Araucaria
JUB 10k Club
The doorbell rang. It must be a neighbor in the building, since I didn't get paged by the doorman downstairs, and nobody from the outside gets past him.
I looked through the peephole. It looked like a young person, but it was hard to tell, due to the distortion in the glass and the poor hall lighting.
Opening the door, I was surprised to see one of my students-- Brandon-- not a particularly good one at that-- standing in front of me.
"What? How did you get in here?"
"I need to talk to you, Mr. Harlow," and pushed his way past me into the apartment.
I decided to ignore his insolence for the moment, since young people his age often experience problems and crises that render protocol meaningless. But how did he know where I live? I never give out my address to students.
Closing the door behind me, I faced Brandon, now standing in the middle of the living room.
"OK, Brandon, we'll address the questions of how you got here and how you found me later. What brings you here?"
Without speaking, the boy plopped himself on the mid-20th Century antique sofa that my husband got at the consignment shop-- which should have been owned by some woman by the name of Myrtle or Mabel, circa 1950-- it screams "faggot!" if owned by anyone else. And of course my student has his sneakers on the furniture.
"I heard you're the head of the gay-straight alliance at school."
"Well, the faculty advisor, yes." He'd never attended any of the meetings, and never expressed any interest in the club.
He started unbuttoning his shirt, and looking at me to see the effect his display had on me.
"Brandon, no!"
"You like what you see?" he said with a shit-eating grin.
"Brandon, I'm your teacher, we're not going there. Besides, I'm happily married to my husband, and I'm not going to do anything to jeopardize that relationship."
I took a seat in a chair across from him.
"Oh, I see." Brandon said with a smirk and a smart-ass expression on his face.
Next thing I know, Brandon has unzipped his pants and pulled them down, revealing a 6" erect penis, with a good thickness, and a pair of egg-shaped testicles. Bigger than my husband, I make a note to myself. With his fist, he starts jacking off. He's hot as fuck, and he's really turning me on, but I can't let him know that.
"You little shit!"
The transgressor flashes a quick grin at me, and then focuses on his pleasure.
What I should have said next is "Brandon, pull your pants up and get the fuck out of here!"
But I didn't.
Instead, I sat silently and watched, as my young student put on a show for me. I watched as he jacked himself off. He played with himself for a few minutes, stroking his teenage cock.
Finally he started ejaculating. It turned out that his cum flowed out of his penis rather than shoot across his chest, and the amount was OK but not spectacular.
When he finished, Brandon laid there for a minute.
"Got something for me to wipe it up, Mr. Harlow?"
Not wanting to leave the room, I grabbed a clean handkerchief on the laundry pile, and handed it to him. He wiped himself clean, and left the handkerchief on the sofa. Brandon stood up, pulled up his pants, and buttoned his shirt.
"Thanks, Mr. Harlow!" a remark to which I didn't respond.
I walked the boy to the front door, and we stepped out.
Suddenly Brandon surprised me by planting a big smooch on my lips, and then saying "See ya!"
I watched as he walked toward the elevator, glad that no one had seen this kiss, but with a shock I realized that anyone could have been looking out their peepholes, and I would have no idea who might have seen something.
I stepped back into my apartment, quite upset, but admittedly still quite aroused. I had spent years carefully constructing the life I have now, and this punk could destroy it all in a matter of hours. Being a teacher, I had to be above reproach, especially so if I'm the faculty advisor for the gay-straight alliance at the high school where I teach. I was well aware that nothing would delight certain people more than seeing me forced to resign in disgrace, and being imprisoned on criminal charges of having sex with a student, if he turns out to be underage. I had worked over a decade to get to where I am, including having to wait to get a position at a more "liberal" school.
Likewise I had worked hard to get my husband. I had my eye on him since he was a cute teenage bag boy at the local supermarket. As he grew older I made a point to converse with him. Then for several years he avoided me altogether. I guess he figured out my interest in him was sexual, before he could accept his own sexuality. Then strangely, he began talking with me, but it wasn't until he reached his mid-20s that he admitted that he wanted to have sex with me. By then he had graduated college with a degree in accounting, and we finally married last year. Now he's 28, and I'm happy with our marriage, and would do nothing to upset it. Luckily he's at work late.
I noticed the handkerchief on the sofa and picked it up. I sniffed the boy's spunk, and felt the sticky stuff in my fingers. Obeying an impulse, I started licking up and tasting his boy juice, surprised at how hot and bothered it got me.
The next day I checked out the boy's info on my computer at school. Fortunately it turns out he's 18, just barely by two weeks, so at least I won't be looking at prison or jail time if Brandon wants to keep throwing himself at me. No, I'm just looking at losing my job, without ever being able to teach again, and losing my husband.
