Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2008 16:12:23 -0500
From: Charles Hughes <the.empty.room@hotmail.com>
Subject: HE LOVED HIS TEACHER - Part 2   (M/b oral)

This story is fiction and describes the sexual relationship of an adult
with a young boy.  If you are not 18 years of age, or if it illegal for any
reason for you to read such material, you are to leave now.

Copyright 2008, Charles Hughes  All rights reserved

I will try to answer all emails:  the.empty.room@hotmail.com



HE LOVED HIS TEACHER - Part 2    (M/b  oral)


Dear Mr. Hughes:

It seems bizarre to me, as I'm certain it does to you, but I am familiar
with the handwritten note you have found in an old textbook in your store.
I know who wrote it.  I am the "Mr. Richie" to whom the young author
referred.

I'm sure you don't believe this coincidence, but if you will look again at
the note you'll see that most, if not all, of the letters "i" are not
dotted.  That was a habit I could not get him to break for some odd reason.
And I suspect there were no paragraphs in the note at all; I suspect you
introduced them to make the note easier to read.

My name is not actually "Richie."  That was a joke between me and the young
boy I'll call "Dillon."  My name, when mispronounced, is a synonym for
"wealth;" it was one of young Dillon's jokes.  I can only assume he was
hiding my identity, even though his note doesn't seem to have been intended
for the light of day.

("Dillon," I will write nothing that will identify you, either, if by some
additional bizarre coincidence you happen to read this.  If lightening
strikes one, I suppose it's not unreasonable to suspect that it might
strike again!)

You see, Mr. Hughes, my experience with young Dillon was one of the
sweetest things that has ever happened in my life, and I will do nothing to
embarrass him.  I will do nothing to dim the memory of that one shining
period of happiness he allowed me to share with him.

I became a teacher because of my love for children, my ability to connect
with them, and my desire to share in the building of young lives.  There is
nothing perverse about this statement at all.  I'm sure it is part of the
motivation of all good teachers.

Along the line I discovered I had a particular fondness for boys.  I was
surprised at this, but after a time I could no longer deny it.  I was
finally assigned classes for youngsters ages seven and eight; I was a third
grade teacher for many years.  And I was a good teacher.  I feel I made an
important contribution to the lives of many boys and girls.

I loved watching boys of that age.  They were so curious and eager to learn
new things.  Their interactions with each other would always begin
tentatively, but they could build such strong friendships!  And, of course,
I found them to be simply beautiful.  Watching their movements, listening
to their high sweet voices, looking at their expressive faces -- it was all
a wonderful experience for me.

I never touched a boy, except for an occasional shoulder or arm when
necessary.  Even on the playground, I refrained from any kind of contact
that could be misconstrued by them or my co-workers.  And I did love to
watch them run and play.  Simply beautiful!  And then Dillon came along.

He was sitting in the front row the first day I walked into the room of
that third grade class.  I was always eager to see my new boys, to see what
pleasures I would be watching in the new year.  But that year my eyes went
immediately and directly to Dillon.

He was a little more slender than most of his eight-year-old classmates.
Perhaps that only drew my eyes upward to his exquisite face.  His pert
little nose was the center of one of the prettiest boy faces I have ever
seen.  His thick but baby-fine light brown hair had clearly been combed
that morning, but it had fallen casually into a nest that caught the lights
from above.  His soft brown eyes looked gentle and lively at the same time.
His little pink lips were closed into a small smile, as though he were
wondering about me, "Will he be nice?"

Dillon was seated quietly, his slim legs held together under his desk.  His
shorts stopped at some point I could not see, but I could clearly see the
pale curves of his knees and the gentle line of his calves.  I could see
the smooth skin of his neck above the collarless shirt he was wearing.

For just a moment I couldn't tear my eyes from his.  It was as though we
were introducing ourselves to each other in some kind of intimate way I'd
never experienced with a student before.

In the first several weeks of class I discovered that Dillon was one of the
bright ones, one of those students any good teachers dreams of having.  He
asked exactly the right questions, indicating that his mind was alert and
searching.  His eyes would light up when he discovered a connection for the
first time.  He had a wonderful sense of humor, laughing at some of my
simple jokes; his laughter was a joy to hear.  His smile would broaden when
he realized he knew the answer to a question.  I am a teacher, so I loved
him for that, too.

As he wrote in his little note, I frequently set books aside for my class
to use.  I encouraged them to use the small collection of books in what
passed for a school library, but I kept several shelves of books available
in the classroom for the really curious.  Dillon was one of the first to
take advantage of them; he was an avid reader.

And I often asked students for assistance with little chores.  There were
always papers to collate, things to distribute or collect, rearrangements
of bulletin boards, etc.  I was, to tell the truth, flattered that students
frequently volunteered to help.

Dillon was one of those.  He was always ready to help -- not just me, but
his fellow students.  Most seemed to appreciate it, but there were those,
as he pointed out, who referred to him as the "teacher's pet."

Yes, he was.

I have lived a long time since those days with Dillon.  And I have
remembered him.  I have often wondered about him, too.  The note you found
reassures me that he really was the sweet fun-loving little boy I remember.
And I am reassured about his feelings for me, too, I must admit.

The incident about which he wrote happened essentially as he described it.
I was moving the shelved books to another wall, and I'd asked him to help
me after school.  He was eager to show how helpful he could be, and I'm
afraid he picked up a stack that was just too much for him.  He lost his
balance and tripped against one of the desks, and he fell, the books
scattering along the floor.

When I got to him I could see a little blood on his leg.  Apparently there
had been a rough edge on the desk.  I could tell it wasn't a serious cut,
but I knew his leg must have twisted beneath him and caused some pain;
there were tears in his eyes.

"Dillon," I said as I knelt beside him, "are you all right?"

"I dropped... my leg, it hurts some."

I always loved hearing his soft, sweet voice, but this time it was tense.
He was in pain.  The hurt in his voice hurt me.

"Here, let me see," I said.

I carefully moved his leg so it was straight in front of him, and I ran my
hand up and down it from his ankle to above his thigh.  Nothing was broken.
Not even sprained, apparently.

And, yes, I admit it.  I was aroused at this touch.

His leg didn't really seem injured seriously, but I wanted to take care of
the cut.  I helped him to the front of the room and lifted him to sit on
the edge of my desk.  He seemed light as a feather, and I was very aware of
his arms around my neck as I carried him.

"Let me get my first-aid kit," I said as I rummaged through a side drawer.
My hand was searching the drawer, but my eyes were on his legs, no further
than a few inches from my face.  I swear I could smell the boyscent.

I opened the kit and found some antiseptic wipes, opened them, and began to
wash the cut.  He tensed for a moment, but only because the wipe was cold
on his skin.  The cut was on the outside of his right leg, and I held his
leg up with my hand around his calf.  His skin was so warm and soft.  I
watched his face as I moved the wipes gently.

He was watching my hand as I cleansed his cut.  But he glanced up at me
once, and he smiled tentatively.

I pressed the wipe to the cut for a moment.  The bleeding had already
stopped; it was hardly more than a scrape.  I decided a bandaid wouldn't
even be necessary.

But I could not let go of his leg.  I dropped the wipe to the floor and
knelt in front of him as I moved my right hand gently up his lower leg to
his knee.  A boy's knee is a beautiful thing.  So functional, but so
perfectly beautiful.  And, in a boy, always moving, even when the boy is
sitting "still."  I rubbed his skin lightly, but he had to know that this
had nothing to do with his injury.  Still, I couldn't remove my hand, my
fingers lightly stroking the warm underside of his knee.

I continued to move my fingers gently and lightly up beyond his knee,
moving them inward along the slope of his thigh.  His head was down now,
watching my hand move, and I could hear his soft breath in my ear.  My left
hand tightened a bit around his calf, feeling the fledgling muscle there,
and I slowly moved it upward, stroking the softness under his knee, until
the fingers of both hands were lying around his upper thigh, just inside
the leg of his shorts.

How often I had looked at those young thighs!  And now I could feel the
softness of his skin, the heat of him!  I was actually touching higher than
I had even been able to see.  I was holding between my hands the smooth but
strong thigh of a pretty boy who continued to smile at me.  And I became
acutely aware of the stiffness in my pants.

"I... Is this... You seem to be all right..." I stammered.

He looked at me, and his eyes communicated such trust.  Is it possible that
he was even enjoying my touch?

I slid my fingers downward again in a kind of caress, gently kneading the
muscle of his thigh, then his calf.  All so very smooth.

"Is this all right?" I asked him quietly.

"It feels nice," he said, simply.  He seemed so matter-of-fact about it,
accepting my touch as though it were almost expected, certainly welcomed.

At least, he hadn't told me to stop.

I flattened my left hand so that my palm was lying along the inside of his
calf.  I slid my hand upward again, my entire palm sensing the warmth of
the boy's leg and the smoothness of his thigh.  How often I had watched
those thighs, never imagining that I would one day actually touch them!

He made a little sound, perhaps a sound of pleasure, and I allowed my
fingers to continue beyond where they had been before.  Did I dare move
even farther?

Our eyes locked.  His small smile reappeared.

That smile encouraged me to move my fingers lightly over that incredibly
smooth skin of his upper thigh.  He sighed again, and there was no question
this time.  He was enjoying it.  Then, instead of sliding my fingers from
side to side, I moved them up slightly.  I stopped when I found myself
touching the hem of the leg in his little briefs.

I froze.  I only rarely got to actually see the underpants my boys wore.
Occasionally a tee shirt would lift so I could catch a glimpse of an
elastic wasitband.  Now I was touching, actually touching, the most
intimate piece of clothing a young boy wears, the soft cotton that
surrounds and holds his most precious possession.

It was too late to refrain from any improper touch of this boy.  But I
could have stopped.  I remember thinking how thrilled he must be at the
touch, and I realized I was thinking about my own boyhood -- how thrilled I
would have been.

"You are such a pretty boy, Dillon."  I spoke without thinking.  No, I
spoke exactly what I was thinking.  He was, indeed, one of the most
beautiful boys I'd ever seen.

My fingers moved inward a bit.  And then I found myself touching the warm
cotton pouch at his center.  My forefinger hesitantly moved around until I
was unmistakeably fingering his little penis.  He started just a bit, but
then he sighed again.  When I dared to look at his face, he was smiling
down at me.

Without saying a word, I moved my fingers until I was surrounding his
boyflesh through the cotton.  It felt like no more than a nub under my
fingertips, but as I massaged it gently the wonderful thing began to
respond.  How marvelous, that a penis, even one so tiny, can produce an
erection so pleasing to its owner.  It was hardening, stiffening.  I
stroked it with one finger.

"Is this all right, Dillon?" I asked him.

His smile became dreamlike, and he nodded slowly.  He also opened his legs
a bit.  I could only hope that small movement was an invitation.

My finger traced the tiny dick from the roundness of his pubic bone just
below the waistband of his briefs to the tip of it.  He sucked in his
breath when I circled my finger over his cotton-covered dickhead softly.
His breath was coming more quickly now.  And so was mine.

After massaging his dicklet for a moment, I asked, "Does this feel good,
Dillon?"

"Yesss..."  Dillon's voice was high, quivering with pleasure.  "Oh,
yessss..."

"If you want, I can make it feel even better," I said.  My hands were
shaking, and I wondered if he could feel that.  My heart was pounding.

Dillon nodded and smiled.

I didn't hesitate.  It was an opportunity I'd never had before -- and one I
might never have again.  All thoughts of consequences fled my brain, and I
could only think of the boyflesh I would soon touch.

I reached for the waistband of his shorts, unfastened them, and pulled them
and his little white briefs down.  He wound up sitting on the wad of
clothing under his little butt, but his shorts and briefs were far enough
down in front that his crotch was fully exposed.

It was the most beautiful thing.  All that smooth skin at his pubic bone.
And, sprouting from it, a thin, taut boymuscle, a boydick, a sweet cocklet
not even two inches long.  His skin, always hidden from view under his
small briefs, was milk-white.  His circumcised little dickhead was pink;
his peehole was so tiny it was almost invisible.  The shaft of his dicklet
was a paler shade of pink; it would have been white as snow had it not been
engorged by his arousal.

And the scent!  It wafted to my nose the moment I opened his shorts, and
when I moved my face closer to his boyhood I inhaled it deeply.  Such
sweetness!  A touch of sweat from the playground, a touch of boypee from
the last few drops, and then... the light but heady scent of boy!  No
nectar ever smelled more intoxicating.  The mere memory of it makes my cock
throb.

Of course, I was engorged, too.  I could feel a spot of precum in my own
briefs.

I simply opened my mouth and ate him.

I closed my lips around his hard little dick and felt its heat warm my
mouth.  My lips felt his heartbeat as his cocklet throbbed.  My tongue
lapped around it, tasting the sweetness and encouraging its erection -- the
boy-erection, the boy stiffie, as I knew they called them.  It was hot,
delicious meat the likes of which I'd never tasted before.  I found his
tiny dickhead and washed it with my tongue.  The skin was tight around the
little nub, and I knew it was extremely sensitive.

"Ooooooo... uhhhhhhhhhhh..."  Dillon's high voice was soft and musical.  I
could feel his hand on my head.  "Ooooooooooo..."

I knew instantly that mine was the first tongue ever to taste this boy
treat.

I reached up as he rocked back and forth and worked his shorts and briefs
out from under his butt, letting them fall to his ankles.  I moved my hand
back up between his legs, intending to help hold him so he wouldn't rock
himself off balance, but my fingers brushed again two little bumps.  They
would someday be his balls, working to produce for him.  They would become
big; they would drop to hang below him.  But now they were mere tiny eggs
covered with such smooth, soft skin.  I let my fingers massage them gently
as I sucked on his dicklet.

"Aaaaaaaa..."  His sweet music filled the room.

I remembered playing with myself when I was his age.  I remember how much I
loved the feel of my hard boyhood.  That sweet and wonderful discovery!  I
wondered if Dillon had already discovered the joy of playing between his
legs.

Both his hands were on my head now, one of them clutching my hair though
his fingers and the other one pressing my head into himself.  Yes, this
pretty boy knows where the pleasure of boyhood can be found, I realized.  I
began to suck on his little toy more regularly, pursing my lips and pulling
upward from against his pubis to the tiny ridge of his dickhead.  There
wasn't much to suck, but it was so delicious, so sweet!  I sucked and
pulled, sucking harder.  It looked so tiny between his legs, but in my
mouth it felt so alive, so tender, so powerful even in a child such as
Dillon.

I devoured him.  I filled my mouth with feast he was offering me, tasting
every pore of it, washing it over and over again.  I flattened my tongue to
lick slowly upward from the base of it; I pointed my tongue and caused it
to spin around in my mouth, the tip brushing against my inner cheeks.  I
sucked it in and out, always careful to be gentle with him.

Dillon's little moans had stopped now.  He was panting.

I wondered.  How far had he gone in playing with himself?  Did he toy with
his dicklet for long periods of time in bed at night?  Did he handle it in
his bathtub or shower?  Had he yet discovered the wonders of orgasm?  What
was going through his sharp mind at this moment?

His hands urged me on, and I tightened my fingers around his tiny balls
just a bit.  One finger slid a bit farther and reached into the warm crack
of his little butt.  His dicklet began to throb more; the soft skin of his
belly began to quiver against my cheek.  He was very close.  Did he know?

He made a sound deep in his throat.  He froze against my face for a moment.
Then he shook deeply, and his dicklet began to thrash around in my mouth.

"Eeeeeeee..."  His voice moved up the scale quickly until I could hear no
sound at all, but I could hear the air rushing from his throat.

I continued to suck, realizing that I was feeling his dry cum.  He wiggled
against my hand and mouth.  His dicklet grew even harder as it moved
rapidly inside my mouth.  He bucked his hips once into my face.  Then, with
a little whine, he almost collapsed over me.

I let his boyhood drop from my mouth and raised my hands to keep him steady
on the edge of the desk.  I don't know that he was even aware that I kissed
his cheek.  I held him by his shoulders for a moment, and when he raised
his head to look at me his mouth was open slightly and his eyes looked
dazed.  Then he focused on me.  His mouth curled in a small smile, and then
his smile broaded.

I helped him pull his shorts back up, my hands shaking but so very aware
each time I touched his warm skin.  I helped him hop down from the desk.
He threw his arms around my waist and hugged me tight.  And he ran out of
the room.

So, it happened that first time essentially as he wrote about it.

Of course, there were many other times, too.  Such a sweet, pretty boy.
But, yes, it was all essentially as he wrote.

Perhaps, if I decide to do so, I'll write you again some day and let you
know about them, too.  At the moment, however, my memories of Dillon are
almost overwhelming me.  And I am very aroused.  I need to relieve myself.

Sincerely,
Mr. "Rich"

-------------------------

Mr. Rich:

Thank you for your unexpected email.  You are correct about the note.  The
letter "i" is never dotted, and it was all written in a single paragraph.
I did not say, however, that the boy had actually signed his name.  The
name is at the top of the paper, as a child would write on a school
assignment.  I will not reveal the actual name; I will simply say that I
understand why you chose to use the name "Dillon" in your email.  I would
be very pleased if you decide to write again.

Sincerely,
Charles Hughes