Derek in Blue
When I took a job teaching for a semester away from my family, I had no thought of infidelity. I had never been any kind of ladies' man and was extremely content in my marriage. If my wife Deb was not my best friend, then it was only because we both so doted on our daughters. In the weeks leading up to my departure, Deb and I openly joked about the temptations of young coeds, because we both found the idea that I would bed one of them laughable.
Accordingly, although I was not above enjoying the bright young things strolling across the quad, I had no problem remaining at all times professional. Even when some of the bolder girls would say flirty things, I ignored or rebuffed them, certain they were just trying to impress their friends anyway.
However, there was one student who did come to vex me.
Derek infrequently attended the composition course I was teaching. When he did deign to attend, he would sit front and center with a smug grin on his face. He would be very active in class during his appearances. But, being palpably behind the other students, his frequent interjections were more of a nuisance than a contribution. At some point during the semester, I learned that he was a member of the college's swim team. Although the college was small, the team was highly competitive in its division. The seeming source of Derek's attitude only made me resent him more.
As the semester drew to a close, Derek's lackluster effort on his papers left him in serious danger of failing the course. I was intending to alert the department chair, in case there might be some blowback for failing one of the school's more prominent athletes. But, barring a major turn around on his final paper, I did not see how I could not fail Derek.
Derek must have sensed all of this when he put in one of his rare appearances at one of the final lectures of the semester. After a particularly animated performance in class that day, he lingered afterwards, flashing smiles and batting his eyes while I spoke with one or two of the more serious students. When the other students left and it was just Derek and I in the classroom, he popped up from his seat, fairly danced over to my desk, and hopped onto it, crossing his legs.
"Say, professor," Derek began. "I know that I haven't been doing great in your class. But I really need to pass to keep my scholarship. I was wondering if there was any kind of, oh, I don't know, extra credit I could do to pull up my grade?"
"Honestly, at this level, it's more about committing to the curriculum than mere effort," I replied. "And in any event, it's pretty late in the semester. I think your best bet is to bear down and nail your final project. Maybe we can work on that a bit. What are you writing about?"
Derek rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then back and forth.
"Oh, Derek," I said in frustration. "You haven't even started?"
"I have some ideas," he protested. "But, I'm just not sure the themes I'm interested in are appropriate for the class."
"Well, let's talk about it then. What did you have in mind?"
Derek looked at the ceiling again as he hopped off my desk. "Let me think a little more on my own," he said.
"Derek," I fairly pleaded, "the semester is almost over."
"I know, professor," he said with a smile. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly to his seat. As he picked up his bag, he very pointedly brushed a book from the attached desk to the floor with a loud smack. Looking over his shoulder, Derek waved to me, then walked out of the classroom, rhythmically swinging his hips back and forth as he went. I watched his every step out the door.
When he was gone, I got up and collected the book, a short story collection on the recommended reading list. Clipped inside the cover was an index card with a note. "Please return to Derek H----- at" an address just off campus. Then, beneath it read, "Say an hour?"
***
An hour later, I stood outside Derek's apartment building asking myself why I had come. But, I knew why. And I knew why, among all the smug, young jocks I had dealt with in nearly 20 years of teaching, Derek had gotten under my skin.
Truly, I am happily married. I consider myself a dedicated, if not particularly prolific, heterosexual. But, there was one boy to whom I had been attracted many years before. Sandro had been my best friend in middle school. For a few years, we were absolutely inseparable. I did not realize at the time how I hung on his every word. How in awe I was with the imperious manner in which he seemed to run his house, even as a teen.
We never had a falling out of any kind. But, we grew apart in high school. Sandro burgeoned into the star of the school's soccer and track teams. He started going to parties with a different crowd, while I stuck to the academic pursuits that had once brought us together. I did not resent him in the least, but I felt his absence in a way I dared not name.
To the great surprise of us both, shortly after graduation, our families insisted on a day at the beach together before Sandro and I left for college. That day, we were united in our distaste for the endeavor - neither of us cared for either the beach or spending time with his family, particularly at the advanced age of 18. Accordingly, as soon as we had helped our parents and younger siblings set up camp, we wandered off to the far end of the beach more than a mile away. There, a couple of hundred yards from shore was a small island that could be waded to at low tide. With the tide up, we swam out and found ourselves alone on the island. We walked around to the side facing thousands of miles of ocean. There, the rise of the island, its dense vegetation, the roar of the surf completely screened out civilization.
I was standing just on the edge of the surf staring, almost in a trance, at the sea when I heard Sandro call, "Hey, what do you think?"
When I turned around, Sandro had slipped off his swim trunks and was standing naked across the narrow beach. His long, thin cock was standing rigid and gleaming against his lower abdomen. His thin build rippled beneath his beautiful olive skin. My arousal was immediate and obvious. Without a word, I crossed the beach, sank to my knees and took his cock in my mouth.
I did not really know what I was doing, but it seemed to please him. I began bobbing on his cock, but after not too long - I think he was afraid of coming - Sandro eased his cock free and got on his knees in front of me. He pushed down my shorts, revealing my own erection. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me toward him, and we began rubbing together our erect cocks, slick with sweat and sunscreen. I reciprocated his attentions, fondling his firm, athletic buttocks. We were both largely entranced by the sight of our dancing shafts. But eventually I ventured to lick each of his nipples.
"Lie down," he said hoarsely.
I complied, and Sandro slipped the trunks that had been around my knees completely off. Then he got on top of me. At first, he speared his cock between my cheeks and hard into my anus. I squirmed, gasping beneath him, but raised no other protest. When my virgin asshole did not yield easily to his thrusts, Sandro began rubbing his cock between my cheeks. Sweat and lotion lubricated his efforts. After a few seconds of vigorous thrusting, he stopped abruptly. There was a pause, then I felt his hot cum squirt across my back and neck and into my hair. At the same time, my own cock erupted into the sand beneath me.
Sandro rolled off me gasping. After a few minutes, he rose, put on his trunks, and ran into the surf to clean himself. I did the same. We wordlessly swam back to the main beach and walked back to our families.
I had never told anyone, not even Deb, about that day. Sometimes, though, when I was alone, I would wake thinking of it and pleasure myself to the memory.
I went to Derek because he reminded me of Sandro.
***
