Carter Burchett’s whang wobbled athletically from one side of his shorts to the other.
That rhythmic cock-and-balls wobble couldn’t have been accidental. The sonofabitch was deliberately trying to make my mind wander. My mind wandered off into visions of mayhem. Some day Carter would stroll into the classroom wearing his casual uniform of T-shirt and skintight Bermudas. Husky thighs bare, hands in pockets. Blond hair cropped short in an old-fashioned crew-cut that suited him perfectly. Bulky athlete’s body moving with sinuous arrogance. Blue .eyes mocking. Smiling the smile that said: I’ve got you graded, professor. ‘F’ for faggot. You wanna suckmy prick. _ . I’d suck his’ prick and strangle him under the horrified gaze of my English Lit class.
Or more likely, I would postpone the seduction till I got him alone. Alone with Carter my control would snap and I’d prostrate myself at his feet, begging for what he had to give me. I’d declare myself and I’d destroy not Carter but my career in the process. Yes, that possibility was far more likely.
By inclination and upbringing, I was conservative sexually. A conservative cocksucker’s control tends to grow brittle. Brittle control snaps under slight pressure. Mine snapped on that sultry September morning in the middle of a lecture.