Editor's Note: Be aware of a POV switch towards the end, switches to Dean's POV. Again, this is more introspection than sex...I really have to remind myself that this is Literotica....
Ten, or even five, years ago, if you'd asked me: "What do you think your life will look like at thirty?"
It isn't this. This being: bent over my bathroom counter, damp hands smudging prints into the mirror, a football jersey three sizes too big pinched around my stomach, and the eighteen-year-old owner of said jersey fucking me hard enough to make the entire bathroom shake. His hands, big and ragged with callouses, a cage around my ribs. His mouth biting a path up my spine, murmuring filth about how good I am, the best. Then, there's me, totally mindless with it, begging for it, crying over it. Because truthfully, all that murmured filth is true, and I'm painfully weak. Truthfully, he made good on his promises, and it's the best sex I've ever had, or probably will ever have.
A year and a half ago, my father died unexpectedly. He was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer in the late summer, in the ground before Christmas. I'd wrapped up my schooling in Chicago, earned my master's in education and literature, and was set to pursue my PhD in hopes of becoming a professor, much like my mother. With my father's untimely passing, those plans were put on hold. My mother and I expressed our grief very, very differently. She wanted to get as far away from his memory as possible, while I wanted nothing more than to wrap myself up in it like a blanket. She had my childhood home, completely paid for, retitled in my name, and I moved back to the tiny, underwhelming town I grew up--a town I'd always fantasized about putting in my rear view.
Instead of teaching literature at a distinguished university, working my way towards a PhD and eventual tenureship, I settled for teaching rudimentary English to a generation of uncouth, uninterested teenagers at the highschool I graduated from once upon a time. It was...terribly lonely, in the beginning. I'm as introverted as they come, so even though the faces were familiar, they were never faces I'd actively befriended in my youth.
Just as I was starting to feel settled in the simple routines I'd pieced together between mourning, enter Dean Saunders.
I wish I could chalk Dean up to a stereotype: the attractive, popular quarterback of the highschool football team. But, in a town like this one, he stands out even more than that archetype demands. He's an exceptional athlete, the kind that's too good to die out in the stifling shoebox of small town glory. He has the kind of talent that'll land him a full ride after graduation. He'll certainly play on a college team, and as long as he doesn't destroy his body on the way up, perhaps nationally in the near future. He's also sickeningly attractive. If he's a 'New York Ten' [as the kids call it], he's a Midwest Twenty. I'm surprised he's not been scouted for a role while on holiday in the bigger cities.
Dean is likable, charismatic, and obtrusive in everything he does. He's got a personality and packaging that feels too big for a town like this one, and while it was impossible not to take some notice of these exceptional traits, it was left at simple acknowledgement. Because, at the end of every day, Dean Saunders was nothing more than another student to me.
Now, I'm no stranger to those around me harboring little crushes, especially after I took on the slightly authoritarian role of a teacher. I know what I look like, and young girls seem drawn to my 'soft, femboy' vibe [as I've heard it called]. Perhaps, while I'm pretty to look at, I don't cut an intimidating figure. There's something attractive about that, I suppose. Whatever Dean was harboring for me since the start of the semester, it was nothing at all what I'm used to. It wasn't shy, blushing glances or stray locks brushed behind a rosy ear. It wasn't titters and whispers between friends as I passed by in the hall. No, it was...much more intense than that, even before he ramped up his efforts after the New Year. It was blunt, domineering, and damn near suffocating.
The way his eyes would track me during class felt predatory. Before the break, it was easy enough to ignore. I'm not sure what sort of switch flipped in his brain, but after the break, I was being actively pursued. It was...surreal, sort of like an out of body experience. I think I rationalized it away, at first. I convinced myself he was just sucking up to me for a better grade, because the alternative wouldn't compute. Why in God's good name would a young man like Dean Saunders want anything to do with me, his decidedly male English teacher of almost thirty?
The drinks and snacks, maybe. The looks? I couldn't ignore those, nor could I rationalize them away. I've never felt more objectified in my life, like I'm the finest slab of steak in the market--top notch marbling, and he wants to rip a chunk out of me. With the coming of Spring, the days a degree or two warmer [the overnight icicles would melt by noon], he began to wear less and less clothing, prancing around in shorts and tanks like it's the dead of July.
Herein lies the problem. Dean is...hot. Hot, and very much my type. His isn't a body you'd look at and think, 'oh, he's a Senior in highschool just getting started on his physique.'
No, he has the body of a man who's attended the gym religiously for years. He's built, from top to bottom, and he knows it. He's shoving my nose in it. Surely, he'd sold his soul at a crossroads somewhere to get a physique like that. Big, meaty legs that shift with visible muscle, rippling abs and obliques, a carved-out back, broad shoulders, and massive arms. His percentage of body fat is so low, thick veins wind through him like rivers. He's constantly lifting his damn shirt over his stomach, so I'd know. Worst of all, he's hung.
How do I know? Because he's always, always hard in the middle of my lectures. He's halfway hard when he drops by in the mornings, and stiff as a board when he loiters around my desk after class. He's totally unashamed, going out of his way to draw attention to it. He sticks his hips out or adjusts himself in his shorts, like he's trying to advertise his virility or something. Never, ever have I been forced into such a moral quandary, as the one Dean has placed me in. If he were anyone else but my student, if he were just a few years older, I would've reciprocated that attention in a heartbeat. He's a walking wet dream.
I can admit, I probably didn't handle it well. I should've been more firm with him from the jump, then maybe I wouldn't be in this position now [please see: bent over the bathroom counter]. I shouldn't have allowed him to hover, bring me drinks, or pseudo-masturbate in the middle of class. I shouldn't have allowed him his way, the same way everyone else does. But, what was I supposed to say?
Stop looking at me?
Stop popping boners all the time?
Stop being so attractive?
It's uncomfortable, but in the same vein, it's thrilling. He's peacocking all for my sake, and what an ego boost that is. I didn't think it'd go anywhere, because to be sure he'd have more sense than that. As long as I keep turning the other cheek, he should give up this game before long. That body might live on in my imagination, but that's far less unethical than reciprocating anything in reality.
So I thought, until the afternoon before the Hawks game. As dogged as he's been, it's unusual for Dean to swing by my classroom on afternoons when he has practice, let alone a game night. When he sauntered in and had the gall to shut the door behind him, I could barely hear over the roar of blood in my ears. I felt like I'd been locked in a kennel with a rabid dog, and he lived up to that expectation. There were no more innuendos or little hints.
"I don't wanna leave yet, Sam. You're hard too, right? 's okay, you can tell me."
Excuse me?
