Once a Nerd

I want to fuck my English teacher.

That's a strong opening line, I know, but hear me out.

Samuel Powell's twenty-nine and chronically baby-faced. If not for the lanyard looping his neck, he'd be mistaken for one of the students he's responsible for educating. Headful of thick, dark curls. Behind a pair of wire-frame glasses, eyes like I've only ever seen on a cat—supernaturally green. Freckles, coquettishly red mouth,

button goddamn nose.

There's a...sharpness to him, though.

He's too elegant to call a twink, but it's a close thing.

He's a whole head and a half shorter than myself, with the smallest, sluttiest waist I've ever seen on another man. His upper body is somewhat defined from what I can tell through his clothes, but his legs? His ass? That shit literally doesn't quit. Full, tight, and round—ill-fitted slacks and jeans aren't enough to bring it down. Being a hormone-addled eighteen-year-old, I practically have to punch myself in the dick every time he swishes by my desk or,

God forbid,

bends over.

There are times when uppercutting my cock wouldn't be enough to kill the headstrong erection.

Now, all that being said, let's get down to the real reason we're all here today. Do I stand a chance? There's an age difference of eleven years, and while I'm legally an adult, I'm still his eager pupil in this public institution. Mr. Powell is, as far as I can tell, a morally upright guy. Under normal circumstances, he'd shut me down hard. You might be asking yourself: well, what makes these not-normal-circumstances?

First and foremost, I'm hot.

Wait, wait, hear me out, seriously. I'm a

good looking

guy, dare I say the

best

looking specimen in this backwater school. Nay, perhaps in the entirety of this backwater town, and the next one over to boot. This is the dead middle of the Midwest, baby, it's slim pickings around here. I'm 6'4, 230lbs lean—lean! Hand on the Bible, lean. I'm shredded enough for my age to have been accused of using by my buddies on the team. Coach has made an offhand comment or two, but he's never cared to pursue it given I single-handedly took us to State.

I'm

not,

thank you very fucking much. Genetics, good ol' fashioned elbow grease, and a freezer section's worth of protein.

I'm conventionally handsome. Blonde, blue-eyed, strong bone structure without hitting Neanderthal territory—you get it.

Now, is being hot a good enough reason for Mr. Powell to allow me the privilege of folding him over his desk? Perhaps not. But, I have something else working in my favor. I'm

exactly

his type.

How do I know?

During our recent winter break, I traveled upstate to Chicago with my old man. Passing by an upscale bar, who do I see through the street-side window? My beloved teacher flirting heavily with a man of my exact archetype: blonde, athletic, and a little dumb. The attention was generously reciprocated, as the faceless man had his hand tucked between Mr. Powell's thighs. My blood boiled a bit, but I took a step back to appreciate the big picture. Mr. Powell is some form of gay, and he appreciates hunky, blonde jocks like myself.

There's been speculation over his sexuality, but nothing confirmed. Unmarried, never shows overt interest in one gender or another. He comes off as asexual more than gay, honestly. Like he's too good or smart for sex.

With this unofficial confirmation, I get to work after the New Year.

On our first day back, I arrived early to his class, abandoning the cafeteria before the bell's chime. I snag a desk in the front row, slightly offset from Mr. Powell's desk—furthest from the door, closest to the window. Bleary-eyed, familiar faces begin trickling in behind me, and the girl who normally occupies this desk startles at the sight of me in it. I politely ignore her, and while she spares me a bewildered look, she's too shy to argue the ethics of pre-set desk robbery.

Before long, the man of the hour comes shuffling into his classroom. He looks just as unmotivated as everyone else feels after a heavy lunch, stifling a small yawn behind his wrist.

"Hey, guys. How was everyone's break?"

There's a chorus of lazy greetings and halfhearted answers, which Mr. Powell doesn't hold against anyone. He catches sight of me in the front row and does a discreet double take. Even Mr. Powell's thrown off by the sudden change, especially when it's me appearing before him in the front row. I can admit I uphold the typical stereotypes—academically challenged, or just plain ol' lazy. I smile brazenly at him, and he's quick to wipe the confusion from his face before beginning the lecture.

As the class rolls on, more than dissecting Hawthorne's motives in damning generations of teenagers to boredom with the Scarlet Letter, I pick up on something else. Mr. Powell seems...more relaxed, a certain glow about him. My jaw tightens as I realize he got laid over the break. It had to be that blonde from the bar. There's a terrible mixture of heat and jealousy in my gut, because I can't help but imagine it. I bet I could fuck him good enough to make a day at the spa feel like a month in the mines. I'd do a

much better

job of satisfying him than that airheaded prick in Chicago.

Mr. Powell carries on, nonethewiser.

The semester continues, and I take every chance I get to impose on his time and personal space. Chatting him up before and after class, swinging by his room at the end of each day before heading to practice. More than that, I learn his preferences: drinks, snacks, trinkets, etcetera. I tote him a canned coffee in the mornings until it gets to a point he stops bringing his usual thermos, and I leave a Redbull on his desk after lunch—before class begins. He was resistant to these changes at first, as they're strange and difficult to rationalize away.

The first morning I brought him a canned espresso, he stared at it like it wasn't of this world, something he'd never seen before.

"Uh, hey, Dean. What's...this?"

He's got a nice voice. Soft, musical, a little raspy.

I lean against his desk like it's my own, casual yet

not.

"You like these, right, Mr. Powell?"

"I mean, yeah, but—"

"Cool, glad I got the right one."

He looks up at me from where he sits, those cat-green eyes shining with suspicion through his fringe. His glasses droop down the bridge of his small nose, and I bite back a groan as I imagine busting a load all over his pretty face while he wears 'em.

"Don't bring me drinks, Dean. It's weird."

"Aw, come on, Mr. Powell, don't be like that." I huff. "It's totally harmless, can't I just show my favorite teacher some appreciation?"

It's most certainly

not

harmless, but he doesn't need to know that just yet.

"Since when am I your favorite teacher?" He quips back. "You've got a 'D' in this class."

My knee-jerk instinct is to make a dick joke or drop a cringey line about 'earning extra credit', but I fight it back. Smiling, I promise him: "I'm gonna get my grades up, swear to God. I'll be your favorite student by the end of the semester."

He scoffs goodnaturedly. "That's quite the goal you've set for yourself. Do your best to impress me then."

My cock fills out so fucking fast, I'm lightheaded with it. If it weren't trapped in the denim prison of my jeans, it would've sprung out with enough force to give Mr. Powell a black eye. I'm not embarrassed by it, and I don't make any attempt at concealing the eye-level bulge that's swelling behind my fly. Mr. Powell's oblivious, however, as he's already turned away to flip through a stack of papers.

"I won't disappoint you."

Besides the unwarranted deliveries, I also begin eye-fucking him more brazenly throughout class, or anytime I see him. I'm practically burning holes through his slacks whenever he walks past or turns his back. When he's facing the room, I openly drag my eyes up and down his figure, head to toe. I make obvious, prolonged eye-contact when he looks in my direction, and it's to the point where he's left no choice but to pick up on it.

He doesn't address it, however, as it'd be easy enough to explain away. But anytime we're alone, I can tell it's getting to him. He avoids my eyes at all costs, and he struggles to pretend he can't feel the hunger in it.

Two weeks into my venture, before class, he finally says something about it. I'm leaning against his desk again, invading his personal space in a way he can't ignore. He huffs, "Dean, seriously, can you give me some room? Quit staring me down like that, too."

I grin sharply. "Staring you down like what, Mr. Powell?"

"Like—"

He stops himself cold, and we both know what he'd been about to say. Like I want to fuck his ever-loving brains out. Like I want to eat his ass for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Like I want to facefuck him until he cries. It's all completely true, but he can't acknowledge that outright. He stiffens in his chair, and the old thing lets out a shrill squeak in the quiet classroom.

Sam turns his face away from me, but I can see a telltale flush blooming in his cheeks, crawling the back of his neck like ivy. I want to bite it, suck on it, leave a massive hickey for everyone to gawk at.

"Listen, Dean—" He hesitates, but students are beginning to pour in from lunch.

"Hey, Mr. Powell. Hi, Dean!"

"Hey, Chelsea." I reply absentmindedly, taking that as my sign to let off the gas. I can't breathe down his neck in front of an audience. Pushing away from his desk, I reclaim my seat in the front row. Mr. Powell seems like he can breathe a little easier in my absence. He avoids my gaze for the entirety of the class, and once it's over, he departs into the hall on the heels of students. With this act of running away, my stomach tickles and tightens. It ignites a predatory feeling in me.

He

has

to know by now.

Despite it being the middle of February, I dress as skimpy as I can get away with. Athletic shorts with a scandalous inseam, those billowy, longline tanks where the armholes descend almost to the shirt's hem. I showcase my body like I'm on stage at Mr. Olympia, all that muscle I've worked so hard to carve out. Obliques, shoulders, biceps, and legs are on full display solely for Mr. Powell's benefit, because his is the only attention I give a shit about.

That's not to say I don't earn the attention of others, as I find myself having to rebuff my female peers with an uncomfortable frequency. It's an ego-boost, for sure, but more of a hassle than I'd intended. I also get flagged down by a few administrators for blatantly breaking the dress code, but I'm a likable bastard and a once-in-a-lifetime athlete for a town like this. I smooth it over and carry on my way.

Now, is Sammy looking? Admiring?

Drooling?

Abso-fuckin'-lutely.

He's quick and sly about it, but I've caught those bright eyes peeking over the top of his glasses more than once when he thought I was distracted. He feels terrible about it, I know, because he only glances—never stares. He must feel like the scum of the Earth for looking at a student. His eyes dart away and his delicate brows furrow with guilt. Each time I catch him in the act, my cock snaps to attention in my shorts. I make a big show of adjusting, palming it like a basketball beneath the desk, and I've heard his breath hitch from where he sits a few paces away.

Ugh,

God.

Oh, right, my dick! Let me paint you a picture. While I won't wax poetic about my own meat, I'll give you the pertinent details. I'm well-hung at a respectable eight inches, and girthy enough to have legs snapping shut out of fear. I wish I was exaggerating, because the big-dick-club can be a little limiting. I've never received a proper blowjob, as anyone who's tried has played coy with the tip or straight-up called it quits after nearly vomiting at the halfway mark. Anal takes a fuckton of prep, and some of the more petite girls I've been with don't find the stretch as pleasant as porn makes it out to be.

Two months into the semester, I'm hit with a terrible realization. Mr. Powell never comes to the games. I can't believe I've overlooked this. I'm in my prime, alpha-male zone when I'm on the field, and surely Sam will get something out of watching me play. I might even be irresistible to him after he gets an eyeful of me in my element. It's half past three. Classes are done for the day, but I know he'll still be wrapping things up in his room. I'm supposed to be on the field for some last minute practice, but my engines have never run hotter.

"Yo, Mr. Powell!" I call, overly cheerful, as I swing into his empty room. I swing the door shut behind me.

He visibly jumps. Clutching his chest, he shoots me a dry look. "Christ, Dean, trying to give me a heart attack?"

"No, no, I'm a good boy, honest." I approach his desk in a way that suggests I'm up to anything but

good.

Sam looks like he has some choice words to refute that, but he bites them back. "Can I help you? Don't you have a game to get ready for?"

"That's why I'm here, actually."

I come around to where he sits and lean back against the lip of the desk, folding my arms over my chest to put a little flex in the muscle. He scowls at the blatant invasion of his personal space. He looks so fuckable today, it physically hurts. Mr. Powell has a good sense of fashion, but he dresses modestly for the sake of decorum. He's wearing form-fitting black jeans and a large, beige sweater with a collared shirt beneath. The sleeves are pushed back to his elbows, and I boldly admire his pretty forearms. Slender, creamy.

"Why don't you come to the games, Mr. Powell?"

He blinks up at me, as if that was the last thing he'd been expecting. He gives a small, helpless shrug. "It's no secret, but I'm not big on sports. I'm not mandated to be there, and frankly, I've got better things to be doing."

I grip my heart as if he's plunged a stake through it. "Ouch, don't you know you're talking to the quarterback of the esteemed Vikings?"

He huffs a little laugh, discreetly scooting away. "I'm aware, yes. What's this about all of a sudden?"

"I want you to come."

Sam stiffens in his seat, and I can tell he's avoiding my eyes. "Dean, I'm your

English teacher."

He enunciates slowly, like I'm stupid. "Why does it matter if I'm there or not?"

I lean further in, and he flinches from the ghost of a breath on the side of his throat. "Come on, Mr. Powell, don't you wanna watch me play? I'll play better if I know you're watching me."

The tension is suddenly so thick, you could choke on it. Mr. Powell sits ramrod straight in his squeaky seat, staring doggedly at the corner of his desk. I think he might be holding his breath, as if he thinks I'll pounce at the slightest movement from him. Suddenly, he pulls a deep breath. He turns to face me with a steely, determined gaze, and while our faces are close enough to make a kiss happen in less than three inches, neither of us draw back.

"I'll cut you a deal. I'll come to tonight's game, but you've got to stop all this. Stop bringing me drinks, stop loitering in my class, and stop staring at me like I'm a tree you want to piss on, alright?"

"Yeah?" I breathe a short laugh. "What if I don't? You gonna write me up? Keep me after class?"

Mr. Powell flushes to the roots of his hair. I'm not oblivious to how he squeezes his legs together, though his jeans are tight enough to keep any erection from being obvious. "This is extremely inappropriate." He grits.

"I haven't even done anything yet, Mr. Powell."

The 'yet' punches through the air like a brass-knuckled fist.

"Get out."

I flatten my feet to the floor and straighten from the desk, but I don't leave as he'd told me to. Instead, I grab his chair by the arm and bend at the waist, boxing him in. This is the closest I've ever gotten to him, and my dick is

throbbing.

His eyes flicker towards the massive tent, because it's not something he can ignore so close to his face. He always smells so fucking good, like he'd just gotten out of the shower and climbed into clothes fresh from the dryer. Whatever shampoo and detergent he uses, it's intoxicating and clings to his person all throughout the day.

"I don't wanna leave yet, Sam. You're hard too, right? 's okay, you can tell me." I breathe.

Mr. Powell looks both terrified and reluctantly turned-on at the same time. His eyes snap to the door. "Dean, knock it off." He hisses, shrinking back in his chair. He doesn't deny it though, because we both know it'd be a lie. "And don't call me that."

"You gonna stop me?"

He looks up into my face with big, nervous eyes, finally sensing my resolve. I'm at my breaking point, after all. He exhales a shaky breath and fists the hem of his sweater in trembling hands. "I...I promise I'll come to the game tonight, if you leave right now. If you don't go, I swear to God, I won't come."

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, because fuck, he drives a hard bargain. My blood is rushing hot and fast through my body. I want nothing more than to fuck my tongue into his mouth and map out his neat, white teeth one at a time, but I also really, really want him to watch me play.

I huff, straightening up and stepping back. "You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Powell."

I'll definitely have to beat one out before climbing into my gear, my balls feel like fuckin' microwaved grapefruits. I adjust myself in my shorts with an annoyed grunt.

I make it to the field twenty minutes after four, earning a hearty smack to the back of my head from Coach Celner. "What the fuck have you been up to, Saunders?! You think just 'cause you can hock a ball around half-decent, you can skip practice?"

I laugh him off. "Sorry, Coach, my nuts were 'bout to burst!" I tell him honestly, pumping an obscene fist through the air, before jogging onto the turf.

He shakes his head after me, but I'm too giddy to mind his ire. Sammy's going to watch me play, and I'm feeling completely primal over it. Like a fuckin' peacock in front of his...girl-peacock. My analogies would probably be cleaner if I actually paid attention to more than Mr. Powell's sweet, sweet ass during English. It's a home game, so me and the boys take our time ribbing each other and warming up.

The sun is all but gone by five, and the stadium lights bathe the field in their rapture-like fluorescence. We're playing the Hawks from St. Michaels' three towns over. They're a solid team, but we're better by leaps and bounds. Still, they'll put up enough of a challenge for me to show out. By six, the bleachers are beginning to fill with students, parents, and faculty. It's by this point I'm losing focus, as I keep turning to scan the faces of the crowd for that one in particular.

The closer it gets to seven, the more pissed I start to get.

Logically, I know Mr. Powell doesn't owe me anything. He probably just said he'd come to get me out of his face, which is—smart. I know I'm going about this as a child would, but I was banking on him being here. How else is he going to fall for me if he doesn't see me body-slamming a bunch of teenagers to the ground in a clear, concise display of superiority?

"Yo, Dean, who the fuck are you lookin' for? You got a sweet piece comin' or something?" Jacob shoves against me. Both my best friend and our team's best wide receiver.

"Somethin' like that. I don't see 'em though." I grunt, and he must sense it's not a matter to be joking about. His thick, fuzzy brows lift in vague surprise.

"Damn, sorry, dude. Does she go here? Who is it?"

"Gentlemen don't fuck and tell, J."

I'm not ashamed of my fluid sexuality, but I

am

in highschool in the Midwest. No reason to commit social suicide, and even if I was open about my willingness to stretch a dude out, I can't advertise my 'sweet piece' to be Mr. Powell. I'm not exactly being subtle about all the flirting, however. Nor the boners I keep popping in the middle of his class.