Date: Thu, 06 Jul 2006 15:51:35 -0500
From: Herb Cat <herb_cat@lycos.com>
Subject: Mr. Kent's Boys Part 13

Copyright 2006 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without
the author's permission.

Please note: this story depicts oral, anal, sado-masochistic and group sex
between males. If any of these offend you or are illegal to publish in your
jurisdiction, or you are under the age of 18, read no further.

The characters, locations and incidents in this story are fictional. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

As an author, I welcome feedback on my writing. Please send any comments
about this story, positive or negative, to Herb_Cat@mailcity.com. Thank
you.

-----

Part Thirteen - Five Years Later

Unlike so many college jocks, all of the boys in B11 went the full four
years and graduated with Bachelors degrees. I was so proud to attend the
ceremony and had a chance to meet many of their beaming parents.

Prior to graduating, Peter sold me and my list of clients to Greg, a
freshman who showed real entrepreneurial skills. The price was pretty
steep, as I understand it, and Greg had to go in hock to make the
payment. But Peter assured him that if he worked hard, and played his cards
right, he could earn back his investment in two months' time. Greg did work
hard, -- that is, he worked me hard. He quickly added new clients and
started giving me two or three dates on the same night. Of course, my share
of the clients' fees was identical under Greg as under Peter, zero
percent. But my ass got plenty of young hot athletic cock.

One of my regular clients continued to be the Dean, even after his
promotion. When he was elected president of the college, our weekly
sessions began taking place in the spacious Presidential suite. We usually
fucked on his brown leather sofa facing the picture window that overlooked
the campus. The greater privacy allowed him to vocalize his feelings as
loudly as he pleased: "Today I'm gonna rip your bitchboy pussy wide open,
Cunt!! . . . You're my rent-a-whore and you're gonna earn every dollar of
your fuckin high fee. So spread those cheeks, boy, and get ready to swallow
Daddy's pole!! . . . Damn it, Cunt, I wish my wife could fuck half as good
as you!!"

Ever since the second year, when the freshmen jocks arrived for summer
training prior to the start of the regular school semester, they heard from
the upper classmen about the special English section offered exclusively to
jocks in the basement of Simpson Hall. When it came time to register for
classes, so many young men wanted my course that it filled up quickly. I
insisted that they limit my enrollment to ten. "The success of my technique
depends on small class size." The Dean acquiesced, so instead of teaching
one huge section, I taught four, each with ten jocks. On Mondays,
Wednesdays and Fridays, I had a morning section and another in the
afternoon, giving my ass a few hours reprieve. The same on Tuesdays and
Thursdays, except these were longer class sessions since they only met
twice a week. All four sections were held in B11, and by the second year, I
had changed the lock on the door and held the only key. No more concern
about snooping eyes.

Getting paid for four sections meant I could quit my job at the store,
which pleased Peter and later Greg because it meant all my evenings were
free for clients. However, the owner needed someone to cover my shift, and
Phil was too stretched already. I recommended he hire Antonio, who seemed
to appreciate the merchandise and I thought could use the extra money.  It
was a perfect fit. Antonio continued to work there part-time for the rest
of his college years.  Whenever I stopped in, the owner would thank me
again for recommending him, saying that Antonio had a real grasp of this
unique business niche. He switched his major to Business Administration and
upon graduation, went to work there full-time. A year later, the owner
opened a branch store in the nearby city and put Antonio in charge.

When the boys graduated, I kept in touch with them via email. That's how I
learned about Emer. Emer's parents were so pleased to see him graduate
college that they gave him a motorcycle. One sunny afternoon, as he was
riding down his main street, a truck pulled out of an alleyway right in
front of Emer. He swerved into the opposing traffic and was instantly
killed.  I made sure to relay the awful news to all the other boys. All
nine of Emer's classmates, as well as MacDick, were at the funeral. As they
were leaving the cemetery, Ronnie came over to me and, speaking softly,
ordered me to pick up some six packs and meet them back in B11. I still
felt obliged to take orders from my boys, even as alumni.

When I arrived in the basement, the boys were all there waiting. They
figured it was as good a time as any for a reunion. As I unlocked the door,
they took the beer and began surveying the changes since their last class
there so many long years before. And for MacDick, this was his first ever
visit to B11. They took note of the new porn posters on the wall, the DVD
player with the plasma screen, and the fact that Ronnie's dildo had been
moved from my desk to my chair. They laughed at my name plate;
professionally fashioned in bakelite, and mounted on a polished walnut
triangular block, it read "Mr. Cunt." Peter was the first to discover the
wall of honor. On it I had posted every one of their published stories, as
inspiration for their successors.

The boys sat down, and once I was out of my pants and impaled on my dildo,
they all wanted to find out what each one was doing now.

Malcolm was now a regular contributor to Honcho and some other skin
mags. He was glad to see all his stories posted on the wall of honor. He
said he was now working on his first novel.

Malcolm never did go pro as he had predicted. However, Pepe was being
scouted by the NBA and thought he had a real chance.

Slim Jim and Carl were roommates in Las Vegas. They insisted they were not
gay even though they frequently 69ed and took turns fucking each other's
ass. What they liked best of all was getting a third person into their
room, male or female, and tagteaming that asshole. They invited me to come
by anytime.

Billy MacDick Englehart had no such reluctance about his orientation. By
the time they graduated, he was out of the closet, and no one gave him a
hard time about it. He was pursuing a career in architecture, living in San
Francisco with a hairdresser, and was totally top.

Reggie and Sue Ellen got married the year before, and seemed to be enjoying
marital bliss. I was not only present at the wedding, I also played a role
at both the bachelors' and the bachelorettes' parties. The female stripper
hired for the boys was knockdown gorgeous. As each lad finished pumping her
pussy full of his jizz, Reggie ordered me to felch it out of her. At the
girls' get-together, the male stripper only fucked one young lady, the
bride-to-be, but again I had to felch her all-too-familiar beaver. The
newlyweds have already paid Greg a few times to have me over.

Hernando was a rent-a-fuzz, -- "private security," as he called it, -- but
about to enter a criminal justice program so he could take the exam to
become a cop. I can only imagine the treatment that an uncooperative perp
could expect to receive from him.

Peter was living in Chicago and running a very successful escort
service. His stable consisted solely of athletic men in their twenties --
ex-jocks mainly -- who were both bisexual and versatile as to their
top/bottom preferences. That way, no matter who the client was or what he
or she wanted, Peter had a man for the job. Of course, Peter collected only
the ten percent agent's cut. He regretted he was never able to find another
asshole like mine, one so hungry for cock that it was willing to be fucked
for free. He passed out his business card and said if any of the other
guys' career choices didn't work out, they could always come to work for
him.

So all the boys of B11 were well on their way to successful satisfying
careers, and whether they cared to admit it or not, I felt I had a part in
their accomplishments.

Once the lads had exhausted all the beer I'd brought, and learned all the
latest news, Carl said, "Well, it seems there's only one thing left to do."
I knew what he meant. We all did. As they took off their pants, I got up
off my dildo, laid down on the desk and the men, my wonderful students,
took their sweet time fucking my ass and mouth full of deliciously
reminiscent jock jizz.