"Ahhh, Professor Caldwell. That poetry. It's so moving. I had no idea—"
"Hush, Lawrence. Live the moment. How does this make you feel?"
"It's like nothing I've felt before. But should we . . . should you . . .? I've never—"
"No words now, Lawrence. We let the Romantic writers speak our words for us. They do it so well. This poem from Keats. Did it not make you feel alive—fully alive?"
"Yes, but your hand . . ."
Actually, it was two hands. The young man didn't seem to notice the one under his shirt at his nipples. All of his senses were focused on the hand Hunter Caldwell had in his lap making slow motions over something inside the material of the young man's trousers that was certainly coming to life at the attention.
"Ahhhh, Professor Caldwell."
The silence—other than the crackling fire in the fireplace—was so deadening that the sound of a zipper being pulled clanged like a warning bell.
But the young man was too far gone for this already. Hunter Caldwell had prepared him well. He was one of three in Caldwell's Romantic Poet's course at the college that semester that he had identified as ripe for the plucking and still virginal.
Virginal was important to Caldwell. That's what got him off. That first ejaculation from the young men after Caldwell's penetration and plowing inside their virginal holes. That's all he wanted from them. After that they were of no use to him—they no longer aroused him.
Caldwell had chosen Lawrence first because he both seemed the neediest of the three and the least desirable conquest. He was on the pudgy side and still pimply, but he had what could be called a "pretty" face and nice brown cow eyes—eyes that had followed every move Caldwell made in front of the class. Worshipping eyes. Easy-make eyes.
And there was little doubt he was virginal. He wasn't all that bright, although the Romantic Poets seemed to have set off a whole new world for him. Caldwell intended to widen that world significantly this evening.
The young man had nearly melted at the invitation to dinner at the professor's house. The gourmet meal had set the stage, and the fireplace and the overstuffed leather love seat set directly in front of it and the book of Keats had been all Caldwell had needed.
The young man hadn't even noticed the hands starting to work on him, as engrossed as he was in Caldwell's rich reading from Keats and the port wine that was making him mellow and taking the edge off his already-susceptible and fully innocent response to the seduction.
"Oh, Professor Caldwell. Oh, oh, ohhhh."
Caldwell was on his knees between the youth's spread thighs and had his lips over the young man's throbbing cock, pushing the foreskin back and flicking at the piss slit with his tongue.
"Oh, oh, ahhhhhhh!"
Surprised, Caldwell jerked his lips back, although his hand was still wrapped around the base of the engorged cock and gently stroking it.
Cum burbled up from the piss slit and dribbled down to Caldwell's fist.
Caldwell turned his head to hide his disgust and disappointment. This sometimes happened. This was the downside of taking them for their first journey. They sometimes came almost immediately.
"I'm sorry, professor. It was just so, so . . ."
"Yes, that's quite all right Lawrence. Nothing to be ashamed of either. All of the Romance poets experienced life to the fullest like this. This will enhance your studies. I was glad to be able to enhance your appreciation for the subject."
Caldwell was standing now, and bustling around and picking up half-empty wine glasses and clattering off toward the kitchen. He was finished with this one. There had been a second of thrill—taking for the first time again—but only for a second with this one. He had greater hopes for the others this semester.
Lawrence was standing now and zipping himself up. "Sorry, professor, sorry. But this has been such an experience. I'd like to—"
"Yes, yes, we must do this again. I think you can find your own way out, can you?"
They both knew they would not be doing this again. But in his own way, Lawrence had gotten more out of this experience than Hunter Caldwell had—much to the chagrin of Caldwell, who always wanted the best and freshest of everything.
* * * *
Floating along green-leafed tunnel on the river of life world opprobrium casting off in rivulets in our wake
Hunter Caldwell stopped reading and cast an eye on young Joshua at the back of the scull, pulling on the oars, guiding the boat into the eddy in the river beyond the dipping branches of a willow tree. Caldwell knew the cove very well. Completely deserted, its banks lined by a deep stand of closely spaced trees and an overabundance of ferns and other lush plantings undergirding the broad oak branches and hanging Spanish moss.
A very romantic spot.
"I love to hear your voice reading this poetry," professor, Joshua whispered reverently as they entered their own private grotto.
Joshua's shirt was off, as he'd solely taken on the job of paddling them down the small river, dark and lush under a canopy of trees, whose branches met across the top, creating very much a private, romantic tunnel effect. Caldwell had chosen the poetry just for this reason.
Caldwell was more pleased with Joshua than he had thought he would be. He was thin, yes, but his musculature was good. He was beautifully formed. Always the shy, thin, shortest one in the class. The one who would never raise his arm to answer, but always would have the answer if challenged. Perhaps what had taken away from the first impressions were the eyeglasses he wore in class. Practically bottle glass with big, heavy lenses, the beauty of Joshua's face was only apparent now when Joshua had taken his glasses off and put them away in the short sprinkling they had just gone through. Joshua's wet shorts clung to his legs, and Caldwell longed to reach out and trace the promising length of the youth.
The combination of the wine, and the atmosphere of the river, and Caldwell's reading of the poetry, with each poem he read studiously becoming more and more explicit, had put the young man into the mood Caldwell wanted him in. Caldwell saw that Joshua was hard through his clinging shorts. Nearly as hard as Caldwell himself was.
They had arrived in Caldwell's special place along the river. He liked to think of it as his grotto of deflowering. How many young men had lost their virginity to him here, in the soft-swirling water between banks of ferns and the weeping willow tree? He had lost count himself.
"You read the lines to me now, Joshua. Here, give me those paddles and lay back in the stern and rest. Yes, stretch your legs. Go ahead you can run your legs along each side of the gunwales. That will be fine. But you're soaked. Let's take these off and lay them over the bench at the bow to dry. Oh, no worry, it's just you and me. No one will see us here. We're in our own world. We'll just let the rivulets of opprobrium drift away, shall we? Just as the poem said."
The young student was weakened with wine and the effort to paddle them here—and the romantic mood of river and the soothing, rich voice of his professor, who had been reading him suggestive and arousing poetry as they paddled away from the college pier and into the world of the enchanting river.
And besides, he wanted this. He had been in love with Professor Caldwell since the beginning of the semester. And he was sure that the professor had shown interest in him. Of course, he'd never done it with another man—or with a woman either, truth be known—but the poetry of the Romantic poets that the professor had assigned to the class to read had opened a whole new world for him—as had the guided study of the pasts of the poets—guided by Professor Caldwell.
Thus, although he was trembling—and scandalized, in a titillating way—when the professor pulled his wet shorts off him and laid them over the bench he'd been sitting on in the bow, Joshua raised no objection, gave no alarm.
"Read the next lines to me Joshua," Caldwell said as he moved to the bench in the center of the boat, placing him between the legs Joshua now had stretched along the gunwales on either side of Caldwell's torso. Joshua's cock was standing nearly erect.
Neither man mentioned the compromising position, though—Joshua trying to pretend it didn't exist; Caldwell not about to upset the balance.
Joshua took the book from Caldwell and read:
Piercing rapier, boat's bow and lover's gift, slicing like a knife. Being all, giving all for discovery's sake.
As he finished the line, he let out a gasp. No longer able to pretend. "Professor. I don't . . . I've never—"
"Shush, Joshua. It's all right. It's all as it should be. And it's very private here. Just lay back now and close your eyes and take in the moment. Experience it all, fully, like the Romantic poets did."
Caldwell had one hand cupping Joshua's balls and the other wrapped around his cock and rhythmically, but tentatively, gently, squeezing and releasing.
Joshua, now laying full back, legs spread along the gunwales, hands dipped in the water on either side of the boat, eyes closed, body trembling all over. A deep moan, with a catch of breath at the end. "Professor. We must stop. I'm not—"
"The Romantic poets didn't deny any sensation that would give wings to their poetry. You've told me you want to be a poet. To be so, you must be totally free. You must experience it all. Listen to those words again, Joshua: 'Piercing rapier, slicing like a knife'; 'gift of the lover'; 'giving all—experiencing all, being open to all—for discovery sake.' Food for the muses, Joshua. You know what the poet was speaking of. You can feel it. Tell me you can feel it."
"Yes, yes, I feel it," Joshua whispered through another moan. "But, oh, ohhh, not—"
"Tell me what the poet was describing, Joshua."
"Yes you do, Joshua. You do know. I've taught you to interpret poetry—to open it up, reveal it."
And here Joshua gasped because Caldwell was pushing back his foreskin and lightly rubbing the young man's glans with lubed fingers.
"The poet was talking of love, Joshua. Of making love—to another man."
The hand cupping Joshua's balls had moved farther down and under. There were two fingers at the rim to his channel, and Joshua was shuddering and his hands had gone to the professor's shoulders, the professor being hunched over his torso now. At first trying weakly to push the shoulders away, but as Caldwell's lubed fingers, prepared while Joshua was laying back, eyes closed, entered the channel far enough for Caldwell to find the prostate, the hands on Caldwell's shoulder no longer were pushing; they were gripping hard with fingers pressed into skin and pulling Caldwell to him. Obligingly, Caldwell's face dipped down, and he took one of the Joshua's nipples in his mouth and rolled it between his teeth.
Joshua gasped then, trying to gather his resolve to resist and he pushed on Caldwell's shoulders with his hands.
Caldwell raised his mouth from Joshua's nipple but not his hands from Joshua's cock or his channel and smiled down into his young student's eyes. What he saw was victory. It was so achingly obvious that the young man had never experienced this before—that he was virgin—just as it was evident that Caldwell was going to win this battle of seduction.
"Do you know how the poem concludes, Joshua?"
"No, tell me," Joshua said with a breathy squeak.
Sunbursts, filling possession, completion with a sigh, New worlds opened to my lover and I.
"New worlds. That's what I have to offer you, Joshua. On the other side is so much more understanding and creative thought—so many more possibilities and rhymes will open to you. Don't you feel the rhythm already? Don't you feel part of the rhythm?"
And in this, Caldwell wasn't exaggerating. He was rhythmically stroking Joshua's cock and finger fucking him, and Joshua was moving his hips in rhythm with Caldwell's attentions. And he was gasping each time the tip of Caldwell's middle finger rubbed across his prostate.
But then Caldwell stopped and withdrew his hands and ran them slowly up Joshua's torso and covered the young man's breasts and slowly began tweaking his nipples.
"It that all?" Joshua asked. "Should we go back now?" His voice sounded both hopeful and slightly disappointed.
"It's not all if you want to cross over into the possibility of being a real poet, Joshua. It's in the poem. 'New Worlds opened'; 'my lover's rapier'; 'full possession.' To live fully, to appreciate fully, to be able to create fully, you must experience it all."
"Full possession?" Joshua asked. It was almost a whimper. Almost a "say it isn't so" prayer.
"Yes. Lover's rapier. Full possession," Caldwell answered in a low voice, taking one of Joshua's hands and placing it on his own cock that he had released some time ago.
"Oh, God, oh god," Joshua whimpered.
"Your choice, Joshua. If you want to experience it all, I can help you. And I'll be gentle." He was stroking Joshua's lower belly with his free hand, the other one still holding Joshua's hand to his engorged cock. "If you don't, you'll never make it across that river of understanding and full experience."
Joshua was trembling and shuddering, undecided, tempted, scared, aroused.
Caldwell reached into the pocket of his shorts and took out a condom. "Your choice, Joshua. You can come of age and join the enlightened and fully understand the world of the Romance poets now. Or you can wait and wonder and pine. I won't force you. If you want to take that step, you will have to put this on me yourself."
Caldwell split open the packet and held the disk up to where the dappled sunlight caught it so that it glittered. Joshua's eyes were big. He reached out, but only half way. Caldwell had to guide the young man's hands to it and then help him roll it onto Caldwell's cock.
Caldwell then went down on his knees between Joshua's legs in the stern of the boat. His lips went to Joshua's nipples and Joshua was already breathing heavily and groaning. The bulb of Caldwell's cock just pressing into the rim, Joshua began to voice second thoughts, but Caldwell raised his mouth to the younger man's and fully possessed it, muffling the grunts and groans of the initial tight entry.
As Caldwell's cockhead breached Joshua's sphincter, the younger man tore his mouth away from Caldwell's and arched his back, his head bending back to where his long hair dipped into the slowly swirling water and let out a cry of first taking.
Caldwell thrilled at that moment. That was the very moment he lived for. His excitement aroused him to the heights, and he engorged further and relentlessly pushed in. Joshua started to fight him, writhing and arms flailing and cries of "too big," "too painful," "too much" pouring out of him.
To hold the youth still, Caldwell laced his stronger arms under the young man's pits and then bent his forearms back across Joshua's chest and locked his fists, effectively immobilizing the young man's hands from reaching Caldwell's body.
He just let the young man cry out at the taking. That's what Caldwell wanted to hear. He wanted that to go on forever. But it didn't. As Caldwell bottomed and started to create a rhythm of the fuck and Joshua's channel began to adjust to the taking, the cries slowly merged into grunts and groans and then moans and sighs and Joshua was finding the rhythm as well. It wasn't long before Joshua ejaculated up Caldwell's belly and went almost completely dormant except for the sighing.
Caldwell pulled out of him almost immediately. He had already ejaculated—back when Joshua was at the height of his crying out—when the youth had effectively lost his virginity. It was a secondary thrill to feel the young man come in his arms for the first time. But then Caldwell went numb.
It was over. He pulled away from Joshua and sat back on the bench at the bow, moving Joshua's only slightly dryer briefs and shorts to the middle bench. Then he looked down on the naked youth with something akin to disinterest.
Joshua cooled down by sighing and running his hands over his body and fondling a cock that was spent—but with his youth—could quickly come back to life.
"Read me some more, professor," he murmured. "Read me some more and then make love to me again." His eyes were glistening. He felt fully enlightened. Words were spinning in his head that he knew would float to the ground in the form of a memorable poem.
"I don't think so. It's getting late," Professor Caldwell said tightly. "And I think it might rain again. Paddle us back up to the college now, Joshua, if you please."
* * * *
Caldwell had saved Brandon for last. He was the real student. His poetry already excelled—and he knew it. Caldwell was sure that he'd only signed up for the class because he wanted Caldwell to be his first—to be the one who took his virginity.
Caldwell was sure that Brandon knew the worth of his virginity, where most of the other men he took it from didn't—that Brandon valued it highly and was choosing who would get it. This made Caldwell feel both grateful and privileged. Brandon was discriminating. He knew that Caldwell was the best one to take him beyond the beaded curtain.
Thus, Brandon was even more special than anyone else Caldwell had mentored—which is what he called fucking a young man's virginity away. He really had the potential to be a poet. A good first fucking would do him and the pantheon of poetry a world of good. And Caldwell would have been the moving force behind the unleashing of this talent. It made his mission in life—the collection of as many male cherries as possible—worthwhile.
Brandon even looked the part. He out Byroned Lord Byron. Curly golden locks like an angel's halo; dreamy, hooded eyes that were a vortex into his pure soul; thick, sensuous lips. His smile lit up the universe; his body was that of Apollo. His voice was rich and deep with emotion. The young man was perfection itself.
Caldwell chose a secluded spot along the banks of the river. A gourmet lunch, excellent wine, a sunny spot encouraging an al fresco swim in the river. A private embankment for seduction and fucking.
He was laying on his back on the blanket, the book of poetry open above him—placed between his eyes and the dazzling sun.
Brandon was sitting beside him, making a chain of daisies he had lazily selected and gathered from where he sat, cross-legged. His shirt was neatly folded on the grass beside him and he had removed his shoes and socks.
Caldwell hadn't thought of the sexiness of a man's foot, but as he read, he glanced down at Brandon's feet. They were beautiful. Tanned, like his magnificent torso. The toes long and plump at the end. The nails perfect, as if the young man had them manicured. The curve of his instep tantalized Caldwell, and he felt the urge to put his lips to it. He was feeling sensations he'd never felt before.
He wondered what it would be like to fuck a young man for the second time. Whether he could capture the thrill of the first taking. If it could be done with anyone, Caldwell thought it might be possible with young Brandon.
Floating along green-leafed tunnel on the river of life World opprobrium casting off in rivulets in our wake Piercing rapier, boat's bow and lover's gift, slicing like a knife. Being all, giving all for discovery's sake.
"You make it sound beautiful, professor . . . and inviting."
"Is he flirting with me, giving me signals," Caldwell thought. And a chill of anticipation was running up his spine. The young god was ripe for the picking, Caldwell could see. Brandon's shorts were tented and his voice was thick from the wine and the ambiance.
It was about time to suggest a swim in the river.
Brandon gently took the book from Caldwell's hands and read the last line of the poem in a voice even more refined, and sensuous, and arousing than Caldwell was capable of doing.