Missing the Field Trip

By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
Artwork (c) 2007 by Vitaly


Illustration of Missing the Field Trip

I was grading papers with more a bit of pique. The entire third grade was on a field trip, and I was missing it. Not that I was nine years old, but I was a teacher for the third grade level, one of three the school had. Today was the day scheduled to take the entire class to the zoo for a bit of natural history, biology and zoology. I'd had my lesson plan ready to deal with the insect kingdom (the zoo had an impressive array of insects in their Insect Zoo) 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 the young brains.

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 about animals or allergic to fur 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 kid. I had drawn the short straw and spent the night praying that, this once, every kid would get to go. Determined to call the kid's parents and fax them a permission slip if I had to.

All the kids got to go...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.

Well, the school board rules were firm, we don't take a kid 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 kids in tow, due for a day full of trying to watch them all at once, deal with lost kids, scraped-knee kids, nauseated kids, noisy kids, fighting kids, and would arrive back at three o'clock completely exhausted and worn out.

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

I made marks on the papers, three paragraphs about their favorite kind of animal, red for errors of fact, green for grammar and punctuation. Lots of red and green marks, nine-year-olds are a handful more ways than one. Too old to really overbear them with your greater age and rank of teacher, not old enough to have the most basic knowledge, and a keen disinterest in filling in the voids....

"What'cha doing, Mr. Engel?" came a young voice at my ear. Marshall, of course.

"I'm grading second period English papers." I said, patiently.

"Can I watch?" 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 were his permanent teeth but brand new and almost painfully white.

"Have you finished your homework?" I asked him.

"Uh-huh." He said.

"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 were eleven o'clock until six o'clock. The first two hours of school time, she devoted to groups and/or cleaning/replacing books on shelves.

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

"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."

"I can't draw and I don't want to write any more." Marshall complained. "What can I do?"

"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, go ahead. Anything, just keep it quiet, okay?"

"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 some ammunition. Maybe I could borrow a film 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 the paper back...

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

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

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

"What are you doing?" I asked.

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 wienie. I do it with my older brother all the time and he likes it."

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 threw a hell of a boner for him to also feel out.

"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?"

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.

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.

"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. "How did it get like that?" he wanted to know.

"I was born that way." I said. "And so were you."

"No I wasn't!" Marshall scoffed. "That's silly!" And he got up and quickly shucked down his pants and shorts in a motion so smooth, any firefighter would envy him. He revealed his tiny penis for my inspection. "See, it's not got any cap on it."

"But it had one when you were born." I said. "And they cut it off of you. They left mine on, which is why mine looks different."

"Why'd they cut mine off?" Marshall asked as he studied my dick. 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 one little finger inside to touch the glans inside.

"How do you get it out of that?" he asked me.

"It...." I stopped and swallowed hard. "It slides down and over if I need it to." I said.

"How do I do it, like this?" And Marshall pushed on my cock and the skin slid back and my glans popped out. "Wow, and there it is!"

"Yeah, there it is!" I gasped.

"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!

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

"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."

I didn't think he could do it. Such a young boy, God, I'd had grown men shrink back from my cock. I wasn't huge, but I was something above average in girth, and my glans was a round, plum-shaped one, 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.

"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 children, 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, kid, suck that hard cock and suck it hard! "Do it some more, Marshall, and faster, please, faster."

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.

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.

"Okay, Mr. Engel, you're ready." Marshall announced.

"Ready? Ready for what?"

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

"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 boy-lover of mine, I just wanted him to bend back down and finish me off.

"I bet it'll be better if I get up on your desk." Marshall said.

"On my desk?" I said. "For what?"

"So you can fuck me, Mr. Engel." And Marshall did giggle now. "That's what my brother 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."

This Brandon was some older brother! I tried to remember how old Marshall's older brother was, was Marshall the sex-toy of a horny pre-teen, a pimply teenager or a full-fledged college-age guy? His mother was old enough, I knew, that Brandon could be in his twenties, maybe.

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.

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.

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

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

"Uh-huh." Marshall grunted.

"I'll go slow on you."

"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 jammed it in. You can go slower, can't you?"

"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."

"Yeah." Marshall breathed. "Ooh!" I had gotten the glans inside him.

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

"Feels good." He sighed. "Push it in some more."

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 little boy-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.

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.

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.

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 creasing Marshall in return, he had adapted and I could make love to my young student without fear of injuring him.

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 adult, but with a peculiar richness of its own, almost cheesy.

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 nine-year-old sex-wise kid, he was under me, he was loving my dong in his butt, he was holding onto my forearms with his little 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.

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 young, prepubescence 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 small 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's body, and it squelched out with my prick and gushed over his little 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.

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 knelt 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 smaller face up to mine and I gave him a kiss that left no doubt in his mind or mine of my gratitude.

"That was great." Marshall panted. "You're a lot better than Brandon!"

"I'm older, and I know more about how to do it." I said.

"You can be my teacher." Marshall joked and smiled, and I grinned down at him.

"You already know more than I figured you did." I said earnestly. "Your brother taught you a lot."

"Yeah." Marshall sighed. "But I still think you're better than he is. I never get my own fun when he's fucking me."

"Oh." I revised my estimation of Brandon's age down sharply. "Well, you got me now. If you want to do it again." I said.

"Now?" Marshall looked at me.

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

"Yeah." Marshall looked over at the clock. "Eleven o'clock."

"You want to go to the library?" I asked him.

"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."

"Me, too, Marshall!" I agreed heartily. "Me, too!"

Comments, complaints or suggestions?
E-mail me at Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM

(The Story You Just Read is Available in the "Boys Being Neighborly" book)