wrath.
	"Don't be cute, Mr. Quarterback.  You heard me and know exactly
what I meant.  You were cutting school, weren't you?"
	"Dean Slappit, I . . . ."
	"Don't argue with me, Marshall.  Get into my office this second, or
you're going to be in some very serious trouble."
	I didn't argue, or say anything, for that matter.  Instead, I
walked toward the Dean's office, as instructed.
	Slappit came in right after me and closed the door.  I was standing
with my hands clasped in front of myself.  Slappit didn't offer me a chair,
and I didn't know what to do as he sat behind his desk.
	"All right, Nick.  Come clean.  What were you doing?"
	I was surprised to be addressed by my first name.  Colton Academy,
like many all-boy prep schools, was usually a strictly last-name kind of
place, at least when it came to adults addressing the boys.  There were
kids in my class that I had known for years whose first names I was unsure
of.
	Before I could answer, Slappit spat at me, "Stand up straight, with
your arms at your sides."
	I complied reluctantly, but comply I did.
	"Answer me," Slappit said.
	"Sir, I was going home . . . ."
	"I knew it.  What gives you the right to think you can traipse out
of here any time _you_ decide you want to leave.  Don't you realize your
parents entrust you to us from 8:00 to 3:00 every day?"
	Slappit's face took on a stricken look as he remembered that my
parents had been killed in a plane crash earlier that year.  He immediately
regretted the remark.
	"Sorry, Nick."
	I stood stoically in front of the Dean.  The remark hadn't really
wounded me, but I didn't want it to show on my face or in my posture.
	"Why were you going home?  You're not the kind of student who cuts
class.  What are you--fourth in your class?"
	"Yes, sir.  I mean, no, sir.  No, I'm not the kind who cuts class,
and yes, I'm fourth.  Sir, I was going to come back.  It would have just
taken five minutes, and I only live a couple of blocks away."
	Slappit knew very well where I lived.  My house was one of the
mansions on Live Oak Lane, a street so named because of the canopy of huge
live oak trees that covered the sidewalks and road.  The house was set far
back from the road, and a high brick wall concealed it from passers-by; I
knew he knew the address.
	"Well, tell me, Marshall, what was so urgent at home that you were
leaving school without my permission?"
	I didn't answer right away.  I had to figure out how to play my
cards on this one.  I had been aware of Slappit's burning stare since I was
in the seventh grade.  There were all sorts of rumors about Slappit's being
queer and stalking some of the better-looking boys, especially the jocks.
More than once he had turned up in the locker room after football or track
practice in time for showers, when he should have been long gone.  I had
noticed him watching the guys naked, and I was aware that Slappit had
checked me out a time or two.  I hated categories like "queer" and
"straight" because I thought they were meaningless and derogatory, but I
couldn't discount Slappit's motives, especially in light of my reason for
wanting to leave school.
	"Well," Slappit asked.
	"Er, it's personal, sir."
	"Personal.  Personal?  How dare you tell me you were about to leave
school in the middle of the day and that you won't tell me why."
	Again, I decided to think this through before I said anything.  The
seconds were ticking away relentlessly, and Slappit began to fidget.  I
decided to tell the truth.
	"I was going home to change my jeans."
	Colton Academy was perhaps unique among upper-class prep schools in
that the uniform consisted of a white shirt, school tie, navy blazer, and
jeans!  Specifically, Levi 501 jeans.  Some of the boys who transferred to
Colton from other prep schools were appalled at first, when they heard of
this tradition.  Then they, too, like the old-timers, took to it quite
well.  It had started in the '60's as a concession to a group of very rich
trouble-makers who demanded an end to a uniform of any kind.  The jeans
were a concession to them, and by the 1990's, it was taken for granted.  We
were known as the Colton Cowboys because of them.
	"Change your jeans?  Did you spill something on them?"
	"Er, yes, sir."
	"Well, you could have easily gotten permission to go home to
change.  What was it?  A chemical?"
	"No, sir."
	"Well, what, then?"
	"That's kind of personal, sir."
	"For God's sake, Marshall, cut the nonsense.  What did you spill on
yourself?"
	"Er, . . . ."
	"I'm warning you, boy," Slappit said, his face reddening and his
patience nearing its end, "if you don't give me a straight answer, you're
out of this school."  Slappit again immediately regretted saying that
because he knew he could never make his threat stand.  Like everyone else
who had anything to do with Colton, he knew that the building we were in
was called Marshall Hall because my family had donated the money to have it
built.  If he tried to expel me, Slappit knew that the Headmaster and Board
would never uphold his decision and that he would be in the unemployment
line on Monday morning.
	Though I thought I knew better, I decided to take Slappit at his
word.
	"Sir, I had to go change my jeans because I accidentally came on
myself during third period."
            Slappit's eyes doubled in size, and he leaned forward in his
chair.
	"I beg your pardon.  What did you say?"  His voice was soft.
	I decided to continue my dumb and innocent act.  "I said, I
accidentally came on myself during third period.  You know, I had an
orgasm."
	Slappit was all ears.  He couldn't believe I was actually saying
that to him.  I wondered how many times my image, naked, had popped before
his eyes as he masturbated?  How often had he wanted to walk up behind me
in the hall and fondle my buttocks?  How many times had he stared at my
crotch as he approached me in the hope that I would be hard?  Then, I
suspect Slappit wondered how much I would tell him.
	"Go on.  Tell me exactly what happened."
	"Well, sir, I got a hard-on in class.  I wasn't trying to or
anything.  It just happened.  Does that ever happen to you?"  I had decided
that if this guy wanted to pry into my personal life, I'd let him have it.
	"Go on."  Slappit tried his best to be stern, but his voice didn't
cooperate.
	"No, really, sir.  Don't you sometimes get hard for no specific
reason?  I do all the time.  So do the other guys.  Just yesterday,
Winfield got hard when we were taking showers after PE Everybody noticed,
and a few guys made cracks, but old Winfield couldn't help it, and we all
knew it."
	I think Slappit felt his penis start to stir.  He seemed proud of
how composed he'd been until then, but that was too much.
	"Get on with your story, Nick."  Slappit's voice almost broke on
that statement.
	"Well, I got hard.  I really tried not to think about my cock, or
about sex, but it wouldn't go down.  I didn't touch it or anything, and I
sat really still because I knew if I moved I'd probably come all over
myself.  Anyway, I stayed hard for about thirty minutes, and all the time I
felt myself getting closer and closer to coming.  Then, all of a sudden,
wham!  Bingo!  I came."
	"Go on," Slappit said, his voice thick and rough with his own
excitement.  I thought he couldn't believe his fortune in having discovered
me trying to escape or my candor in telling what happened.
	"Well, after I came, I asked to be excused.  Mr. Freemont doesn't
ordinarily let anybody out of class to use the restroom, but he did this
time."
	Every time I used the word "came," I was sure Slappit's penis
responded.  He probably had a mental image of what must be nine inches of
hard dick, based on the size of my _soft_ dick, spewing semen.  The thought
must have been making it difficult for him to concentrate on what I was
saying.
	"I went to the restroom, and there wasn't anybody else in there.  I
took off my briefs, but my cock had been sticking out of the top of them,
so I had cum all over the front of my jeans, too.  I don't usually wear
underwear, but I had worn some today.  Anyway, I wrapped the briefs up in a
paper towel and threw them away in the trash can.  Before I did that, I
used them to wipe as much cum off my cock and the inside of jeans as I
could, but my jeans were really wet in front."
	Slappit was much too agitated to continue this rationally.
	"Hold your coat back and let me see," he said.
	I complied with the request.  My jeans were worn and faded, and
there was a definite wet spot down the right side of my fly.  I don't think
Slappit could believe he hadn't noticed that before.
	"I see," Slappit said.  "Keep on."
	"That's just about it.  I've got to give a presentation in my sixth
period class, and I didn't want to have to stand in front of the class with
cum on the front of my jeans.  That's why I wanted to go home."
	Slappit said nothing for several long moments.  Then, he recovered
his composure somewhat, and he said, "Nick, boys your age will have
erections from time to time, but rarely, if ever, do they result in
spontaneous orgasms.  Are you sure you didn't cause this to happen?"
	"Well, maybe I did, indirectly."
	"Explain yourself, young man," Slappit said.
	"I haven't had sex in four days, so I was really horny."
	He nodded for me to continue.  I wondered how long it had been for
him.
	"This morning I decided to wear a butt plug to see just how horny I
could get.  I think it was the butt plug that did me in.  Do you know what
a butt plug is, sir?"
	By now I was enjoying myself.  I could tell that all this talk was
making Dean Slappit really hot, and I relished the idea that this guy was
about to boil.
	"Yes, Marshall, I know what a butt plug is."
	"Have you ever worn one?  Usually they keep you about half hard all
the time, but today it really worked.  It's probably because I haven't
fucked anyone in four days.  How long has it been for you, sir?"
	"Er, Marshall, I think my private life is just that.  Private."  He
hadn't said anything about my language, which I knew had been outrageous,
because, frankly, I thought he was enjoying it.
	I resisted the urge to ask him why my own private life wasn't
private.
	"Er, you say you threw your underwear away.  Let's check out this
part of your story.  Come and show them to me."  I suspect Slappit knew
that what he was saying and doing was out of line for an administrator in a
school, but he couldn't help himself.  If he couldn't have me, I thought,
at least he could have my cum-soaked underwear.  This had gone way beyond a
disciplinary task for Slappit; it was then very personal, and I knew it.
	Slappit got up from his chair and started toward the door.  I
noticed the protrusion in his crotch and decided not to ignore it.
	"Dean Slappit, you've got a hard-on," I said.
	The dean didn't respond.  He kept walking toward the door of the
office.  "Which restroom was it," Slappit wanted to know.  I told him and
followed him down the hall.
	In the restroom, Slappit told me to find my underwear.  I fished
them out of the waste basket in a second and presented them to Slappit.  He
opened the paper towel to reveal a pair of white Polo briefs.  He held them
up to see the wet spot, then he fingered it in obvious delight.
	"You say your penis was sticking out of the waistband when you
ca. . .ejaculated?"
	"Yes, sir.  That's why I got so much cum on my jeans."
	"Well, this seems like a large amount of ejaculate, to me," Slappit
said.  "I find it difficult to believe that you would have also gotten a
substantial amount on your jeans."
	I knew I had Slappit by the short hairs on that one, so I decided
to play it out.  "Oh, yes, sir.  When I come, I come a lot.  Especially if
I haven't fucked anyone in a while."  I saw the tent in Slappit's pants
bounce up and down when I said that.  "You see, sir, it had been four days
since I'd fucked anyone, and that, plus the butt plug, really made me come
a lot.  I probably spurted fifteen times.  It was really sweet, but I
couldn't fully enjoy it because I was in class and all.  I couldn't moan,
for instance.  I love to moan when I come.  I also like to pinch off my
muscles inside.  That makes me come harder.  Do you ever do that?  I mean,
when you come?"
	I wondered how far I could go with this guy.  I felt as though I
was stretching the outer limits with that question, but Slappit didn't
respond.
	"Another thing, my nipples are real sensitive.  In fact, sometimes
I come just by rubbing them.  Anyway, I had a pack of cigarettes in my
shirt pocket.  Marlboro box.  That puts a little pressure on the nipple,
and it really is a turn on.  That probably helped make me come, too."
	Slappit was breathing hard.  I knew his hard-on must be killing
him, so I wasn't surprised when he went to the door, fished out a big wad
of keys, and locked the restroom.  Then he said,
	"I'm going to have to determine just how wet you are, young man."
	With that he grabbed my crotch.  Instead of pulling away, as would
be natural, I decided to play with the man's head.  I didn't move a muscle.
Instead, I let a bright smile light up his face.
	Slappit spoke: "Nick, I've wanted to do this for a long, long time.
I don't think you realize how beautiful you are, or how incredibly
masculine.  None of you boys do.  It's so hard for a man like me to be
around you day in and day out.  You have no idea how many times I've
thought of you as I've, er, done things to myself.  Please let me bring you
to orgasm again.  Please give me the pleasure of giving you pleasure."
	If I was anything, I was cool.  I hadn't expected that, but it was
okay with me.
	"Dean Slappit," I said, "do whatever you want."
	In a heartbeat the dean was on his knees, and in a second heartbeat
he had my fly open and my cock out.  In a third heartbeat he had my cock in
his mouth.  While I had never had a blow-job at school, I had had many a
blow-job.  At eighteen, I was no virgin, to either sex.
	Dean Slappit was obviously no stranger to blow-jobs, himself.  I
thought he was maybe an eight on a ten-point scale, and I reacted
appropriately, feeding him all nine inches and genuinely enjoying his
attention to the head of my cock.  I grabbed his hair and fucked his mouth
because I thought that's what he wanted.  And I was right.  In a few
minutes, I came down his throat.  It wasn't the best come of my life, but
it wasn't the worst, either.  Slappit came the first time after five
minutes or so, and he came again when I was almost ready.  I had never
before seen a man so eager for cock.
	When we had finished and both had recovered, he spoke first.  "You
won't tell anybody about this, will you?"
	"No, sir.  I won't.  Who'd believe me?"  The whole fucking senior
class, I thought, that's who, and probably the whole fucking school.
	"Good.  You can't ever know what this has meant to me, Nick.  You
are really one beautiful boy.  I think we'd both better go home and change
our pants.  If you hurry, really hurry, you'll be on time for your
presentation sixth period."
	I did, and I was.  When I graduated a few weeks later, Dean Slappit
hugged me on stage.  I was the only student to get that kind of treatment.
I wonder why?