Date: Mon, 19 Mar 2001 20:39:09 -0800 (PST)
From: scriptor55@hotmail.com
Subject: Ambush; Chapter 1--The Lure

The following fictional story deals with sex among males.  If you are
offended by such material, are too young, or reside in an area where is is
not allowed, depart.  Though not observed in this story, care enough about
your self and humankind to practice safe sex. The author retains all
rights.  No reproductions or links to other sites are allowed unless the
author consents.

scriptor55@hotmail.com


Chapter 1

The Lure

The sketch in my hand took an ordinary day and turned it on end!

I had been sorting through the mail that I had pulled out of my faculty
mailbox that morning.  The usual flyers for special school events, notices
of meetings, and announcements from the principal's office left my mind to
wander ahead into the day's tasks-until I opened the envelope.  I pulled
out the plain sheet of paper and unfolded it.  "Damn," I said softly.  I
was clutching a pencil sketch of a nude teen male.  The dark hair slightly
bushy atop the head; the broad shoulders; the squared pecks with large,
dark nipples; the chest narrowing sharply to a small waist; a beautiful
dark bush around a long erect cut cock with a hairy ball sac hanging low
beneath; long, muscular legs, also hairy; and long feet-it all made my dick
go hard.  I quickly glanced around my classroom, noting that I was alone,
so no one would notice the bulge in the front of my trousers or my
shortened breath.

My eyes moved back to the sketch, noting its secondary details.  The nude
male was sitting on what appeared to be a nicely shaped ass with his arms
resting on the floor behind him.  Dark hair peeped out from his pits, and
his legs were thrown wide with the heels resting on the floor, with his
rosebud peeking just under his balls.  Not much of the face could be viewed
because he was looking obliquely off to his right, teasing any viewer to
imagine what the features were.  After staring at the beautiful figure, I
made myself examine the envelope.  Plain white business size, it bore a
computer-generated address label bearing only my name, Evan Halsey, on the
front.  Obviously, someone had just chucked it into my mailbox.

Glancing at the drawing, I could not match it with any of my students.  Of
course, in such a large high school, it could be any guy.  What did it
mean?  Was someone playing games with me?  Did the sender suspect me of
being gay?  It just couldn't mean that somebody was attracted to me, a
bespectacled, 30-year-old English teacher.  Of course, the sender did not
have to be the male in the drawing, didn't have to be the sketch artist, or
even a student for that matter.  Was a colleague playing games with me?
Couldn't be.  I was too solitary for a colleague to play a joke like that.
Despite my years of teaching at the school, I was cordial and professional
but not really close to anyone in the large faculty.

Today's bell ringing for the start of classes was clangorous, irritating me
for some reason.  "Ha!" that smart-ass interior voice said: "You just want
to keep looking at that sketch.  Admit it-this is one of the most exciting
events to occur in your pathetic, common life.  If you don't watch it,
you'll be on the bone when your first class arrives.  Susan Connolly, who
never misses anything, will spot it, and she'll have told her clique of
girl friends before the lunch period."  I quickly folded the sketch,
returned it to the envelope, and tucked it deep into an interior pocket in
my Land's End attache case.  Susan was not to be trifled with or
underestimated.  Throughout Junior English, Senior English, Honors English,
The American Novel, and Advanced Comp, I studied my male students
carefully, trying to see if one of them betrayed his role in placing the
envelope in my mailbox.  I detected nothing suspicious.  There were several
tall, well-built males with dark hair who could have passed for the subject
in the sketch, but not enough for me to decide that I was looking at the
sketch's model.  I was not going to go off the deep end by reading too much
into a student's ordinary demeanor.

By day's end, I was weary of trying to decipher behavior and deconstruct
comments my students made to me before and after class and in the hallways.
I dreaded what would come that evening-fears about what my being the
recipient of this sketch meant about my future at the school and my career.
Somebody may know a lot more about me than I ever intended!

I was right to be afraid.  That evening at home, all I could do was sit in
the family room, sipping Merlot, trying to figure out what the sudden
appearance of the sketch portended.  I moved to a critical-thinking stance,
seeing and feeling myself following the mystery sender's behavior.  Then
when I was well into that mindset by acting out the process several times
in my mind, I asked myself what value I was serving since no behavior is
valueless even if the perpetrator is unaware of his motivation.  Too many
possibilities presented themselves.  At the least, the sketch was not a
random act; someone had to create the sketch, target me, create the label,
and slip it in my mailbox.  But there were plenty of ways to embarrass or
humiliate me that could provide the perpetrator a more immediate pay-off
("Could be a she," the politically correct dimension in my mind contributed
uselessly).  I hadn't hurt anyone so that he would attempt to end my career
by exposing my gayness.  Among all the school's teachers, as tough as I had
a reputation for being, I was also considered fair.  I didn't think the
school harbored a Richard III who was so bored that he wanted to set people
at each other's throats for his own gain or an Iago who was going to bring
down an Othello simply because he could.  In my world, they lived only in a
textbook.

The clock in the living room chimed ten times, startling me with the
realization that I had spent all evening studying the sketch and ruminating
over its being sent to me.  I could tell that I wasn't going to achieve
anything more by sitting there that night except drinking too much wine,
futilely hoping that answers would arrive.  So I gave it up for the
evening.

In my bedroom, studying myself in the mirror as I disrobed, I tried to look
at myself realistically.  Short, blond, nondescript, but shoulders and arms
in which the fine bundles of muscles would become visible upon certain
movements.  A hairy chest with developed pecs and nipples the size of
pencil erasers.  Well-shaped, moderately muscular, hairy legs.  I had
started working out three years ago, and it was paying off.  My calf muscle
was developing, and my lightly haired ass was no longer flat.  Like my
arms, the muscles in my legs would separate themselves into bundles upon
movement.  But nobody ever saw these features because they were covered by
the sports shirts and Dockers I wore at school.

I did work out sometimes in the school's exercise/weight room, but I did so
at a time when few if any would see me, mostly a Saturday morning or late
periods on school days when guys were involved in practice for varsity
sports.  Otherwise, I worked out at home where I had a small gym set-up.
When I worked out at school, I wore running shorts and a tee shirt.  I
never showered at school, for I was too self-conscious.  I still had a
fading remnant of a layer of fat on my stomach that kept me from showing
myself to those beautifully built males.  Besides, as the family klutz who
was a sibling to jocks, I was uncomfortable in a locker room or in a sports
setting.  When my father had introduced his sons, I was the "brain" among
his boys, a comment that was always followed by a detailed recitation of
Ted's, Tim's, or Brad's recent exploits in their sports activities.

Before I stepped into the boxers in which I slept (briefs by day, boxers by
night), I studied my cock.  Soft, ringed with plenty of light brown hair,
it looked ordinary.  I had always wished there was something about it that
hinted at its seven inches when erect.  I mused ruefully sometimes about
how it could expand to so much from what promised to be so little.  One of
Mother Nature's little jokes!

My cock started to elevate.  I gently brushed just the tips of my fingers
down its length.  Oh, it liked that, levitating at least 35 degrees.  I
reclined on my bed and opened the sketch, studying it.  As I devoted
feather-light caresses up and down my dick and over my hairy ball sac, back
up to even more lightly encircle the bottom my my mushroom cap, then up to
lightly embrace my nipples, I imagined that nude male lying on top of me,
his cock beside mine, his hairy bush tickling my skin, his body weighing
down heavily on me, his hairy legs brushing sensuously against mine as his
lips gently brushed mine, and brown eyes mesmerizing me.  My breath was
quickening.  Though precome usually does not occur much with me, a line was
oozing out my slit and running down my shaft.

I moved my hand back up to my nipples, gently circling them with my
fingertips, ramping up the pleasure by a factor of three.  Adopting the
posture of the nude male, I placed pillows behind me, laid the sketch down
between my legs, pulled out some Wet, squirted a fair amount in my hand,
and started caressing my cock and balls.  Oh, especially the balls-man, I
don't know what it is, but they like Wet smeared slowly over them!

Controlling myself (usually among the world's most impatient people), I
slowly slid my Wet-slick hand up and down the shaft of my cock, not
stroking actually, occasionally moving down to caress and cup my balls.
Back up to the cap and frenum, all the while studying the nude male,
animating the two of us in my mind.

He pushed my hands above my head, lacing his fingers into mine, but in a
way that established that he was in control.  He gently moved our arms up
and down so that our skin and muscles glided over each other.  He stared
into my eyes, then again brushed his lips over mine, sliding his tongue
along my lips but not allowing it to enter.  Then he began kissing my
throat and licking its hollow, eliciting a gasp from me, while he slid his
hands down my arms and gently pumped his cock along mine.  I moaned with
pleasure.  Somehow, I knew he wanted me to keep my hands above my head, but
I began to move my chest against his so that he could feel my hairy pecks
tickling his smooth chest, and I pumped my hips too, evoking a moan from
him.  I murmured my approval softly, feeling his hairy balls glide over
mine.  He suddenly moved his legs, which had been inside mine, wide apart,
moving my legs accordingly, making me feel more vulnerable to and
controlled by him, making the hair on our legs tickle their corresponding
limbs.  His eyes sparked.  I was his!

Wham!  I was cumming before I was ready.  My back immediately,
uncontrollably arched as I imagined the two of us cumming simultaneously.
I don't cum a large amount, and it is usually quite thick, but this time it
flowed out of the slit in my penis.  My toes curled.  I lay there for a
minute, regaining my breath, just reintegrating with my surroundings,
feeling the cum run down my hand onto my balls.

Why couldn't something like this really happen?  I arose and walked into
the bathroom to clean myself up, thinking that if my mysterious lover were
there, I would allow our cum, the product of our joining, to anoint us.
Returning to bed, I set my alarm.  I placed the folded sketch on the
nightstand so I could look at it first thing in the morning.  "Get a grip,
Evan," snapped that interior voice again.  "You are overplaying this random
missive."

In the moments before I drifted off to sleep, I wondered again about where
today's events would lead.  Surprisingly quickly, I realized that one of
two possibilities would occur.  Either I would never hear anything again
from the mysterious stranger, leaving me wondering the rest of my life
about that unfinished script, or, having worked up the courage to activate
his plans, the mystery man would communicate again.  I hoped for the
latter.