Date: Fri, 10 Mar 2017 17:11:05 -0600 From: Thomas Carver <thomascarveriii@gmail.com> Subject: Jacob Earns an A Jacob Earns an A Thomas Carver Copyright © 2017 by Thomas Carver All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. I grant permission to reproduce this story in its entirety, with appropriate credit to the author, and this author's note intact. Additional erotic stories about dominant men may be found on my Amazon Author's Page: amazon.com/author/thomascarver I may be contacted at Thomas.Carver.III@gmail.com. Please consider donating to Nifty. -- I didn't like Jacob from the moment I saw him in the back row of my class. He sat there, sneer on his face, legs spread wide to take up as much as space as he could in the cramped desk. The girls on either side of him shied away, maybe out of instinct or disgust. A blond fringe of skater hair poked out from under a baseball cap with a Tap Out logo. He liked to wear lose shirts with no sleeves, often torn down the side, to show off flashes of his slender but muscle-banded body. None of that made people shy away, though. I suspect most people avoided him because of his attitude. It was nearly midterm already, and he'd turned in nothing. I had no idea why he still came to class. He had no chance of passing. "'The Second Coming,'" I said to the class, "is probably Yeats' most famous poem. But what you have to understand is how it must have been perceived to those who first read it. Okay, when was it written?" I watched the blank stares for a while. "The date is right under the poem," I said. More blank stares. "In your book. Which you have open in front of you. Literally, someone just drop his or her eyes to the page and read the number that's written under the poem." And more silence. I'd been teaching as an adjunct instructor at the local community college for several months now, as I finished up my Ph.D., and I'd discovered -- way the hell too late -- that I hated teaching. Finally, one of the girls in the front row sent her spray-tanned arm into the air. "Nineteen nineteen," she announced, when I nodded at her. "Great. Yeah. So what was happening in the year 1919? Anything?" More silence. "Let's take a step back. So Yeats is Irish, right. What's the political situation between Ireland and England?" Black and infinite meaningless void. Fuck. "What happens in 1922?" Nothing. "You read about it in the introductory paragraph. It's one paragraph. Eight lines," I said. "Eight -- okay. You know what? Jacob, read the introductory paragraph aloud." "Suck my dick," he said, in a conversational tone, his lips curled into a contemptuous smile. I'd thought the room was silent before, but now everyone fell still. "What?" I managed to get out. "Suck my big juicy cock, Mr. Blane." "I -- uh. You know what? Class dismissed. Do the reading. We'll pick up tomorrow." That broke the silence; they threw books into bags and surged for the door. "Not you, Jacob," I said. He was wearing a lose pair of shiny shorts, some kind of nylon mesh. He stood in the back of the room, leaning up against the heating vents that bordered the room, and shook a handful of his crotch at me. But I waited until everyone filed out. "Okay," I said, closing my book. "What the hell was that?" He swaggered forward, not to me, but the door. I nearly stopped him, thinking he was trying to escape our little inevitable confrontation, but he didn't leave. Instead, he closed the door and turned the lock. There were no windows in this basement room, and our isolation struck me. After all, by all records, we had class for another forty minutes. No one would come into this room, and no one would come looking for me. "What the hell was what, Mr. Blane?" he said, pacing slowly toward me like a cat. "You're an indifferent student at best," I said, "but that was downright -- insolent." I could hear myself, sounding like an idiot, like some sort of authority figure, but I couldn't stop. My mouth had dried up, and my vision seemed to vibrate as if I saw the world through a very clear piece of glass that rippled and wavered in front of me. I smelled his sweat, and the faint stink of RedBull on his breath. His face hovered close to mine. He had the smooth skin of those lucky young men who never got a visit from the acne demon. "Here's the deal," he said. "All I need is a B." "Then earn a B." "Don't be stupid, Mr. Blane. You know what I'm saying." "I don't, though." Blood had rushed to my face; I felt the heat baking off of my skin. "Everyone knows you're a big faggot," he said. "It's kind of obvious. No one gives a shit about poetry unless you take it up the shitter." I tried to speak, but nothing came out. "So when I tell people that you offered to suck my cock for a grade, they'll believe it." I was an adjunct, easily replaced. I didn't care for the job, but I needed it, at least until I finished my dissertation. Maybe if, at that moment, I had shut it down completely, opened the door and walked out, nothing would have happened. But anger warred with shame, and I couldn't act. He licked his lips. They glistened, pink and shiny, the upper one curled in contempt. "So I'll tell you what. You can suck my dick, or I can just say you did, but either way, you're giving me that B." My heart thumped. His eyes gripped mine, two hazel tunnels that held no chance for escape. "Get on your faggot knees, and make yourself useful," he said, barely speaking aloud. The bulge in those shiny-smooth shorts had grown substantially. I glanced toward the door. No one would come in. "Do it," he said, or almost said. More of a whisper than speech. Or maybe it was just in my head. The floor felt hard and cool on my knees, not comfortable, but that didn't matter. What mattered was the warm bulge of smooth fabric he pushed against my face. His cock, inside his shorts, slipped against my cheek. I inhaled the smell of him, young-man smell of sweat and soap and clothes that should see a laundry basket some time soon. He rubbed himself on my face a little, and now it was too late. No turning back now. Shame and humiliation curled up inside of me, and I felt small, useless, weak. But at the same time, I found a peace in that. I gave up trying to be the authority figure, and let myself be what I was -- a small man, uncertain and terrified, under the control of forces stronger than me. And that, of course, also described Jacob. He, too, was a man under the control of forces outside of him. But for this moment, he got to be in charge, and he clearly loved it. He'd probably been the bully in high school, and now he found a way to be the bully in college as well. And what a prize for a bully to torment: the teacher himself. "Look up at me," he said. "Open you mouth." I did, knowing and dreading what was coming. I'd watched porn, and apparently he'd seen some of the same ones. He gathered a wad of spit in his mouth and let it drop on my tongue. Or at least, he aimed for my tongue. Some got on my tongue, some on my nose. It tasted strangely salty. I wondered if he walked around, all day, with that salty tang on his tongue. Maybe he didn't taste his own spit. Maybe none of us did. "Keep it open," he said. His voice rasped low in his voice. He pulled down the elastic of his shorts, and then boxers under them. His cock hung out in front of him, a smooth curve downward, still a little soft but rapidly hardening. A sprinkling of coarse blond hair fuzzed his balls, but his cock was smooth. I reached for it with my mouth, and he moved away, smirking down at me. "Ask nice." "Please," I said. "You wanna get your face raped, faggot?" "Yeah," I said. I hated how hard my own cock was, but at the same time, I'd committed, and it was true. I wanted him to be rough with me. I loathed the guy, but for some reason, that made it even hotter. And somehow, I found myself developing some sympathy for him. I'd never had to struggle in school. It had to be frustrating. Almost as frustrating as wanting that cock in your mouth even though you knew it was wrong. He let me catch the head of his bobbing cock. I pressed my tongue on the circumcision scar right under the bulbous head, and he let out a breath through his nostrils like an angry bull. His cock hardened, and he took a double handful of my hair, product crunching under his fingers. He pushed into me, too fast, and I gagged and choked and tried to push him away. He slapped me, not terribly hard, but hard enough to give me pause. My face stung and heat rushed to it, but I didn't let go of his cock. I got my breath, held it, and let him stuff it down my throat until I wanted to throw up. But I held back, tried every trick I could think of to distract myself. I pinched my own leg, tried to think about poetry, swallowed frantically. Only the swallowing seemed to work, and holding my breath helped. Every time I tried to breathe, I'd just choke and gag more as my body realized that the invading cock cut off the air. His hips flexed into me, fucking my face like a pussy. But at least he pulled out a little, giving me a chance to gasp in a breath of sweet air, even if it did smell like his balls. I cupped his ass, which tensed and dimpled under my palms as he thrust into me. "Faggot," he hissed. "Where you want this load?" As if I had any way to enforce a preference, I thought. Or even express one. I looked up at him, the smug superiority of his smile. He pulled my head off his dick, leaving a string of drool between my lip and the head of his cock. The string broke into beads, then fell away to land on the tile floor. I thought he was going to shoot on my face, but instead he stepped back and turned around. He bent over and spread his cheeks. "Kiss my fucking ass, cocksucker." I didn't want to, but I'd lost control. I don't know what directed me now. I thought of Plato's metaphor for the soul: two horses, passion and -- something else, desire? All directed by reason. But reason was off on its coffee break, and the two horses were fucking each other, and this cocky young punk was riding the chariot of my soul -- All highbrow metaphor dissolves when you stare into the puckered opening of a man's asshole. He flexed it, open and closed. He was fairly clean, at least. A couple bits of dried toilet paper in a few of the scraggly blond hairs. I hesitated, grossed out but at the same time needing the humiliation. "Lick it, faggot," he said. I stroked the smooth surface of his ass cheeks with my fingertips, and he let go of his own cheeks. I spread them myself, and buried my face between them, tongue first. I slurped the whole crack from top to bottom, where the skin gathered as if in a seam between his legs and up to his balls. Then I probed the tight hole with my tongue. It tasted a little sweet, a little bitter. I pushed the tip of my tongue past the opening, and he unfolded for me, letting me in. I licked the smooth skin on the inside of his asshole, swirling my tongue hungrily around the ring. He let out that same breath again, that nasal bull-breath. "Fuck, I've always wanted to make a teacher kiss my ass." I pushed in a little deeper, but I ran out of tongue before he ran out of asshole. I lapped at it, pushing inside of him and then around the ring while he grunted and sighed and hissed above me. When he turned around, his cock was even harder than it had been before. I licked it, up and down the shaft. It felt like licking warm steel. The veins stood out, tracing a network around the shaft. I swallowed him, bobbing back and forth on his cock. My knees hurt, and my feet were falling asleep, but I didn't care if they fell off at this point. His cock was close, his balls drawn up hard against his smooth abdomen. I sent my hand exploring up his body, over the tight ripples of his abs and the tiny jewels of his nipples. "I'm gonna come," he said. "You fucking faggot cocksucker, you're gonna make me come." He held me down on his dick, holding it deep in my throat, and it expanded and pulsed against my lips. I actually felt the liquid moving through it, squeezing thickly through the narrow tube of his urethra. Then cum poured into my mouth, a salty tang that coated my tongue and throat. I swallowed him, swallowed the sperm of this annoying, cocky punk who shouldn't even be in college, let alone in my class. But then where should I be? Probably not here either, unless here was on my knees sucking a load out of a cruel young bully. He held me on his cock, his fingers around my head so hard they threatened to crush my skull. Then he let up and pushed me away, explosively. His cock hung, softer now and rapidly softening, glistening with my spit and his cum. He pulled up his shorts and his underwear. "You're a disgusting fag," he said. I looked up at him. "I know." "I get a B." "I think you get an A. But you'll need some extra tutoring. In private." He sneered down at me. "I should kick your ass." "Yes, sir. But fuck it first." He hurled another wad of spit on me. It splattered on my face and trickled thickly down my cheek. Then he grabbed his book bag and headed for the door. I barely had time to get off my knees and wipe my face off with a handkerchief before he opened the door and headed out into the line of students already gathering for the next class. They trickled in, and I wondered, as I packed up my briefcase, if they could smell the sex in the room, as I could still smell the stink of his ass in my nostrils, and taste the prickling tang of his cum in my throat. I had to hide the hard-on in my pants with my briefcase. But people probably saw it. I got in my car, drove off campus to a gas station, and jerked off in the gas station bathroom. My cum spiraled down into the water of the filthy toilet, and I flushed it. I'd violated all the rules of ethics, not to mention all the rules of decency. But I didn't care. Jacob was going to get an A, and I was going to be his cocksucker. I was already hard again by the time I got to my car.