Once a Nerd Ch. 03

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?

I'm sorry?

What the fuck?

He was right, of course. My dick isn't broken. I'm a healthy, virile man myself, and having Dean all up in my personal space, brazenly propositioning me, isn't something I'm immune to. Still, at least at that time, I was adamant in my convictions to not have physical relations with a student. I'm a good person, damnit. Dean might be a literal adonis, oozing alpha pheromones, smelling like expensive cologne and his own brand of faint musk, hung like a horse, strong enough to lift me up and fuck me in middair--

He might be all those things and more, but he's also a student. I have my morals, okay?

I managed to bargain him out the door before he could get carried away, but that put me in a position to have to attend one of our games. If I'm honest, I might be a little afraid of him. It's not that I think he'd force anything, but I think he'd definitely initiate something--and I'm not nearly as strong of will as I think I am. So, I attended the game as promised. I don't detest sports, I'm just easily overwhelmed by the atmosphere. Loud, chaotic, and frequent uproarious cheers for a scoring system I don't care enough to grasp. Even so, I don't have to understand the system to appreciate how much of an absolute beast Dean Saunders is on the turf.

The lewd gesture he directed at me from the sidelines was the precursor to all my bodily reactions for the duration of the game. From the very bottom of my stomach, an explosive fire was lit. It spread through me like my bones were kindling, popping and burning for the rest of the night. I had to pull my sweater off and drape it over my lap, otherwise Mrs. Gilma might've had something to say about the unsightly bulge I was sporting. Dean was a God on the field, or perhaps a monster. His handling of the ball was immaculate, even to an untrained eye like mine. While he might've been the biggest guy out there, plenty of players were close to matching him in size. He bowled them over like they were cut from cardboard.

He's strong, fast, and has more than enough talent to utilize every fiber of it. I hate to admit it, but it really, really got to me. Someone like that wants someone like me, openly and brazenly. Fuck, do I want him, too.

I'm going to hell, certainly. But, at least it was all still safely in the realm of fantasy at that point. I didn't expect the little shit to show up at my goddamn house.

Now, almost a month later, here we are: fucking like honeymooners in my bathroom. Because Dean is insatiable and obsessed, and I'm so, so weak. I'm just one of many that's given into his whims, not that it's any excuse. You would think my body would've adjusted to him, but he still feels just as big as that first time. His cock is as much a monster as the man who wields it, and when it's buried in my guts like it is right now, I almost worry about perforation. It puts so much pressure in my stomach, like I'm being impaled on a thick, lead pipe. That concern, however, is barely an afterthought in light of the constant prostate stimulation. He's so big, every thrust smashes my prostate like someone slamming their fist on a big, red button.

Even if he just fucked me like this, a simplistic push and pull with no accessory work, I'd cum every time just from his sheer size. But no, he's an overachiever. He uses his hands and mouth constantly, the entire time. He's grabbing, squeezing, massaging, choking, pulling. He's biting, sucking, licking, and relaying whatever vulgar thought pops into his head. Whenever we fuck, he extracts no less than five orgasms from me. Honestly, it's exhausting. I've never been so satisfied, yet so run down.

"Heuk--!" The sound is punched sharply from my diaphragm, as Dean snatches up my right leg from the floor and clamps my knee in the crook of his elbow. Partially on my side, my toes barely touching the floor, he smashes into me hard enough to have the top of my head cracking into the mirror, if not for the protective brace of my forearms.

"Can't have you daydreamin' on my cock, Sammy!" He laughs, and it's a cruel sound that makes my dick jump to attention.

I want to tell him it's too hard, too fast, or he might give me permanent spinal damage if he doesn't pump the brakes, but I can't remember how to verbalize any of those things. I don't even recognize my own name from his mouth. He really is fucking me stupid, because all I can do is whimper, cry, and moan like a bitch in heat for him. My entire body feels both numb and electrified, with the hot coil in my lower belly at the center. My eyes are wet and fuzzy, I can't see straight. My brain is marinating in dopamine and adrenaline. It's all I can do to hang on for dear life when he fucks me like this, like a man driven to madness. I know if I used our safeword, he'd cease and desist immediately, but through the bumps, bruises, and potential concussions, it feels too goddamn good to have him stop.

Here it comes, I can feel it building up like a force of nature, the tide drawing back out of sight. It's pulling away, building up into a monstrous wave that'll completely devastate me. "Dean!" I gasp, throwing my hand out to brace against his stomach, maybe instinctively attempting to put a stop to it. The hard muscle there flexes under my palm. My back starts to bow out, and I can feel myself shaking like a stray caught out in a storm.

"I'm gonna--! Ah...hah?"

The sick son of a bitch, he actually stopped. He's got the head of my cock pinched off in his fist, and he's completely stopped moving. I look up at him through my hair, glossy eyes struggling to make out his expression. My own befuddled expression must be hilarious to him, because he's grinning like the goddamn Cheshire.

"I thought I told you to ask permission first."

Sick, sick bastard. He has a thing for edging, and that, too, is probably shaving a couple years off of my lifespan. I don't know if I'll make it past forty at this rate. Yet, my pride is peanuts in the face of my desperate need to cum.

"Dean, please, please let me cum. Please, fuck! It hurts!" I beg in an unbecoming, shameless sort of voice. It's breathless, gritty, and pushed out between my teeth. He eats it up every time, because his handsome face darkens to something frightening. I've thought as much before, but the intensity of his lust can be a genuinely scary thing. It's also insanely hot.

"Hah, how can I say 'no' when you say it so pretty like that?" He grits, his jaw tightening with it. He looks like he wants to swallow me whole, like he wants to destroy me. His cock throbs in the deepest part of my guts, and we both know once I cum, it'll be the ripple effect that milks him of his load. He flips me onto my back, dragging my ass over the lip of the counter. I throw my hands behind my head, bracketing them against the mirror, because I can tell he's about to throw his entire back into it.

He doesn't disappoint.

Something else about Dean, whenever we're facing each other, he never closes his eyes or looks away. If he isn't drilling for oil in the pits of my soul, he's dragging his eyes over every other part of me. He likes to look at me, and he likes making me look back at him. It creates this illusion like we're the only two people left in the world, and time stands still beyond the borders of this room. Afterwards, once my head clears up, I'll wonder if all of his partners have been on the receiving end of his special brand of fervor. Were they all made to feel like they're the only thing that matters in Dean's world? Does he fuck everyone the same way he fucks me?

Probably, which is a little heartbreaking, but I won't be exploring why that is. That's just who Dean is. He's a ferocious, wholehearted type of guy, so it stands to reason he'd be that same way in the bedroom, no matter who he's sharing it with. I suppose, as morally dubious as it is, I should enjoy that attention in the brief time that it's on me. It's very likely that he's getting his rocks off with other people during this time, despite what he'd said about the whole 'house-plant' thing. I've taken everything he's said with a grain of salt, frankly.

He's just a horny kid with a crush on his teacher [and the balls big enough to do something about it]. Moments later, after slapping his balls against my ass hard enough to burst them like water balloons a few good times, we tense up around each other in the throes of another shattering orgasm. Dean likes to kiss, especially when he cums. I call it the trifecta: the three sensations of my own orgasm, his cock throbbing with the effort of inseminating me, and his tongue painting the next great frescoe into my sensitive hard palate. That combination feels so good, it's unholy. It has to be a sin of some kind.

"Fuckin' shit, Sam..." He groans into my mouth.

Not for the first time, I wonder what the threshold of his stamina is. If I allowed it, we'd fuck nonstop for hours whenever he comes over. His cardio routine must be ridiculous. "Nngh, get off, you're heavy." I mumble back.

He presses a kiss to my temple, then another one on the opposite side. It puts a tickle in my chest that I immediately grind to dust beneath my imaginary heel. I'd be the stupidest bastard alive to catch feelings for a kid like Dean. He slowly extricates himself from me, then pulls me off the counter--like I can't do it by my damn self. He babies me a lot, I've noticed. Tragically, my legs do nearly give out once I try to put any sort of weight on them. God, when will the humiliation end?

I go to pull his jersey over my head, and my ears burn when he says: "You're takin' it off?"

Good God, he's pouting.

"I'm not showering in it, so yes."

"Can I at least take a picture--?"

"No."

"Fuck."

Naturally, he climbs into the walk-in shower behind me once the water hits temperature, steam lifting in a ghostly billow towards the ceiling. I'm not sure when it became natural. I don't know Dean all that well, but he seems...strangely clingy. For a 'fuck buddies' and 'getting it out of his system' type beat, I'd assume he'd err on the side of hit and run. In fact, I'd prefer he behaves that way. Just like I couldn't wrap my brain around his initial interest, I can't wrap it around his desire for closeness before and after sex. He whines relentlessly every time I try to usher him out the door, despite agreeing to the 'no sleeping over' rule. It's too risky for him to be seen leaving my neighborhood in broad daylight, or God forbid, my home.

From what I'd been told by some of the faculty members, Dean's typical trysts would last no longer than two weeks. He swapped partners like you'd swap socks, a new pair every day. I'm not stupid, and the implication puts a bad, bad feeling in my stomach. I've already allowed him this much, so perhaps it's time to start weaning him off? Or, I could simply wait for him to graduate. It's less than two months away, and I'm positive he won't be staying in this podunk town. He's too talented to waste away here, and everyone knows it.

Hell, he might even call this arrangement off himself before that time.

"What are you thinkin' so hard about?" He grumbles into my nape.

God, he's so...big. He's standing behind me, wrapped around me, and I feel completely dwarfed in his arms. It's nice, but also terrifying. He really could snap me like a toothpick if he wanted to.

"All the cum I'm having to scrape out of my ass, thanks to you." I huff. I wouldn't even know where to begin articulating my actual thoughts.

"Tch, you know I'm gonna do it. Come on, bend that ass over."

Humiliating, truly.

"Ugh, don't say it like that."

Despite the complaint, I do as he asks, bracing my chest against the tile and arching my back. I hear him swear under his breath, and I whip back to fix him with a stern look. "Don't even think about it, asshole."

True to my suspicions, he's stroking his hardening cock in a tight fist, eyeing my backside like it's the tastiest thing he's ever seen. He startles, lifting his eyes to meet mine. Grinning sheepishly, he drops his dick with a little shrug.