Missing the field trip

Author unknown

I was grading papers with more a bit of pique. The entire senior class was on a field trip to the State Capital, and I was missing it. Not that I was seventeen years old any longer, but I was a teacher assigned to be counsellor for the senior class, one of three the school had. I’d had my lesson plan ready to deal with the governor's office and had actually looked forward to a bit of a break from trying to pound math and history and how to parse a sentence into idle young brains distracted by hormones. 

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Well, the only problem was that in every class, there’s at least one kid who forgets to bring his permission slip, or who isn’t able to go due to a phobia or allergy or such. We three teachers had drawn straws the afternoon before to see who got to stay behind and watch over the inevitable left-behind student. I had drawn the short straw and spent the night praying that, just this once, everyone would remember their permission slips and get to go, determined to call the kid’s parents and fax them a permission slip to sign and fax back if I had to. 

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Well, the entire senior class got to go...all but one. Marshall Tanner. His mother wasn’t available by telephone and he didn’t have his permission slip. Hadn’t even remembered to talk to her about it. He argued that he was eighteen years old (and was) and didn't need one, but that didn't wash, the rules had to apply to all students, and the age didn't come into it on this point. 

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So, the school board rules were firm, we don’t take any student off the campus unless we have written permission. So I got to hand my lesson plan over to Mrs. Samstag and brief her on the lesson and watch her and Mrs. Hamner walk out the door, thirty-two of our thirty-three senior students in tow, due for a day full of trying to watch them all at once, deal with lost kids, truant kids who slipped out to go shopping, noisy kids, fighting kids, all the joys of being a teacher, and would arrive back at three o’clock completely exhausted and worn out. 

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God, I envied them!

Me, I was grading papers and watching Marsh work on some homework. And this was going to go on all day long! 

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I made marks on the papers, three paragraphs about their favorite animal, using red pencil for errors of fact, and green for grammar and punctuation. Lots of red and green marks, teenagers are a handful more ways than one. Too old to overbear them with your age and rank of teacher like you can younger kids, but not old enough to have the most basic knowledge, and a keen disinterest in filling in the voids.... 

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“What’cha doing, Mr. Engel?” came a young voice at my ear. Marshall, of course. 

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“I’m grading second period English papers.” I said, patiently. 

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“Can I help?” he said. His hair was deep brown, his eyes were a patently pure blue, the face was soft and round and tender enough to make you weep to have such soft skin against you. He was smiling slightly, the teeth shone like brand new, almost painfully white. 

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“Have you finished your homework?” I asked him. 

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“Uh-huh.” He said. 

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“Well, you can read a book or something.” I looked at the clock. God, only ten-thirty! This day was going to last forever. “After eleven, I’ll take you by the library and you can pick up some books to read for the rest of the day.” The librarian at our school had her rules, unless an entire class was involved and pre-scheduled, library hours wereeleven o’clock until six o’clock. The first two hours of school time, she devoted to groups and/or cleaning/replacing books on shelves. 

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“So what am I going to do until then?” Marshall whined. “This is boring!” 

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“It doesn’t really matter.” I said to him. “If you don’t have any more homework to do, why don’t you draw something or write a story.” 

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“I can’t draw and I don’t want to write any more, I already got cramps as it is.” Marshallcomplained. “What can I do?” 

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“I don’t know!” I said, exasperated, at him, but he’d only earned a bit of the ire he got. “Marshall, it’s a goof-off day for you. You can do anything you want as long as you keep quiet, okay? You want to draw on the blackboard or listen to music with headphones on, go ahead. Anything, just keep it quiet, okay?” 

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“Okay, Mr. Engel.” Marshall said and backed away and I returned my attention to the papers. I figured he’d draw or write ridiculous things on the blackboard for the next half hour, and then I’d take him to the library and get him some ammunition. Maybe I could borrow a film from the library of classic movies for him to watch. All the while I was thinking this, I was continuing to work on the papers. God, this kid’s paper was really lame, not only was it studded with poor grammar and a disregard for commas or periods. Not to mention his desire to capitalize every third word. I could understand him capitalizing the Elefant (his spelling for the animal) but the word “For” in mid-sentence? I grunted, shook my head and kept on marking. At least Mrs. Hamner got to explain it all for him tomorrow when he got his paper back... 

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That was when I felt it. Something at my crotch. Something probing at it. “What the....” I said and peered under the desk. 

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I thought it must be a dog. I didn’t know how it’d got into the room, but that was all I could think of that would get under the desk and poke at my groin. 

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But it was Marshall under there. What was at my basket was his hand. His artistically slim, white hand. 

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“What are you doing?” I asked. 

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Marshall scooted forward (I had pushed back slightly to look under) and his hand got my crotch again. “You said I could do anything long as I was quiet.” He pointed out. “So I figured I’d play with your cock. I do it with my next-door neighbor all the time and he likes it.” 

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That bit of knowledge did two things. One was that it sort of paralyzed me, I didn’t back away when he started fondling my testicles inside my pants. And I got a hell of a hardon  for him to also feel out. 

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“Yeah, this is what Brandon does when I get hold of him.” Marshall said as he felt out my nine inches of male heaven. “But I think yours is bigger than his. Can I take it out and find out?” 

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I couldn’t make a real sound, other than gurgles. I managed a nod. The smile on Marshall’s face was like the light of a new dawn. “Cool.” he said as his hands came up and futtered about my pants. 

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My own hands came down and moved in spasmodic jerks, I undid my belt, unfastened my pants, and got my zipper partway down. Marshall moved in and took over then, I lifted my hips so he could slide my pants down, and then lifted again so he could deal with my briefs. That freed the monster lurking within, and my erection sprang up for his adoration. 

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“Cool!” Marshall breathed when he saw it. “It’s got a cap on it!” I was uncut, and he was remarking on that. It did sort of look like a cap, the way my foreskin came up. His hand came out to explore this oddity, his fingers touched my foreskin tip and my cock jerked in response. His response to that was to grab hold of my prick and then touch it with his other hand. Now he could run his fingers over my foreskin at his leisure, and he did. I could only groan as he fingered my so-sensitive skin and pried his little finger inside to touch the glans inside. 

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“Can you get the head out of there?” he asked me. 

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“Yeah, it....” I stopped and swallowed hard. “It slides down and over if I need it to.” I said. 

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“Like this?” And Marshall pushed on my cock and the skin slid back and my glans popped out. “Yeah, there it is!” 

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“Yes, there it is!” I gasped. 

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“Brandon likes it best when I do this.” And Marshall, that tender-faced little angel, reached out and began to lap at my cockhead like it was an ice cream cone! 

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“Oh, God!” I groaned and shuddered. “Oh, God, that feels good!” 

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“Brandon likes me to get it all nice and wet.” Marshall advised me and proceeded to lap my cock until he had a good coating of spit all over it. When he had put enough saliva on it to suit him, Marshall stopped, looked up at me and said, “And then I do this.” 

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I didn’t think he could do it. I wasn’t huge, but I was something above average in girth, and my glans was a round, plum-shaped one, other men with more experience had tried and failed, but Marshall got it inside his mouth and past his teeth without a problem and he kept diving down until he had a good three inches of my cock and glans inside him. He got that much of me inside him and he held on and he milked my foreskin back down and it wrinkled over my glans and popped back down over it and I felt the warm slime of his spit in between my glans and foreskin, and then he was pushing my cock back inside him, and the foreskin went with his lips as he pushed down, and it rolled over my glans’ flare and I moaned as the warmth recovered and coated me anew. 

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“Oh, oh, Marshall, oh, God, I don’t believe this!” I gasped. “Oh, oh, man!” I was hampered by my training to not use foul language around my students, and even my use of “God” was up to interpretation. But otherwise, I couldn’t do anything but grunt! “Oh, Marshall, that’s good, that’s real good!” I said in lieu of what I wanted to say which was, come on, man, suck that hard cock and suck it hard! “Do it some more, Marshall, and faster, please, faster.” 

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Marshall complied and my desire was mounting steadily as he slurped and plied yet more of his saliva all over my cock’s head and shaft. I was building well toward my climax when Marshall stopped his loving of my prod and stood up. 

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Me, I was panting hard and I looked at him with eyes like a rabbit in the car’s headlights at night. Dazed, unsure of what was going on, what to do. 

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“Okay, Mr. Engel, you’re ready.” Marshall announced. 

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“Ready? Ready for what?” 

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“For the rest of it.” Marshall almost giggled at my inexperience. 

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“Rest of it?” I whinnied. My head was reeling, I was wound up far too much to stop now, I was practically at the mercy of this young lover of mine, I just wanted him to bend back down and finish me off. 

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“I bet it’ll be better if I get up on your desk.” Marshall said. 

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“On my desk?” I said. “For what?” 

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“So you can fuck me, Mr. Engel.” And Marshall did giggle now. “That’s what Brandon does after I get him all nice and slicked up. I put more on you than I do on him, but that’s because you’re bigger than he is.” 

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This Brandon was something! I tried to remember if I'd met Marshall’s neighbor, was Marshall the sex-toy of a horny teenager his own age or a full-fledged adult? My best guess was that Brandon would be in his twenties, maybe, older but not too much older. 

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But Marshall had pushed the papers aside on my desk (I was too bemused by everything to say one word at how he was mixing several classes’ papers together pell-mell), and lay on his back, his legs up in the air, and I was looking at a sweet, hairless, tuckered butthole ready for me to plug. 

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I heard an animal growl and realized it was emanating from my own throat. I was ready to spring on this tender young thing splayed out before me. I got up to him and my cock led the way in. Marshall was right, my desk was just the right height to get his small form up to where I could fuck it easily. My cock was right at the entrance of his anus in no time, and only the merest push on my hand sent the head down to touch the sphincter. 

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Marshall grunted and his anus clenched, then relaxed for me. My glans spread it wide, and Marshall grasped out, “Oh!” Just the solitary sound. 

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But it was enough to penetrate my sex-fogged brain and I stopped. “Are you all right?” I got out. 

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“Uh-huh.” Marshall grunted. 

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“I’ll go slow on you.” 

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“Not too slow.” Marshall said, wincing as I pressed into him again. “You got to stretch me out for you. Brandon did, the first time he did it to me. But he was rough and just jammed it in. You can go slower, can’t you?” 

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“Sure can.” I said, smiling down at him. “You and me have the rest of the day together, remember? We both missed the field trip, we’re alone in here until they all get back at three.” 

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“Yeah.” Marshall breathed. “Ooh!” I had gotten my glans entirely inside him. 

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“How are you feeling?” I asked the groaning, squirming lad on my desk, impaled on my hard dong. 

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“Feels good.” He sighed. “Push it in some more.” 

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I did, though my desire to ram it in deep like his brother had before. I controlled myself, I didn’t want to rip my tender student-ass apart. Instead, I continued to slowly push in deeper, and Marshall rewarded my restraint by moaning softly, like the sounds of a dog when it loves how you’re petting it, and he gives out small sounds of his delight, and that was Marshall, venting his delight with the little noises that spans the entire kingdom of life. 

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I was as deep as I needed to be. I held myself there for a time, while Marshall squirmed upon me, waiting for his bowels to adjust and when I felt them conform, I began to move back and forth, again, slowly and gently. 

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Marshall keened out in his ecstasy. I knew that my shaft was sliding back and forth over his prostate, that source of passion’s fruition that is hidden from all who shrink back from the way to excite it, which is to do what Marshall was doing, giving himself to me and letting me plunge into him, giving me my glory as he took his own. 

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I caught his legs in my hands and held them tight to my sides as I began to earnestly hump his slim buttocks, my dong was sliding in and out with no pain creasingMarshall in return, he had adapted and I could make love to my student without fear of injuring him. 

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I threw my head back and groaned my own passion into the air of the classroom, the air which bore the normal aromas of kids learning, that of blackboard chalk and cleaning oil, of floor varnish and the sticky smell of kids who had played hard and returned to work sweating, not the thick smell of an older adult, but with a peculiar richness of its own, almost cheesy. 

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Into that time-renown odor, we now injected the older aroma of male rut, my own sweaty exertions and my passion-ravaged dong spraying its musk into the air, covering the room with the unmistakable smell of lovemaking. Me and this sex-wise 18-year-old, he was under me, he was loving my dong in his butt, he was holding onto my forearms with his hands, hanging on tight, and his face was lit up from within, and he opened his mouth in a scream that was not of pain or of fear, but one of rapture. 

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His buttocks were clenching on mine, even at that age, the sexual climax expresses itself in such ways and I knew he was caught up in his orgasm, and as I often did with my adult lovers, I found my own ecstasy rising up to meet it. As I plowed into him, my orgasm overwhelmed me, I roared and I thrust deeply into him, and he spasmed, my body tensed and I gritted my teeth and my jism jetted into him. I pumped him hard and fast, lost in my climax, I ejaculated into Marshall's body heavily, the thickest, fastest-flying orgasm I’d had in many years, I felt it boiling around my dong as I rammed it into Marshall, and it squelched out with my prick and gushed over his slender buttocks and onto the desk, and the sour smell of spent sperm and some bowel juices mixed in were added to the new odor that now permeated this room. 

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For me, I was beyond caring about such things, though I noted it, I was shivering in the exhaustion that marks the end of orgasm, I bent over and I pulled Marshall into my arms, up and off my prod, which landed with a wet splat in the mess on my desktop, but I got his face up to mine and I gave him a kiss that left no doubt in his mind or mine of my gratitude. 

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“That was great.” Marshall panted. “You’re a lot better than Brandon!” 

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“I’m older, and I know more about how to do it.” I said. 

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“Then you can be my teacher in this, too.” Marshall joked and smiled, and I grinned down at him. 

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“You already know more than I figured you did.” I said earnestly. “Your neighbor taught you a lot.” 

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“Yeah.” Marshall sighed. “But I still think you’re better than he is. I never get my own climax when he’s fucking me.” 

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“Oh.” I revised my estimation of Brandon’s age down sharply to close to Marshall's, if he was that clumsy about it. “Well, you got me now. If you want to do it again, that is.” I said. 

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“Now?” Marshall looked at me. 

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“No, not just now.” I said. “Maybe a bit later, if you want to.” 

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“Yeah.” Marshall looked over at the clock. “Eleven o’clock.” 

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“You want to go to the library?” I asked him. 

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“Sure, I guess.” Marshall said. And as we were getting our clothes back on, he smiled and said, “You know, I’m glad I missed that stupid old field trip, after all.” 

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“Me, too, Marshall!” I agreed heartily. “Me, too!”