Once a Nerd

Coach calls us to the sidelines so we can review our strategy before line up. Even as I jog behind my teammates, my eyes don't stray from the bleachers.

I'm half-listening to the motivational spiel, when—

There he is.

Sam came.

He's sitting in the bottom row of the bleachers, where most of the faculty members congregate, next to Mrs. Gilma, the AP History teacher. He's hiding it well, but I can tell he's supremely uncomfortable. From where I stand on the sidelines, there's less than twenty feet between us. He's working very hard not to look over. I grin to myself, and my staring holes through the side of his face must be enough to draw his attention.

I haven't stuffed my head into the helmet yet, so as soon as I catch his wary gaze, I lift my hand to my mouth. Forming a tight hole with my index finger and thumb, I shove my tongue through it. He glares at me and immediately looks away, but I can see his bright flush from here.

Goddamn electric.

We win, though that should go without saying.

I can admit I was probably a bit much during the match, but dare I say, it's the best I've played since State. I went for quite a few tackles against Coach Celner's wishes just to eject some of that rampant testosterone from my body, slinging my opponents around like their insides are made of cotton. I threw at least twelve clean, easily caught deep passes, and we came out on the other side with six touchdowns. The Hawks are either worse than I remember, or the raw power of lust has fueled me to greater heights.

Granted, I got carried away with the shit-talking. One kid was close to tears, and I can't even tell you what position he played.

All the while, I was hyper aware of Sam's place in the bleachers. Every other seat could've been empty, I wouldn't have known the difference. The chants of my name fell on deaf ears. I'd looked over at one point, and fuck me to tears, Mr. Powell had a tiny smile on his face. He was smiling—at me! He's enjoying watching me play, so I played even harder. To no one's benefit, not even my own. Damn near saw myself benched for excessive roughness.

I had one thing on my mind upon the game's predictable end, but fantasy rarely lives up to reality. Mr. Powell isn't a student, a girl, or a cheerleader. It's not like I can snatch him from the bleachers and tongue-fuck his mouth like I so desperately want to. Instead, I'm swarmed by my teammates, peers, and administrators. They clamber around, slap me on the back, and tell me how great I played—supposedly the most provocative game of the season.

Inevitably, I lose sight of him. He manages to slip away with the crowds that are trickling out to the parking lot. I should just be grateful he came at all, but I'm so fucking angry that he got away before I could...at least say something to him. Maybe it's the adrenaline, but I'm crazy with the need to hunt him down. Long after the game is over, through showering, changing, and climbing into my beaten-up truck, that feeling doesn't abate. My breath comes short and fast. My cock is aching in the net of my shorts. I'm shaking with need.

I should be committed over what I do next, but I need to fuck. He's the only one I want right now.

Instead of home, I park my car in an abandoned garage a few blocks from his house. I text my dad that I'm staying out at Jacob's, knowing it won't be verified. Fortunately, Mr. Powell doesn't live in the suburbs. He lives in a cute, modest house off of a wooded backroad, where your neighbors are at least two acres apart. Even on the brisk walk to his front door, my nerves don't settle. The closer I get, the more amped. Of course, there's a possibility that he'll tell me to hit the fuckin' bricks, but—

I've got a good feeling.

I know he's into me. I know I'm his type. His biggest reservation is the ethical dilemma, but I'm positive I can sweet talk him around that.

Cutting through his yard, it's dark. His porch light is off. It's not even nine, there's no way he's asleep yet. I thunder up the steps, and there isn't a moment's hesitation before I'm rapping against his door hard enough for the sound to carry through the house. There's a brief pause where nothing happens, and I start to wonder if he might just ignore it. I didn't count on that, and it's not like I'll force my way in. I'm not here to play home invasion.

My worries are quelled, however, as there's the faint sound of creaking floorboards from within. Then, the dim porch light flips on. Sam seems to have a good idea of who's loitering on his stoop, because he's outright scowling when he cracks the door open.

"Go. Home." He grits.

"Don't be like that, Mr. Powell." I grin.

"Dean, this is not okay. You need to leave—"

"I know your neighbors are a little far off, but you might wanna let me in. Just in case someone sees, you know?"

Sam blanches an unhealthy shade, his eyes flickering out to the road. It hits me that he's not wearing glasses. Not only that, but he's wearing pajamas—shorts. Short shorts, and an oversized T-shirt. It's big enough to threaten spilling off a freckled shoulder. If I wasn't hard enough to pound nails before, my cock could go toe to toe with carbon now.

Fuck, he's so goddamn pretty.

With an aggravated hiss, he parts the door to let me pass through. I'm not subtle about smelling him as I squeeze past, and his hair's still a little damp from where he's showered. He closes the door behind us and flips off the outside light. Then, he turns to me with a stern look, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"Why are you doing this? Even if I wanted to, we can't...do that sort of thing. I'm your teacher, for fuck's sake."

It's the first time I've heard him say 'fuck', and it runs all through me. "What do you mean, 'even if'? I know you want to, Mr. Powell. I've seen you lookin' at me."

He flings his arms out. "Are you kidding me?! You've been practically shoving it in my face for the past two months, Dean!"

"Effective, right?"

"Christ, just—leave, please. This is so inappropriate!"

I cautiously approach him, trying not to come across as predatory as I feel. He startles nonetheless, backing up until he smacks against his front door. "Hey, seriously, back off—"

He jumps out of his skin as I slowly, gently take him around the waist. Oh my fucking God, the difference between the size of my hands and his waist—my thumbs are almost touching his naval. I press my leg between his, resting my knee against the door, and his breath catches sharply in his chest. I can feel his dick pressing against the top of my thigh. He's just as turned on as I am, I just—

Need to push a little bit.

"Stop it, Dean." He breathes.

I brush my lips against his temple, massaging the dips of his lower back with my fingertips. "Hey, hey, 's okay. No one's gotta know. I'm an adult. I've wanted you for fucking months, Mr. Powell. You get me so hard, every single fuckin' day. I swear to God, I'd drop out tomorrow if that's what it took for you to let me fuck you. I know you want it too, I can make you feel so good if you let me."

Sam has his hands fisted in the front of my shirt, as if he meant to push me away but forgot the motion. He's looking off, but his face is burning and his lips are trembling around potential words of refusal. "I'm...the one at risk, not you. It doesn't matter if I want to or not, and it doesn't matter that you're an adult. This is—my job, my livelihood! It's not—it wouldn't be...right. You're still a kid, Dean! You should...be with someone your own age."

I scoff, actively digging myself into his lower stomach. "Does this feel like a kid's cock, Mr. Powell? I don't want someone my own age, and I'll sooner break a snitch's leg than let you lose your job. Let me...kiss you? Let me do that, at least. I swear to God, if you want me to leave after, I will."

Sam hesitates, peering up at me through his fragrant hair. "You swear?"

"I swear to fucking God."

"...one kiss, that's it." He relents.

The dam breaks, and I replace my hands at the back of his thighs, right beneath the swell of his ass. I lift him suddenly, prompting him to gasp and lock his ankles at the small of my back. Pressed securely against the door, I do much more than kiss him—I crush our mouths together like I'm trying to eat him alive. He tastes like toothpaste, always so clean. I grind myself in the warmth between his legs, smothering our dicks together until twin wetness blooms through our clothes. The rough treatment has him whimpering in the back of his throat, and I swallow every noise like it'll keep me full for the rest of my life.

His hands are at the back of my neck, my shoulders, my head—like he's lost on where to put them. It's the best feeling in the fucking world, having these hands on me. I pull back so he can snag a breath, mouthing hungrily at his jaw, throat, and ears in the interim. His head clatters against the door, mouth dropped around bitten-off sounds, and his body twitches spastically against mine.

"Nngh, that's—that's enough, Dean, stop!" He gasps.

I laugh against his throat.

"You sure? I'll go if that's what you want, just say the word."

I've not stopped the hard, grinding flicks of my hips. I can feel his cock drooling through his skimpy shorts, and if he did ask me to leave, it might actually kill me. "It feels good, doesn't it? It'll feel even better, I promise. I'll be the best you've ever had." I murmur my temptations into his smooth jaw, praying to God he'll give in.

Pulling back even further: "Look at me."

It's soft, but there's some authority behind it. He does, and his eyes are unfocused, full of trepidation. "You want it, don't you? Just say it, tell me exactly what you want. I'll listen, your word is my fuckin' religion." It's more firm with meaning than I thought it'd be.

His breath comes in quiet, punctuated gasps that bring our chests together. I can almost feel his heart bouncing around through the layers of clothes and flesh.

"I—" His voice cracks. My stomach tightens with anticipation, as I can already see it in his face. He's giving in.

"I want it." He admits, and there's so much shame in those three syllables.

Oh, fuck. My own heart booms like there's war on the horizon. I'm probably leaving bruises in the back of his thighs with how hard I've clamped down.

"What do you want?" I ask urgently, struggling to keep cool. "Tell me, be specific. You want my cock? Want me to fuck you?"

He groans through his teeth at the vulgar verbiage, and his freckles darken atop blushed skin. Pretty, pretty, pretty. He's shaking in my hands where I've kept him propped against the door, grating into that sensitive place between his legs.

"...yes." He whimpers.

"Say it."

"Dean, come on—"

"You gotta say it."

"I...I want your cock." He rushes it out, looking close to death over it.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, that's perfect. I'm going to fuck you like you deserve." I groan the promise into his mouth.

Obviously, Sam deserves to be fucked properly on a bed, not smashed up against his front door. "Where's your bedroom?"

He directs me through his ambiently lit home, muffled against my pectoral. On the brief trip, I take in the state of his home. It's...exactly like I imagined, a space that feels as kind, intelligent, and warm as the man inhabiting it. While tidy, there's no mistaking that this is a person's comfort zone. Lots of books. Once in the bedroom, I act like it's my own room, prowling the space like I've lived in it my whole life. I set him on unsteady feet by the bedside.

"Take your clothes off."

He grabs the hem of his shirt, but he's too hesitant to do more than fiddle with them hem. To keep his head blank with desire, to prevent the creep of regret, I let my jacket thump to the floor and begin stripping myself. He watches with wide, unblinking eyes, and I eat up that attention. I strip like it's a fuckin' competitive sport, and I'm bare as the day I came into this world within forty-five seconds. Once I straighten up, he claps his hands over his mouth.

"Holy shit."

His eyes are zeroed in on my cock, and I preen at the idea that it's likely one of the biggest he's ever dealt with. "I-I...I changed my mind!" He yelps, backing away. "That's...Dean, that's ridiculous."

"Nah, you can take it, Teach." I grin, stalking into his space. "Here, lemme help you out."

I rip his shirt over his head, then scoop his legs out from under him. He falls to a bounce on the bed with a startled sound, and I hook my fingers in the waistband of his stupidly tiny shorts. I drag them down his legs reverently. He left his bedroom lamp on, so it's bright enough for me to drink in all the details I've been fantasizing about for what feels like ages.

It could've been seconds or hours, just...staring. My mouth dries up, my cock leaps with a renewed rush of blood. He's...gorgeous, unfathomably sexy. It should be criminalized for him to wear anything that isn't tailored, or...clothes. Period. Isn't it a sin to desecrate a temple?

For how short he is, his legs seem marathon-long. While strong and thick, they're not cut with definition, almost effeminate in that thickness. They're fucking smooth and soft, too. His skin is like velvet, as plush as a baby's ass. He's got this unbelievably slutty, V-shaped waist, the type you wanna strangle. His tight, flat stomach broadens out into firm, toned shoulders and fluid arms. He's a goddamn dime, holy shit. I always knew it, but now I know it.

While his dick isn't the serpentine monster that mine is, it'd be unfair to make that comparison. I'd eyeball it to be about six inches, a healthy girth, slight curvature towards his stomach—never before have I so badly wanted to throat another man's dick.

I want him losing his mind beneath me, and I'll make that happen in a thousand different ways. Christ, I'm so attracted to him, I'm violent with it.

"Dean...?" He calls quietly, nervously, and I snap out of my daze.

Looking into his face, he's peering back worriedly, like I might've seen something I didn't like. I drop to my knees in front of him and push between his thighs, gripping his calves. "Listen, I'm giving you a safeword."

"Safeword...? Why?" If anything, he looks even more concerned.

"Because you're making me goddamn crazy. I want to fuck you to pieces, break you in fuckin' half." I warn him earnestly. "I don't know how...rough you like it, but I don't think I can be gentle. If I get carried away, stop me."

Sam takes in my sincere confession, then huffs an airy laugh. "I appreciate your honesty, but my constitution isn't that delicate. Better safe than sorry, I guess. You're also—" His gaze flickers down. "...endowed. What's the word?"

"Hawthorne." I say dryly. "That'll kill my dick in a heartbeat."

He throws his head back on a laugh, and it's a full-bodied trill I've never heard from him before.

Jesus Christ, am I in love?

With that established, I flip his right leg over my shoulder and go after his bobbing cock like it's my after-dinner treat. Flattening my tongue at the base, I drag it upwards to the spongy tip in a long, hard stroke. Sam flinches at the unannounced contact, a strangled sound ripped from his chest. Even his noises are pretty, motherfuck. I repeat these long strokes, appreciating the silken feel of him on my tongue. He tastes clean, but the natural flavor of his skin pushes through. Without warning, I pop him in my mouth and begin to descend.

His hands are gripping my hair, the nape of my neck, my shoulders—scrambling around like he's not sure what to do with them, or he can't keep still. He's twitching, shaking, and panting between sweet, sharp noises. Now, I've given a blowjob only twice, it's not something I make a habit of doing. For him, I want to be the finest cocksucker this town has ever seen. I want to be the best he's had in every category. I concentrate on breathing through my nose, relaxing the muscle of my throat, and swallowing him down until he's nudging the back of my throat.

His thighs are squeezing my face, and his stomach presses against my brow as he curls around me. "Hah! Dean, nngh, that's—so good!"

I swallow around him, sucking like a vacuum. Finally, I retract, sliding the watertight seal of my lips up that rigid, pulsing flesh. I work up the bobbing, sucking rhythm of a professional with the sole purpose of making him feel as crazy as I do. I've never taken dick-sucking so seriously. When I do come off, it's only to give some much-needed love to his hairless sack. I roll his balls around my mouth, paint patterns in that pliable skin with the flat of my tongue, and suck like it's a boba I'm trying to force up through a straw. Sam's completely losing it. His back is arched from the bed, his thighs are shaking around my head, and he's begging for either release or reprieve in a shattered sob that goes straight to my lower gut.

"Nngh! Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean—! Please, hah, stop, I'm—!"

"Not yet, you can't cum yet." I don't even recognize my own voice. I sound ragged, almost malicious. My face is damp, it smells like a combination of saliva and Sam's honeyed pre-cum. I pump my cock in a tight fist for good measure, because the poor bastard feels like an anvil between my legs.

Climbing on the bed, I grab him around the waist and swing him on top of me in the classic sixty-nine. My cock feels hypersensitive, and his breath misting over it is almost a cruelty. Slapping hard against the slope of his right cheek, watching it ricochet with the strike, I warn him:

"I'm gonna fuck the shit out of your throat while I stretch you out."

With Sam's body stretched out on top of mine, I can't miss the shudder that runs through him. Without waiting for him to start, I squeeze his cheeks in a clamp-like grip and spread him open for my first look at his perfect, pink hole. I groan hard enough to rattle my teeth. He's pretty all over, my God. I've never wanted to stick my cock in something so badly. To my toe-curling surprise, his hole isn't the ultra-tight, untouched pucker I was expecting to see. It's soft to the touch and slick with lube.

"Were you..." I start to choke out. "...playing with yourself, when I got here? Were you thinkin' about me?"

Sam flinches, and that's all the confirmation I need.

"Oh, fuck, I knew you'd be so good for me, fuck." I hiss, sinking my index finger knuckle-deep into that pre-stretched muscle. That tight, clenching channel flutters around my finger, sucking it in and hugging it like it's an old friend. That alone is enough to have my balls drawing up, but Sam's finally making a move on my cock. I shiver at the sensation of his fingers and lips brushing against it, and it's unique, like no one's ever touched it before.

Frankly, I'm not expecting a whole lot. I'd be thrilled just to have him look at it, breathe on it.

I try to maintain realistic expectations, as the human esophagus can only stretch so much, and I've got an awful lot of cock. He proceeds to blow my brains out of the back of my skull, however. Unbeknownst to me, Sammy's some sort of secret cocksucking legend. He spits on it, lathering it up with his hands. I jerk at the sensation of watertight suction around my head, and before I can adjust to it, he's swallowing inch after inch. My eyes roll back, and I keep waiting for that inevitable moment—gag, withdrawal. Except, it doesn't come. Down, down, until he's got six inches of me twitching in his throat.

"Holy fuck!"

He tries to take more, but it seems he's a man aware of his own limitations. He's satisfied with the six and proceeds to give me the sloppiest, most heinous head I've ever received. He bounces off my cock like he's getting paid to do it, and not once does it leave the gripping seal of his lips. He's gagging, choking, crying, drooling—but he doesn't let off for a second.