Substitute Teacher Read online

  Substitute Teacher

  By David Connor and E.F. Mulder

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2019 David Connor and E.F. Mulder

  ISBN 9781634869997

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Thank you to our wonderful editor and also JM.

  I was a substitute teacher, a difficult but also rewarding and fun experience. Here’s to all teachers and also the subs!

  * * * *

  Substitute Teacher

  By David Connor and E.F. Mulder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 1

  Thanksgiving Recess

  The sign outside was supposed to read Doherty Motel.

  “Fuck me!”

  The loose O and H placards flapping from stiff winds in a heavy California rainstorm made Stone think “derty,” which certainly fit the feeling and the mood of random sex with a stranger.

  “Fuck me hard.”

  “Working on it, dude.”

  The man he’d brought back from the bar was no ordinary Joe, unless that was his name. Whatever it said on the guy’s drivers’ license, he was the opposite of Stone, who considered himself as beige as the cheap motel’s decor. Neither particularly tall, nor particularly short, he hoped some might call him handsome, knowing others would disagree. Some extra thickness around his middle made Stone a bit self-conscious, once half naked, and he worried the shiny skin atop his head, where mousy brown hair was thinning, showed more under fluorescent lighting.

  “I want you inside me.”

  Stone’s glasses were already crooked, and though the eyes behind them were green, they reminded him of Wednesday’s pea soup from the cafeteria at the school where he worked, rather than Oz’s Emerald City. All of that said, or rather thought, something about him had his amazingly hot hookup breathing hard, with an obvious impatience to feel what Stone had in his generic, ill-fitting jeans rammed hard up his ass.

  “Or the other way around,” Stone suggested.

  “Either way, someone’s getting fucked.”

  The thought of performing dirty acts in a sleazy motel room was really turning Stone on. Away from Capman Middle/High School, where he made a living teaching art, he could be Stone Larrabee, rock hard rock star, even if he and his Twelve Drummers Drumming bandmates, out west for a concert, played only Christmas tunes.

  “I’m down with that,” Stone said.

  Tangled in ugly, tattered drapes that smelled like cigarette smoke, he wondered if he might enjoy being tied up. While squeaking and sliding across a spotted, full-length mirror, creating streaks and body marks all over the glass, he pictured four men in the room for real, but decided the one working him so masterfully would do. Just for a moment, Stone also imagined the two of them covered in paint from his studio at home, creating an abstract sexual mural all across his boring white bedroom walls.

  Nah. Something so permanent would also have to be personal, created with someone special, Stone decided. This guy was hot, Hollywood movie star hot, Justin Hartley body double hot, but so far, that was all there was to him.

  “Let’s do this.”

  The slap on Stone’s ass once exposed could likely be heard by his bandmates in adjoining rooms 210 and 212 through the paper-thin walls of the not-so luxurious suite. With the stranger hovering over him, Stone objected when that bare ass nearly touched the floor in 211. “Not the rug.”

  “Bed work for ya?”

  “Lesser of two filthy evils?” Stone nodded. “Yeah.”

  Once flat on his back, he stared up at the stranger’s nude body a second, smooth tan skin with bright pink nipples, ripples and deeply etched muscles, and a beautiful hard-on that kept tempo with both of their heartbeats as blood flow continued to make it even plumper and firmer. The stranger licked his lips. He liked what he was seeing, too, it seemed, even if Stone was a little insecure. Noticing how well manscaped the guy was, Stone wished he had taken the time to trim a little himself.

  “Pound me like a drum.” The lame sexy talk was immediately regrettable, even if Stone was an actual percussionist, but the stranger smirked.

  “Fuck me like a fiddle,” he said.

  Stone had only heard that expression in the sense of taking advantage of someone, as in, “Play me like a fiddle.” At that moment, he was ready to be pounded, taken, fucked, and played, so he kept his mouth shut.

  Each touch from the hookup’s big hands and long fingers had a purpose, some gentle, some hard, some lingering, some quick and staccato, as if part of a rock song. “How am I doing?” he asked Stone.

  Stone slid up the mattress and opened his legs, kicking away the off-white bedspread that might have once passed as pure white, to make sure it wasn’t touching or covering any part of him. “Let’s work on some low notes, now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Work my ass!”

  Stone had been in love—maybe. He’d hooked up a lot—maybe not. Upon further reflection, he doubted “a lot” could be counted on one hand plus two fingers.

  Two fingers…“Oh my God!”

  “You like?”

  All Stone could do was moan in response. This encounter was different than any he’d ever had. Way different.

  Telling a cab driver, “Just take me someplace interesting,” was something Stone did whenever landing in a new town on tour. Entering the hole-in-the-wall bar about forty minutes south of Sonoma, where the roads were hardly maintained, and the scenery looked slightly less pristine and far seedier, he found Joe Hollywood on the first stool, right at Adam’s Pub’s front door.

  “Hey.”

  The way the tall blond hunk had been turned, with his legs splayed, his orange True Religion skinny jeans tight, his bulge enticing, his crotch inviting, Stone’s gaze had quickly traveled there. Though nearly impossible to look anywhere but, when he’d forced himself to try, he’d caught a pair of blue eyes staring back at the same exact spot on him.

  “Hey.”

  Stone had given those eyes something to look at, by flexing what he packed behind the zipper, hoping the movement wouldn’t go unnoticed, while the pants’ size on the brand label would.

  He’d told Stone he was at Adam’s to escape dysfunctional family holiday bullshit. Stone had mentioned his concert in California and his prowess on the skins. After those few seconds of conversation and eight bucks for a drink Stone hadn’t even tasted, they’d practically run across the wet, slip
pery street to the motel.

  “I want you so fucking bad,” the stranger had said, pinning Stone to the exterior’s dark red chipping paint and splinters.

  “You do?”

  “Fuck, yes!” Under the overhang that almost kept the rain off and enough blinding wattage to create an X-ray, “Show me your cock,” Joe Hollywood demanded.

  “Not a problem.” At the time, Stone couldn’t wait to be on top of him, bare skin to bare skin, with nothing between them but perspiration and a condom. Now, here they were. The sound of lighter rain interrupted only by guttural grunts, sloppy wet mouths on sensitive body parts, heavy breathing, and dirty talk.

  “Eat that ass.”

  “Like a buffet at Denny’s.” The guy’s tongue work turned out to be stellar, even if his dialogue wasn’t. He slapped Stone’s ass again, as Stone dismounted and stood on wobbly legs. “Where ya going, Drummer Boy?”

  The large, red handprint Stone looked at in the mirror across the room only darkened in the four steps it took to get there, he could see in the room light.

  Stone Larrabee was having sex with the lights on!

  “Be right back.” After bracing himself against the top of the rickety dresser no doubt bolted to the studs in the wall, he bent over to reach into his bag on the floor in front of it.

  “Mmm. Hot as fuck.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Stone held the position longer than necessary, showing himself off, then hiking the condom like a football between his open legs.

  “Get back here, though.” Joe Hollywood tore it open with his teeth, then wagged his delectable stiff cock. “And put it on me.”

  “Anything you want.”

  “I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”

  “Oh, boy!”

  The guy had a rhythm once inside Stone that brought to mind a melody. Stone started humming. Jingle Bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, a slow, bluesy rendition from the setlist in the show. He hadn’t even been aware, not until the last two notes, when Joe stopped grinding against his ass. “Maybe save the Christmas carols for December, okay, buddy?”

  The snark was punctuated with another hard ass slap, leaving Stone feeling scolded. The worst part of his day job was disciplining his students, making them feel bad, when he had to be mean old Mr. Larrabee. Now, on the other end, if felt even worse. “Sorry. Music is in me. Sometimes it wants to come out.”

  Stone soon forgot about his bruised ego, though, as he surrendered again to the stranger’s rhythm, now banging more allegretto than allegro against Stone’s furry flesh.

  “Ohgmnm!” Words proved impossible, but an exclamation of immense, erotic pleasure was necessary. Belly down, Stone grabbed the man’s large, sweaty hand and buried his face in it, enjoying the aroma of all the intimate places it had explored on both of their bodies. Stone mouthed the palm, and then used teeth.

  “Oh. Drummer Boy wants to play rough?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” But then, second thoughts came. “Not too rough.”

  The best lay ever chuckled. “Got it.” He grabbed Stone’s face and put his mouth to his throat, first lips, then teeth, like Stone had. Joe spoke there. “Just rough enough to get you off and make you beg for more.”

  The full weight of him, probably fifty to sixty pounds less than Stone’s, felt good rising and falling as they went full on. “Come for me,” Stone said.

  “Your wish is my demand.”

  Rubbing himself into the wrinkles in the sheet, as the cock inside him went deeper, brought shivers and involuntary moans from Stone’s throat. “Your wish is—”

  Joe Hollywood cut him off, as he slammed hard against his ass three or four more times, and then came. It was obvious when it happened, and when it was over, warm, wet breath against Stone’s ear nearly matched the erotic sensation of the grinding and hard thrusts that brought it. Another carol, “Joy to the World” wanted to come out in more humming. It was a way to hold off, maybe, like some guys recited baseball stats in their head. If Stone sang full out, he figured he might last through the four-minute tune. If not, he might not be able to hold back four seconds.

  “You gonna come, Drummer Boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Feed me.”

  Maybe Joe Hollywood’s real name was Seymour. “Your wish is my command. It’s command, by the way, not demand.”

  “No kidding.”

  It was time for introductions, past time, Stone figured. “Also, by the way, I’m—” Before he could finish, Probably Not Joe or Seymour pulled out, grabbed him by the ankles, and flipped him like a professional wrestler in a televised death match.

  “No talking.” Up between Stone’s legs, the gorgeous stranger’s mouth touched flesh, the throat, again, at first. Stone puckered up, waiting for the sweet taste of those sexy lips upon his. They never came there, but kissed their way down, instead.

  “Ready, set, go!”

  The deep growl of spoken words added a vibration at the pelvis that would have made it impossible for Stone to disobey. With a heavy exhale, relaxing head to toe, he released his cum and a burst of profanity. “Fuck!”

  “Was it good for you?”

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  “You ever get that mouth washed out with soap in school?”

  “I’m only a bad boy on the road with my drum band, outside of school.”

  “You’re good at being bad in cheap motel rooms.”

  With that, Joe Hollywood was on his feet. Stone watched him walk across the room, grab his clothes, and then head toward the bathroom.

  “There’s no need to rush off.” The bathroom door shut, with the stud on the other side. “You can even stay over, if you want,” Stone hollered. “My band roomies have settled elsewhere. This one’s all ours.”

  No response came, but the sound of water running did. Ten minutes later, when Joe Hollywood came out, looking at his phone screen, Stone restated the offer.

  “Feel free to hang.”

  “Who’s a handsome boy, huh? Who is?”

  “Me?” Stone asked.

  “You are.” It was said to the screen, not Stone. “Yes, you are. Daddy misses you so much, itty bitty kitty paws. I do. I do.”

  “Aww.”

  Joe sniffled a bit as he ended the call and then stuffed his phone in his pocket. “Pet app. Just missing my cat. I can’t wait to snuggle with him on Sunday.”

  “I said you can hang, if you want, maybe tell me about him…or, ya know, snuggle with me.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh. Okay. Should we exchange numbers or something?”

  “Nah.” The guy waved the notion away. “Why would we?”

  Stone pulled the bedspread over his bare crotch. “Right. Why would we?”

  “I mean, I’m only here visiting for a couple of days. You’re only here for one, right?” Joe Hollywood, just as hot back in his clothes and wet, finally looked at Stone, pitifully, maybe, but just for a second.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re two ships that bang in the night. It was fun, but that’s all. It was nice. Well…” He looked over again, and this time, made a face. “It was fun.”

  “It wasn’t nice?” Stone asked.

  “Sure. It was okay, but, you know, just as a public service, I should tell you people hate it when smarties, like you, correct their grammar and stuff.”

  “What?”

  “‘Your wish is my command.’ You couldn’t just let that go?”

  “I…Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

  “Stupid?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, you did.” The guy seemed to suddenly notice his shirt was buttoned crooked. “Fuck!”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Except, now I look even dumber, huh?”

  “I never said you were dumb.”

  “You just thought it. Well, let me tell you, your straight man cologne burned my eyes the whole time.”

/>   “Really?” Stone smelled his arm.

  “The cheap ones can do that.”

  “Oh. Sorry, again.” Stone got out of bed and started gathering his clothes, suddenly not wanting to be naked in a room with this guy. Why was he was apologizing, though? “My cologne wasn’t that cheap.” Truthfully, it had been a gift from one of Stone’s students the previous Christmas. He had no idea how much it cost. For all he knew, it could have been homemade. “Besides, I think you’re wearing twice as much cologne as I!” He got a whiff as the guy walked by toward his shoes. The scent must have been all over his clothing.

  “‘As I?’ What are you, an English teacher?”

  “No. I’m an art teacher. That and GED prep, so I know that’s the proper—”

  “…way to say it. Yeah, I speak the language goodly,” the suddenly angry hunk sniped. “No one says it like that, though. Also, my cologne cost a hundred and thirty bucks,” he claimed, untying his shoes to put them back on. “It’s Christian Dior, asshat.”

  “Asshat?” So, they were throwing down, were they? “Well, maybe only put on twenty bucks worth next time.” Stone slipped on his boxers, figuring he’d shower the Christian Dior, hundred and thirty buck rank off once the jerk left. “And let some hair grow back between your legs, why don’t ya? It’s like going down on an eel or a Ken doll.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.” Joe Hollywood was at the exit. “I, on the other hand, could barely find the tree for the forest. Wouldn’t hurt you to take a machete to that bush once in a while, would it?”

  “Your complaints are a little late as well. Fortunately for you, my bush is no longer your problem.”

  “And my cologne isn’t yours. Oh. Here’s your Dollar Store tube sock.” The guy picked it up like a little blue plastic doggie bag from walk time and threw it. He sneered, when it didn’t even make it a foot.

  “Don’t forget your Prada jacket, label whore.” Stone balled up the stylish bomber and chucked it.

  “Jerk.” Joe grabbed it from the sink in the bathroom, where it had landed after buzzing past his head. Stone had a good arm but lousy aim, and quality leather flew better than stretchy polyester. “You don’t know a damned thing about me!” Joe snarled.