Date: Fri, 13 Apr 2001 19:37:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: Evan Bradley <EBradley33@excite.com>
Subject: Series:  Ambush, Chapter 3--"Nibbling at the Bait"

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 it is
not allowed, depart.  Though not observed in this story, care enough about
yourself and humankind to practice safe sex.

The author retains all rights.  No reproductions or links to other sites
are allowed without the author's consent.

EBradley33@Excite.com
Chapter 3

Nibbling at the Bait
End of the previous chapter:

The letter--

"When we finished making love, Mr. Halsey, my bud suggested that he do a
sketch of me to show you what a teacher in our scenario would see-at least
in part.  It took him half an hour to complete the sketch.  We hope you
liked it.  We hope you used it to get off.  Would you care to guess who the
teacher in our scenario was?

Two friends of yours.

P.S.  Oh yeah, we're going to have your ass too, Evan, and not in any
imaginary scenario either!"

	  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

After I finished reading the letter, my mind teemed with questions and
impressions!

A student of mine complained about homework . . . that's not the point, you
dolt; a student of yours created the sketch . . . hairy legs rubbing
together . . . they think I'm hot .  . . they let me watch their lovemaking
. . . they wanted me to feel their lovemaking . . .  damn, teeth sliding
gently down one's cock-it's almost like the lion tamer sticking his head in
the lion's mouth . . . hot . . .what oral love-making . . . they've done it
a lot . . . is the guy in the sketch a student of mine . . . why isn't
there anything in the letter to tip me off to their identities . . . maybe
they like me . . . naw . . . all the other guys in the other scenarios are
sexy . . . could be a big joke . . . a trap . . . careful, Evan . . . guys
have never been interested in you . . . how did they find out about each
other enough to become fuck buddies . . . their nipples are sensitive too
. . . if they caressed me-- . . . it can't be real . . .  why me . . . it
has to be a joke . . . just a way to string me along . . . I'd have to look
up to see into the tall guy's eyes . . . hot . . . they have to be watching
closely if they want any payoff from the joke . . . I need to pay more
attention to who's observing me . . . how different would the two cocks
feel up my ass . . . they know me better than I want them to . . . they
knew the sketch would hook me . . . could I have done something to give
that impression . . . I could explode thinking about the guy in the sketch
making love to me as the letter describes . . . there's nothing about me to
justify this attention and effort . . . it has to be a joke . . . they want
my ass . . . what does that mean . . . yeah, could mean have sex with me
. . . but maybe it means "my ass in a sling" . . . I'll be hurt . . . cause
me trouble . . . they created the scenarios perhaps because they were
getting bored . . . this sketch stuff is just a game . . . to what other
career do I go if this blows up into a scandal .  . . that last line in the
letter could be a threat . . . what could a man my age possibly give these
two students that they would value . . . has to be a joke . . . a way to
out me . . . I've been careless . . .

This push-pull swirl was overloading my circuits, and my stress level was
rising, so I focused on the sketches of the cocks and the letter.  The
sketch artist is good!  I need to walk around the classroom while students
are working and look at their doodling.  Maybe I might see something
reminiscent of the sketch I was sent.  But I would have to be careful.
Since the artist is in one of my classes and he's way ahead of me in this
script, he would most likely know in a second what my hidden motive was.  I
could check to see if one of my students is taking a drawing class in the
art department.  Of course, the artist doesn't have to be enrolled in such
a class this semester.

There is nothing in my life, absolutely nothing, that suggests I have any
business believing that this turn of events is exactly what it seems, that
the letter is really complimentary to me.  But nobody can really have it in
for me that much either.

Group work is occurring in most of my classes tomorrow.  At the height of
the groups' interaction, I'll stroll around the room, glancing at
notebooks.  Students are used to my restlessness during group work or tests
(I hate waiting for anything).  I would be relatively invisible if I were
careful.

	      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next morning I was button-holed by a colleague down the hall, so my
classroom was full of students when I entered.  No banter with Susan or
anyone else this morning.  In our studies we had been working on shaping a
literary response.  Today, I was reading a poem about struggling to
recapture the past in order to determine the meaning of the present,
stopping at certain points in my reading and asking the students to quietly
record their impressions of the poem at that point.  In future class
periods, they would study how various texts ("texts" being interpreted
broadly) prompted impressions, how students might interpret those
impressions, how they might negotiate conflicting impressions.  Why?  So
that they could field accurate impressions, not be captive to false
impressions.  So that they could ride the crest of the waves of social,
political, and cultural intercourse rather than being wiped out by them.
"Physician, heal thyself," I heard that snotty interior voice challenge.
"Shut up!" I shot back at it.

Upon completing this part of the activity, I placed the students in
structured groups (a leader, a good support person, a follower, a weaker
student-with students always rotating through the groups).  I then set them
to sharing where they thought the poem was going, what caused them to shift
impressions, where they found themselves at the poem's end, and what this
experience taught them about reading communities.

I allowed five minutes for the groups to really move into discussion, and
then I walked to the windows, looking out, a common habit of mine when
students were working in groups.  I slowly turned and walked around the
outer rows, glancing outside and around the room, ending with a glance at
the nearest desk.

H-m-m-m-m.  Susan Connolly and Troy Morgan were talking animatedly to each
other.  As I live and breathe!  Susan tossed her head, flirting with Troy.
I'd never observed her behave so flirtatiously!  And Troy's eyes were as
big as silver dollars and as bright as klieg lights above a stage.  He had
it bad!  I hadn't seen either of them interact like that in class.  A
sparkle graced Susan's dark eyes.  When Susan glanced my way, I quickly
looked outside.  I didn't want to discourage any new developments for them.
Susan obviously appreciated Troy's tall, surfer body, made hunkier by broad
shoulders tapering to quite a thin waist and butt.  Blond, blue-eyed,
all-American boy-next-door.  And the lucky dog had dimples!  I wondered if
Troy turned Susan on as much as he turned me on.  He was on the quiet side,
always sitting at the back of the room.  I suddenly realized that today was
the first they had rotated into the same group.  They looked good together.
This situation would bear watching.  Maybe a little help moving it along?
Perhaps it was time to pair students for some future assignment.  "And just
what pedagogical theory informs that method?" I heard that snide voice in
my mind charge.  "Helping students realize their potential," my inner voice
responded smugly.

I made a circuit of the room, pausing at the windows.  Moving on, I had
again reached the back of the room when I looked down on a desk and saw a
sketch of a guitarist.  DAMN!  There was my sketch artist!

This was too quick, too easy.  But if, from many hours of study in graduate
school, I can recognize a drawing from the medieval Utrecht Psalter or the
work of other medieval illuminators without any prompting, I can recognize
my sketch artist.  There he was- little, quiet, shy Kenny.  Who would have
imagined?

Like my sketch and those in the letter, the longer strokes in this sketch
seemed as though the artist were a little too aggressive, were losing a
little fine control, for there was a wildness, a boldness about the longer
stroke.  The long lines were also thicker.  Cute little Kenny!  I'll be!!!

I moved on casually, not wanting to give myself away and not varying my
behavior other than to pause a slight bit longer.  I wasn't particularly
noticed, I think, by anyone, let alone Kenny.  A member of his group who
was making a point boisterously had captured the group's attention.

Kenny Walters was a good B student when he worked at it.  He had the
potential to do better, but I probably would not see it.  It would happen
on down the road from this academic year.  As a junior, he was too busy
internalizing other factors to focus on achieving an A in my class.  Since
Modern English is a pattern language, when we had conferences over his
writing, I made a point of revealing to him good patterns in his thinking
and writing and encouraging him to amplify those in his future essays.  I
had been somewhat successful in drawing him out about his goals, dreams,
and intrests.  I could never break through his guardedness.

A bit of a dreamer, Kenny sat at the back of the class, walked at the back
of a group, was among the last to arrive in the room, and hung back in
discussions.  But he was a good kid.  Drawing was not a skill I had known
he possessed, but it was not out of character with the category of student
he represented.  I hated seeming Freudian, but introverts often prefer
solitary activities.  Drawing is certainly that.

Kenny stood about 5 feet, 6 inches tall, thick dark brown hair, blue eyes,
with a complexion on the pale side and just a few freckles sprinkled across
his nose.  Small ears flat against his head.  A pert nose and nicely curved
lips.  Nice body shape, slim like a runner's.  Wow!  I suddenly remembered.
He had a neat dick-shorter than his friend's but wider!  A smile moved
across my face.  How many teachers knew what a particular student's dick
looks like?

So now where did that leave me?  Well, I'd have to pay attention to Kenny's
buddies.  Fuck buddies were probably going to be together as much as
possible at school.  If I got out of my classroom and sauntered the halls,
I might catch him with the subject of the sketch.

	      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Once again, I was beginning to feel defeated.  Two days of patrolling the
halls revealed no Kenny and no friend.  They must leave campus during the
lunch period.  Of course-it was the only way they could steal some time
together during the school day.  If they hadn't a lot of time outside
school to be together and they were as close as the letter portrays, then
lunch periods would be precious time alone.  So I had extended my walk
after lunch to pass by the halls looking out on the parking lots.

On Friday, near the end of the lunch period, I was thinking that I'd best
be heading back to my classroom.  I had started moving away from the
windows and doors looking out on the west parking lot when I saw a car whiz
by with someone who caught the "corner of my eye."  I returned to where I
had been standing as the car parked.  Kenny crawled out of the passenger
side and a tall fellow, dark hair, great bod, crawled out of the driver's
side.  As they drew closer to the entrance, I recognized the fellow as
Robert Martin, not a student of mine.  But he was a well-known wide
receiver on the football team.  As Robert was walking closely behind Kenny,
he reached out, grabbed the back of Kenny's jeans, and pulled Kenny tight
up against himself.  Robert quickly leaned around and nipped at Kenny's
left ear lobe.  My cock jumped and my back arched involuntarily.  I
groaned, wishing just once in my life someone would do that to me.  (Well,
someone to whom I was attracted anyway.)  I glanced around quickly to
assure myself that no one was watching me.  Kenny blushed and giggled (I
couldn't hear, but it had to be a giggle).  He quickly ground against
Robert's groin in a sexy little circle.  As Kenny moved forward, Robert
laid his hand gently but possessively on Kenny's neck.  Kenny looked up at
Robert shyly and worshipfully.  "That is just too cute for words," I
thought.

Not wanting to be caught by Robert and Kenny at the door, I walked quickly
toward the hall taking me to my classroom.  The afternoon's classes and
Friday Fever among my students kept my mind from mulling the new
information it had received.  Fortunately, I could ponder the day's events
all evening, for I didn't have to worry about classes for a couple of days.

Deep thought made for a slow dinner that evening.  I was glad to know the
identity of the young man in the sketch and even happier that he and Kenny
were buddies.  It seemed certain that the author of the letter was also the
subject of the sketch.  Still, I just couldn't work this situation out: I
knew little about Robert, and it was virtually certain he knew even less
about me.  Kenny and I had only a formal teacher-student relationship.  So
why all this business of the sketch and the letter?  Again, my mind told me
mischief was afoot: "Be wary, Evan."

With a Bachelors in English, essentially a literature degree, I had read
hundreds of plots and studied their dynamics.  I could create multiple
plots for any set of circumstances.  'What if Kenny drew the sketch of his
buddy Robert, but it was lifted by a third party, who set this scheme in
motion by placing the sketch in my mailbox.  Then he wrote the fictitious
letter.  Achieving enough of the right information would lead one to a
resolution, but I was far from possessing that level of knowledge.
Ambiguity reigned.  I was impatient with but not intolerant of ambiguity.

I prowled around the house, listening to poignant music like Mahler's
"Adagietto," mulling over the day's events.  Mahler didn't improve my mood
this night.  After a glass of merlot, I retired hopeful.

		 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I saw myself in the darkened school exercise room, my hands tied over my
head to one of the parallel bars, with a handkerchief tied over my mouth.
Shadows, one taller and the other shorter, were kneeling around me,
squeezing the muscles in my arms, chest, ass, stomach, and legs roughly.
Then the shadows reached up and pinched my nipples hard.  They bent down
and started nibbling up the inside of my legs, not at all gently or
sensuously.  The short one started biting my scrotum and pulling on it to
the point of pain.  The tall one moved behind me and started thrusting
fingers into my ass.  Every movement of theirs remained now on this side,
now on that side of pain.  I couldn't understand why their behavior
contrasted so much with that of the two buddies in the letter.  Finally,
the shorter one started sucking on my cock, nudging into the muscles just
above my cock like a nursing colt.  It wasn't necessarily unpleasant so
much as unexpected.  The tall one was teasing me by inserting just two
inches of his cock past my sphincter, then pulling it out after a quick
jab.  I could tell that my cock was only semi- erect, most likely because
all of this unpredictable behavior put me off balance in every way.  None
of this was feeling romantic as the account in letter had seemed.

Suddenly, the short one pulled off me roughly and the tall one pulled out
of me abruptly, sprinting away into the darkness.  Something wasn't right.
Was I having a nightmare?  The hair on my shoulders, back, and ass began
tingling and rising.  I looked over my shoulder and saw another shadow,
tall, shapely, nicely muscled, standing akimbo with hands on hips.  The
silence was eerie, then threatening.  The shadow was motionless.  I
couldn't speak because of the gag.  The more I looked at the shadow, the
more threatening it seemed, becoming less a person and more an omen.
Eventually, I had to turn my head forward to ease the strain on my neck.

I heard something slicing though the air before the lash landed on my back.
It took my breath away from surprise.  It kept coming, up and down my back
to my ass and then legs and back up again.  Oddly, I didn't cry out.  The
next blow was HARD, the pain rippling not just through my body but through
my soul as well!  I bolted upright in bed, sweating profusely, breathing
heavily.  The threat and foreboding weighing upon me didn't end with this
nightmare.  What did this disturbing dream portend?