Gay Erotic Stories

I admit to being naive. I started college in a small Southern town almost three months shy of being 19. I had plans of being a philosophy major, before I realized the only market for philosophers was in institutions of higher learning. As a freshman, of course, there were basic required courses I had to take, and freshman English was a requirement. My English teacher was a short, dark-haired man, in his late 30s with a master’s degree. He was on the stout side, but he wasn’t fat. His hair was coarse, and sometimes hair could be seen poking above the tie he wore. He was authoritative, but had a slightly girlish voice, which never registered on me until months later. And he was legally blind: he was only able to make out the barest forms of people, and required soda bottle lenses to read books held perhaps an inch from his nose. A weekly assignment was the writing of a theme, which I excelled at throughout high school. There were a few details of punctuation I had to learn, but I generally made a perfect 4.0. One day while discussing my grades with me, Mr. Rollings asked if I would be interested in reading for him; for pay, of course. Reading material to be discussed in class was a labor-intensive task, he said, and it was better for him to hear it where he could concentrate on the words rather than the mechanics of reading a book with such limited eyesight. While I didn’t need the money, it would be nice to have a little more. I had to read the material myself anyway, so why not? We arranged for me to come by during two free periods of his each week, and I would sit at his desk reading while he set next to me, his hands folded before him, focusing his attention on my voice. Somewhere along the way, he learned my birthday was on Halloween. I remember, because he thought it such a wonderful day for a birthday. As September rolled into October, Mr. Rollings asked me to read for him more frequently. “Your voice is so smooth and rhythmic,” he said. I thought that was an odd way to describe it, but what the hell. Sometimes reading in his cubicle in the English Department offices, conversations in adjoining cubicles got a little animated, and Mr. Rollings would move closer to hear me better. One day he placed his hand on my knee and patted it as I read a poem. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said later. “It helps me keep the rhythm of the language.” I said it didn’t bother me, but it really did. However, as long as his hand stayed on my knee, I figured it would be okay. I had his class on Oct. 31, and Mr. Rollings asked for me to read for him that afternoon. “I know it’s your birthday, but I really need to refresh my memory on some of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and you are the best reader I have right now.” I agreed, and later that day I went to his office. I sat down and he handed me the book with the passages marked with paper clips for me to read. As I cleared my throat, he sat down, a little closer than usual, and placed a hand on my lower thigh; not my knee, as he usually did. “Go ahead,” he said. I was taken aback by where he had placed his hand, but it was only my thigh. I didn’t want to say anything because of other professors in cubicles nearby, and I thought they might overhear and Mr. Rollings would be embarrassed. As I read the gentle iambic pentameter of Ol’ Will’s sonnets, Mr. Rollings' hands patted my thigh, and after a few minutes, the pats moved higher up my leg, bit by bit. I had to keep reading, and when I stammered because of my nervousness, he would pat slightly higher then say, “Go ahead.” My cock was beginning to swell big-time, and I squirmed a bit to relieve the pressure in my jeans. As I moved, his hand edged higher, and as I read he would resume patting, and, from time to time, stroke lightly. When he would stroke my leg, I would stumble in my reading, and his hand would advance a little closer to my cock and balls, now straining for release. The love sonnets of Shakespeare are full of sensuous images, evoking visions in my own mind as Mr. Rollings’ hands continued to inch toward my cock. I don’t recall the particular sonnet, but I read a particularly sensuous passage and as the couplet brought the sonnet to its conclusion, Mr. Rollings’ fingers brushed against the mound of swollen cock confined by my jeans. I gasped. “It’s all right,” Mr. Rollings said. “Isn’t that a beautiful sentiment?” His hand then cupped my crotch, and he lightly squeezed my cock and balls through the fabric. “Yes,” I said, feeling embarrassed, “it is. It’s getting close to suppertime, and I better stop reading now.” “OK,” he said. “Say, this is your birthday, so why don’t you come by the house tonight? I have some homemade rice wine, and we can celebrate.” I really wasn’t a drinker at that time: the legal age is 21, but I was eager to learn about alcohol, so I agreed. “Be at the house about 7 o’clock. That will give my wife, Alice, and me time to finish dinner.” After supper at the college cafeteria, I went back to the dorm to shower, then hurriedly dressed and drove the few blocks to Mr. Rollings’ house. As I got out of my car, Mr. Rollings came to the door, smiling. “I saw someone drive up. I hoped it was you,” he said. “Come in.” The house was on the small side, but decorated tastefully. Alice, his wife, was a transplanted Southern Belle from Georgia, and also taught English at the college. She was taller than her husband, and perhaps a bit heavier. There were rumors that she was a drunk and, among the guys, that she was a lesbian, or at least swung both ways. We made small talk in the dining room, while Alice poured three glasses of white rice wine. I was not impressed with it, but I drank it out of politeness, and the hopes for getting a buzz. Alice had to go to Wal-Mart, she said, but why didn’t John and I have another glass? Mr. Rollings, whom I was coming to call by his name in a more casual environment, thought that was a grand idea, and suggested that we could drink it in his den. “I have one other thing I need to study,” he said. As we sat down on his couch in front of the coffee table, Alice stuck her head in and said she was leaving. “I may go by Sue’s for a little before I come home,” she said. “That’s fine,” John said. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, then.” I said goodnight, and Mrs. Rollings blew a kiss to her husband, as if he could see it, and waved. I began to think I was being set up. John and I sat on the couch making small talk. “There’s something I’m curious about,” he said. “What’s that?” I asked. “When you take off your clothes, what’s the last thing to come off?” That was certainly a shift in the conversation, I thought. “I beg your pardon?” “Your clothes. Isn’t the last thing most men take off their undershorts? And aren’t the shorts the first thing to go on when they dress?” “I never really thought about it. It seems a pretty normal order of things to me.” I now had a very good idea where this was going. “How do you do it?” “Oh, I always put on my socks first, and then my shirt. I think my penis is the most wonderful part of my body. Don’t you?” “Oh, well, sure. I certainly like my dick. Every man does, don’t you think?” “Oh, certainly, except for maybe someone like Renee Richards,” John said. “I never will understand why anyone would do something like that, how he could have done it.” “That’s ‘she,’ John,” I corrected. “But I agree. I cannot imagine trading my cock for a cunt.” The rice wine was beginning to get to me. “Yes,” John said. “Men are so much more powerful, and their cocks are their authority. Women’s sex organs are passive, but men’s are active and so beautiful; velvet and steel.” He sipped his glass then leaned close to me and whispered hoarsely, “I’ll bet yours is beautiful. Can I see it?” There it was, the proposition. I studied his face, so close to my own. I knew he could barely make out my features, as his sight was so bad. But his expression was so hopeful, and boyish, and the dark stubble on his face and the masculine scent of his spicy aftershave sent my own hormones pumping. “Alice is gone,” he said. “We’re all alone. Let me see you naked.” He sat his wine glass down on the coffee table, and moved closer to me. His right hand groped my swollen crotch and his left arm went around my shoulders as he drew his lips to mine. “It’s your birthday, and your rich deep voice has thrilled me for weeks. Let me thrill you with a birthday gift you will never forget.” What the hell. As I heard Jerry the jock with a 10-inch cock on the second floor at the dorm say: “I don’t care what hole I stick it in, as long as I cum.” “Okay, John,” I said. “That must be what you wanted to look at. What do you want me to do?” “Just stay as you are,” he said, and rose to move the coffee table back, away from the couch. He then knelt before me, and pressed his face against my crotch. He then began to unbuckle my belt and undo the snap on my jeans, unzipping the fly. My cock was still constrained within the denim, the metal teeth of the zipper scraping against the tender skin. “Raise up,” he said huskily. I did so and he pulled my jeans down, and my cock, all seven and a-half inches of it, sprang out. John chuckled, as I sat back down. “I should have known. That explains why you don’t think about taking off your underwear: You don’t wear any!” “Not tonight, anyway,” I said, as he removed my shoes and socks and finished pulling my jeans off. “Ohhh, let me look at it,” he said, and brought his face down to within three inches. “God, but your cock is a perfect specimen of young manhood,” he murmured. I could feel his warm breath against my pubic hair. “John,” I said, “you’re killing me. You’ve been playing with my cock all day. Either quit screwing around like a pansy, or get my rocks off. Now!” “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, and he opened his mouth wide to take in the head of my cock. I was so hot, and his moist mouth was so soothing. With my hands I drew his face closer, forcing my cock deeper into his throat. As he suckled my cock, I unbuttoned my shirt, and he ran his hands up my legs and up my torso to my nipples. When he pinched my nipples, I thrust my crotch forward, nearly gagging him, and he murmured, bringing his hands around and down my back to cup the cheeks of my ass. I felt the rough stubble of his cheeks against my thighs, as he deep-throated me again, and again, and again. I was in heaven, and moaned. “Yeah, you cocksucker...Worship my dick...You love it.” “Oh, yes,” he said through cock-filled lips. “Swallow my cum, teacher,” I said, thrusting my crotch up and down. My nuts contracted, and the explosion built. I held his face firmly to my crotch as I spasmed, blowing the first volley down his throat. He gagged, and forcefully withdrew, taking my cock in his right hand and jerking violently. “Uhgh, uh...ooohhh,” I yelled, as my second volley of cum splattered his face, then a third volley landed on my chest. I was exhausted and lay back, while John cleaned the cum off my chest with his tongue. Looking at his face, a drop of cum hung from his nose. I laughed, and he smiled as he wiped it off with his fingers and swallowed it. “Happy birthday. I got my trick in on you, and for your treat you can count on acing English this semester,” he said. Then he added, “You will keep reading for me, won’t you?” “Teacher, for blowjobs like that, I’ll read anything you want!”