Once a Nerd Ch. 02

Editor's Note: For how long this is, smut is really only at the end; just a head's up, in case you're looking for a flash-in-the-pan sex story. All characters are 18+, and also, I only just realized after uploading the last chapter: this was in no way, shape, or form a homage to Supernatural, sorry about the similar names.

By the middle of the second week, I'm fed up.

I decide not to go to his house again, as I think that would only serve to piss him off. He might think I've come just for more sex, which--I probably would end up trying to fuck him after all is said and done.

After English with Mr. Powell, there's one more period before school lets out. For me, it's a math course. For Mr. Powell, it's a planning period. He doesn't have any other classes after mine. At the shrill screech of the bell, I leave his class without making a fuss, and he'll breathe easy because he believes I'll be occupied in my next class. Except, I don't go to my next class. I camp out in the bathroom nearest his room and wait for the commotion in the halls to die down. If my guess is correct, he'll have remained in his classroom to wrap up the day's work. He'll also have left his door open, because I'm the only one he's worried about barging into his room.

I'm right on both accounts. When I leave the restroom, the halls are devoid of life. Twenty paces down the hall, his door is wide open. I approach quietly, peering around the corner of the jamb to ascertain whether he's behind his desk or not. He is, looking nonethewiser. Finally, my time has come. I slip through the doorway, close it, lock it, and draw the little curtain to cover the narrow window. Sam startles at the sound of his door closing, subsequently locking, then scowls fiercely at the sight of me.

Ouch.

I drop my bag on the floor and approach his desk with intent. "You're really breaking my heart, Mr. Powell. Were you planning to avoid me like this 'til I graduate?"

"That's exactly what I was going to do." He snaps, lifting from his chair. He goes to brush past me, towards the door. I grab him by the bicep, a little harder than I meant to, but he's leaving me next to no choice but to physically hold him here.

"Then don't act so surprised when I have to resort to shit like this." I snap back.

He glares up at me, but makes no move to shake my grip. Probably because he knows, as well as I do, that he can't--and it'd be embarrassing to try and fail. "Let go, Dean."

"You gonna talk to me?"

"I don't have to do that!" He exclaims, growing agitated. "What the hell do you want from me? Aren't you satisfied? You can't...keep doing this! If I'd kept the same routine, I know you'd be up my ass even worse. It doesn't look good for either of us, don't you get that?"

Like a splash of oil flashing in a hot skillet, anger pops in my chest and the back of my throat. I wrench him towards me, getting up in his face. I must look as pissed as I feel, because he flinches back, afraid. "Satisfied? Nah, not even a little. What, was I not good enough? You didn't like it? That didn't seem to be the case, you couldn't stop crying and cumming all over my--"

"That's not the point!" He hisses through his teeth. "If you have such an insatiable appetite, find someone your own age to take it out on, Dean. I can't...parade around the school like your little girlfriend!"

He's right, I know that. He's being perfectly logical and reasonable. I know my frequent, obvious attention could cause problems for him. I know we can't suck face in the halls and openly flirt in class, like an average highschool couple. I know I'm being unreasonable. I'm the problem. But, frankly, I don't give a shit about any of that. Where there's a will, there's a way, right?

"I'm young, yeah, and I like to fuck as much as the next guy, but this is your fault. I meant every word that night--this 'insatiable appetite' is all your fuckin' fault, Teach. My dick wilts like a neglected house-plant when you're not around, I can't fuck someone else even if I want to. I get what you're saying. I know...I know I need to cool it, and I swear to God, I will. I'll stop breathing down your neck during the day, but don't fuckin' ignore me!"

He scrubs me down with incredulous eyes. "So, what, you...want me to be your fuck buddy?"

It puts a bad taste in my mouth as soon as he says it, but I'm situationally-aware enough to know it's the best I'm going to get right now. "...yeah?"

"What if I say 'no'?"

I swallow against the lump in my throat. "I would...do my best to respect that. But, it was good, wasn't it?" I ask, struggling not to sound as desperate as I feel. I know it was good. We milked each other fuckin' dry, cumming nothing more than hopes and dreams bu the end of it. He was shaking, sobbing, begging, completely out of his mind with it. It'd be a bold-face lie if he tries to say otherwise, and we both know it.

"You really don't wanna do it again?" I egg him on, leaning into his space. He glances up at me, then cuts his eyes away. He's burning with that pretty, scarlet flush that has my cock trying to swell. I swear, he's got me trained--I'm his personal Pavlov's Dog, and he doesn't even know it. Finally, he heaves a quiet sigh.

"Of course it was good, that's not even...a lie I'd be able to pull off. But, it's unethical. Even though you're the one pushing this, I'd be the bigger problem for letting you have your way. It's like letting a toddler have ice cream for dinner every night just because they want it--it's bad for them, even if they don't know it. I'm the adult, I'm your teacher. I want what's best for you. This...you've just got a crush, you're caught up in the heat of the moment, that's all it is."

The analogy sets my teeth to a grind. I get it, but he's essentially comparing me to a stupid kid who doesn't know my left from right. I take a moment to try and gather up the right words. "Listen..." I start slowly. "I'm...not a toddler, Mr. Powell. I understand where you're coming from, that sense of responsibility to...do the right thing. But, as far as I'm concerned, no one's getting hurt here, as long as it stays between us. You're not taking advantage of me. If anything, it's the other way around. I know I'm still your student, but even that won't be the case in a few months. It's just really great, consensual sex."

My stomach clenches with excitement at his expression. In real time, I'm watching the scale tip on his face. Lust versus moral obligation. Just a little more, I've gotta push him just a bit. I drop my hand from his arm, instead sliding my palms beneath the hem of his sweater--cradling his bare waist. I swipe my thumbs across his stomach in a soothing pattern. I crane my neck, lowering my face towards his, and drag the tips of my teeth across the fine line of his jaw.

"Just...let me get it out of my system, please. No one's gonna find out, and I'll be out of your hair by Summer."

Lies, lies, lies. I'm fuckin' hooked like a fish. There's nothing to get out of my system, because he's rewritten my code. He doesn't have to know that though. If he believes I mean for this to be temporary, he'll be more willing to go for it. He's wound tight between my hands, and his breathing is quick and short. For how close we're standing, I can feel his erection pressing against my upper thigh.

"I...I'll think about it." He hedges, but we both already know, he's on board. "But, we've got to set some ground rules."

I'm grinning so hard, my cheeks burn. "Whatever the fuck you want."

The Ground Rules:

1. No physical contact of any kind on school grounds or in public.

2. No loitering in Mr. Powell's class at any time, unless something of academic value is actually happening.

3. No more drink/snack deliveries.

4. No sleeping over.

5. No visible marks.

6. No cellular communication of any kind.

It's not ideal, but I'm in no position to argue. I was especially bummed about the 'no sleeping over' and not being able to at least text him. He's taking the whole 'fuck buddy' thing at face value. When I asked him how often I can come over and which days, he just said he'll let me know somehow. With this new system, I'm effectively in limbo, waiting around for the green light. It's not all bad though, as he at least acknowledges me during the day now. Sometimes, he even smiles at me, and that shit puts butterflies in my stomach like I'm thirteen with my first crush.

In the interim, I do my best to uphold the duties of your standard jock. I attend daily practices, hit the gym like it owes me money, meal prep a week's worth of the world's most basic chicken, rice, and broccoli, and hang out with my boneheaded buddies. However, as soon as that greenlight comes through, I drop everything. He lets me know with a little scrap of paper on the edge of his desk, which will just have dates and times. Saturdays are usually always on the table, but he's allowed me to come over on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well. For the first three weeks, it goes even better than I could've hoped or imagined.

Two to three times a week, I'm having the hottest, filthiest sex possible, and Sam seems to be warming up to me. In between fucking like rabbits, he's slowly becoming more and more receptive to engaging with me. We talk, laugh, bathe together, and eat together. He's smiling at me more, too. Like, a real smile, the 'I'm genuinely happy to see you' kind of smile. I'm absolutely reading into it.

However, lo and behold, it's the consequences of my own actions. On those nights I'm greenlit to come over, everything else gets the bare fuckin' minimum--namely, practice and my friends. This comes to bite me in the ass spectacularly during Monday's practice. We're doing some standard lifts in the school's dingy, humble weightroom before hitting the turf for some drills. There's not much in here besides a handful of dumbbells, some lifting platforms, creaky racks, and ripped-up benches. For a team of thirty dudes, we've got to rotate our sets, so there's a lot of standing around, jaw-jacking.

It's my turn on the bench, and I'm in the middle of a moderate press [250lbs for 3x6, I know you're wondering] with Jacob perched behind me, halfheartedly spotting my lift. Less than five paces away, loitering around one of two racks, is a group of five. Scott Tenebaum, a mountain of a linebacker. Harvey Middleton, a half-decent wide receiver. Gerard Figgus, a pizza-faced running back. Joey Thompson, a hell of a good center. Lastly, Micah Nole, another running back. Scott's powering through some heavy squats, but his buddies are running their mouths about every teenage boy's favorite subject: pussy.

It's going in one ear and out the other for the most part, though I do catch the names of some female students and teachers getting passed around between bouts of laughter. It's the standard dialogue you'd hear in any locker-room:

"Chrissy has the juiciest rack, dude, I'd give up a kidney to titty-fuck that shit."

"Yo, I heard from that greasy cashier at the Handy-Mart that Mrs. Hilton gives head for fifty bucks a pop!"

"Sheila said if we win our game this weekend, she'll give up her ass."

"You're so fuckin' stupid, Joey, Sheila sells you that shit every time we have a game!"

Fortunately, when Mr. Powell's name crops up, I'm re-racking my bar. I might've dropped it on my face otherwise.

"Bro," Scott starts conspiratorially. "You know who's having some absolutely wild sex?"

There's a simple-minded chorus of 'who, bro?' from the group of four. Scott throws his hands out like he's sharing the secret for immortality. "Mr. Powell, dude!"

I stiffen up as if Jacob had dumped a barrel of icy water on my head, but force myself to relax a second later. If they knew he was hooking up with me, they wouldn't be gossiping about it three feet away. Still, as I swap places with Jacob on the bench, my ears are turned out.

"Dude, no fuckin' way!" Gerard guffaws.

"I swear to God. It was, uh, like...last week, Wednesday? Someone dumped coffee on his shirt or something in the teacher's lounge, and he was changing out of it when I walked by. He was doin' it fast, too, like he didn't want anyone to see, but the little window, y'know? I only saw for a second, but the guy is marked up, like--bites, bruises, all that shit! His girlfriend must be possessed, bro!"

"Girlfriend?" Harvey scoffs. "Have you seen the guy? He's a faggot, for fuckin' sure, dude. He's probably gettin' bent over by some dude."

Joey makes a contemplative noise. "I mean, he is a small guy. He's got one of those pretty faces, too. Now that you mention it, I can't really imagine him fuckin' a chick."

Scott looks enlightened. "Holy shit! Goddamn, you're probably right. He's like...fuckin' feminine, huh?"

"Yeah, man. Great ass, too, for a dude. Shit, are we even sure he's actually a dude? What if he's packin' a pussy?" Harvey barks a laugh.

Micah snorts. "What, you volunteerin' to check?"

They continue on for a minute more, before inevitably growing bored of the topic. My jaw aches from where it's stayed clench throughout their little spiel. Jacob's lucky he was able to complete his sets without an issue, because if he'd struggled at all to get it up, I wouldn't have noticed. My eyes were fixed on the bar as he pushed it up, but my mental focus was entirely on keeping still and blank-faced. I remind myself, over and over, that I can't play white knight for my English teacher.

I can't beat the daylights out of my teammates for some raunchy, offhanded comments--it's the kind of talk that's totally commonplace. Even if I tried to say something, it's obvious how that'd turn out. I'd be accused of being the aforementioned dude fucking him, and they'd be correct. Such accusations would harm Sam much more than they'd harm me, but I wouldn't get off easy either. They might not say anything to my face, but the rumors would spread like fire--not only through the school, but the town.

I find a way to get mine, however.

For drills, the team is split into two for a mock game of fifteen on fifteen. Myself and Joey are named Quarterbacks, and I avoid selecting the other four for my team. How can I tackle the shit out of them if they're on my own team? Of course, Joey is happy to select his friends for his own team, in lieu of my passing them over. With a single-minded purpose, I make plays that put me in their path. If Scott, Harvey, Joey, Gerard, or Micah put hands on the ball, I'm on them within seconds of contact. Am I aiming to break a rib or two? I'm not-not trying to, for sure

Jacob has the ball, hauling ass towards the end zone, and Scott is steps away from slamming into him. Unfortunately for him, I'm a few less steps from slamming into Scott. Right before he can snatch up the back of Jacob's jersey, I throw myself full-force into Scott's back. Scott Tenebaum is a big guy, and should he ever undergo a proper bulk, he'd be heftier than me. As it stands now, I've still got both height and weight on him. We crash to the ground hard, and I hear the wind get knocked out of him. I deliberately dig my elbow into his ribs, and he hacks a pained cough.

I quickly climb up, not bothering with the courtesy of offering him a hand.

"What the fuck, Dean?!" He barks, heaving into a sitting position.

I shrug, grinning viciously through the grates of my helmet. "Don't be a fuckin' pussy, Tenebaum! Get the fuck up, feel free to get me back, if you even can, fuckin' half-rate bitch." I mock him, scoffing. Jacob's giving me a curious look, eyebrow raised, at the excessive shit-talk.

"Saunders!"

I turn, and Coach Celner is gesturing for me to get my ass over to the sideline.

"Tch." Ripping my helmet over my head, I jog over to where he waits. His arms are folded over his chest, resting atop a bulging belly earned from too many six-packs of Budweiser after dinner. He looks pissed.

"What the fuck is goin' on out there, Saunders? What's with all the unnecessary tackles? You tryin' to concuss your fuckin' teammates before the game? How many goddamn times do I have to tell you, you're a quarterback! You're not a linebacker, Dean! Stop putting yourself in a position to get hurt!"

I throw my hands out as if I've done nothing wrong, completely defensive. "You kiddin' me, Coach?! They're a bunch of soft, pussy-ass bitches if they can't handle a few tackles! They need to toughen up!"

Celner gapes at me. "Toughen--? Boy, you ain't gonna have any teammates to play with on Friday if you put 'em in casts! One more unnecessary tackle like that out of you, and your ass is benched. Understand?"

"Yes'sir."

Worth it.

Before I shove my head back into the damp cocoon of my helmet, I catch the vague shape of Mr. Powell crossing the near-empty faculty lot. He's too far away to discern any details, but I watch him until he makes it to the driver's door of his car. I won't get to see him tonight, and that thought only serves to worsen my mood.

Practice wraps up after another hour, and Celner's got me doing a penalty run. Harvey went and bitched about some shoulder pain, little bitch that he is. The squad of five shoot dirty looks into my back like arrows, while the rest of the team stays out of the war path. My behavior earned a few eyebrows and curious murmurs, but I'm not one to be easily fucked with, plain and simple. Once we're done for the day, I'm the last one to hit the showers. As I'm lathering up, most everyone else is toweling off and stepping into fresh clothes. I'm still too pissed to pay 'em any mind. I'm completely alone in the locker-room by the time I'm climbing into my own clothes, and I expect my car to be the last one in the student lot.

To my surprise, Jacob's rag is idling next to mine. I huff a little laugh and jog over to where he's parked. He's leaned up against the hood of his '17 Camry, and he grins wide at the sight of me. We've been buds since elementary school, and that connection has fortunately never wavered. We grew up together in the same churches, summer camps, and sport's teams. Our houses and parents are practically interchangeable for how often we sleep over. I'd say we know each other inside and out [no homo, actually], but there are some things I keep to myself. I'm sure it's the same for him. He's a pretty reserved guy, but mild mannered and friendly to most.

"Hey! I didn't know you were waitin', man. I wouldn't have dragged my ass, sorry."

"Nah, no worries. Wanna grab a bite? I already texted my folks."

"Fuck yeah, let me text my Dad."

Jacob heads to the pizzeria for a large pepperoni, while I mosey down to the gas station for a six-pack. I'm tight with the attendant who works the graveyard on Mondays, so he does little more than roll his eyes and accept my cash [plus a little extra] when I drop the cardboard pack of Michelob on the counter. We meet at our preferred spot, an empty lot by a yawning canal where boaters come to drop their dinghies in the water. We take our feast in the open back of my truck, and it's as easy-going as it always is for a short while.

I don't realize the silence has become an uncomfortable one until I feel Jacob's eyes digging into the side of my face. I look over, dropping the can from my mouth.

"What's up, dude?"

Jacob stares for a second longer. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, then looks back at me. Clearly, it's something heavy.

"So, uh, I'm just gonna...come out and ask."

Once he gets the question out, I feel like a certified retard, because it's the last thing I expected to hear. Jacob's an incredibly perceptive guy, so I should've expected it.

"Dean, are you fucking Mr. Powell?"

I choke on my next swig of beer.

He thumps my back sympathetically as I clear my airway with a few, rough coughs. I drag my wrist across my mouth, then turn back to gape at him, properly scandalized. I'm a damn good liar, so I go for that route first: