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Messrs. Strunk and White, 1923

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“Are you quite sure, Mr. Strunk?” Mr. Elwyn White gasped raggedly, his vertebrae imprinting shifting dents into the ceiling-high stacks of typewriter paper. “This, this is so―unseemly! I can’t believe we’re, ahh…”

And at that, he trailed off, his eyes rolling back into his head. Truth be told, it was a singularly unattractive look for the young man, but Mr. Strunk was too absorbed in his task to take note. He hastily, almost clumsily, unfastened the buttons on his soon-to-be-former pupil’s white Oxford shirt. He could not be bothered to unknot the tie in proper fashion and merely nudged it away from the upperclassman’s clavicle.

Mr. White moaned a long, breathy note as Mr. Strunk raked long, pale fingers over his newly bare torso; the moan grew sharp when the teacher’s head ducked down, leaving an asterism of round, purplescent bites across the freckled skin. The shy twenty-three-year-old had never had such an intimate experience with another human, or indeed, with himself; when the older man’s tongue made soft contact with his nipple, he cried involuntarily, “It hurts!”

“Hurts? Where? Here?” Mr. Strunk queried, grasping both nibs lightly between thumb and forefinger. The unadorned light above the low closet door reflected off the exposed slice of his brightest student’s slightly scrawny torso.

“No-no.” A hot flush rose on his chest, neck, and face.

“Where, then?”

Mr. White inexplicably managed to look unwilling and eager at the same time. “Down… lower, sir.”

“Show me.” Mr. Strunk’s voice crackled with deep notes of hunger.

Elwyn set one trembling hand on the soft hairs trailing down from his belly button; the movement caused his left sleeve to cascade down to his elbow, denuding his shoulder and half his back. His right hand came to rest on top of the first, and his shirt was around his wrists, torso bare but for the disheveled tie. Tentatively, the hands crept down to cover his groin. The shirt lowered as well, covering the man’s hips, waist, and wrists. His breath hitched when he tried to puff, “H-here,” as he involuntarily jerked against his clasped hands.

Mr. Strunk swallowed once and asked, “Do you want me to help you with that?” as he stared purposefully into his student’s face, his pupils huge and black. His only answer was a nod and a whimper. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know,” came the shame-faced reply, the last word dragging out as Mr. Strunk kissed and bit his way down the boy’s neck, collar bone, torso.

Just as he settled onto his knees, Mr. Strunk looked up and made forceful eye contact. “In that case, it is absolutely imperative that you tell me if you like what I’m doing. And it is even more important that you tell me if I am doing something wrong, or in a place you don’t like. I won’t be upset. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” was the whisper.

“And you agree?”


After that, Mr. Strunk wasted no time. He placed a chrysanthemum of kisses around the dimpled navel in front of him, moving downward at a pace carefully calculated to keep the initiate relaxed―at least as relaxed as one could be with their handsome teacher kissing around (but not on) their aching genitals. A maelstrom of sensations clouded Mr. White’s vision: the harsh pant of his own breath through his dry throat, the relentless throb echoing from loin to loin, the sight of Mr. Strunk’s silver-blond hair sweatily escaping his careful part, the firm fingertips stroking the back of his knees, the stacks of paper on the shelves behind him digging sharply into his skin, the dark arch of his eyebrows raised in question.

“Yes oh yes oh please yes,” he babbled.

“Yes what?”

“I don’t know! More,” Mr. White pleaded in an agonized tone. He could feel his turgid member tenting his cotton shorts, even beginning to show through his heavy pants. He was quite sure he’d never been so hard, not even on the endless nights after beginning testosterone, when thoughts shameful and delighting took over his mind and he rocked his hips against his mattress fruitlessly until first light.

Mr. Strunk brought his right hand up, outlined the fly of the pants with his thumb. “Do you want me to kiss you… here?” he asked in a soft growl, his nose pressed against the boy’s iliac crest, his rumbling voice setting the lower abdomen trembling.

“So much! I―I―I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Never felt how?”

“So, oh, so painfully hard, sir.”

At that Mr. Strunk laughed, a heartfelt belly laugh, and buried his feral grin in the blushing man’s stomach before he grabbed a great mouthful of flesh between quick teeth, clenched, shook momentarily, and released.

“I like what you’re doing,” Mr. White nearly screamed.

“Good boy.” With that, he began to take small pinches of cloth between his teeth, scraping his incisors over the skin as he did, all the way from the belt loops of the high-waisted pants to the long-ignored pubis. When his mouth was positioned directly over the radiating heat of Mr. White’s erection, he placed a firm kiss over the tangibly pulsing organ, widened the kiss to take it into his mouth. As he knowingly massaged the head through the cloth with his lips and teeth, Mr. White panted heavily, staccato affirmations in an increasingly shrill pitch.

Abruptly, Mr. Strunk stood up. Over his partner’s incoherent objections, he stated firmly, “If you cannot be quiet I shall have to gag you. Or stop.”

There was a whisper, impossible to decipher.

“Speak up if you’re going to talk, boy!”

“I want you to gag me, s-” Elwyn found himself cut off, mouth captured in a damaging kiss, all tooth and suction. His teacher was grinding into him, crotch pressing against crotch, buttocks smashed uncomfortably against the shelf behind him. He felt long past due for explosion.

In due time, Mr. Strunk freed him, stepped back a fraction of an inch to say, “I think your undergarments would be the most convenient gag we have to hand, don’t you?”

Mr. White thought about the handkerchief in his pants pocket and dismissed the idea immediately, and nodded his enthusiasm.

“Would you like to remove them? Or should I?”

“You, please.”

“Right choice. Turn around. Take off your shoes.”

The closet was only barely large enough to admit both of them, and Mr. White had to jackknife at the hips to reach his feet, well aware of the way this must look to Mr. Strunk―and then, with one shoe untied, felt Mr. Strunk’s hands working gently over his buttocks, rubbing, squeezing, massaging down his thighs, up his sides, and between his legs. He faltered at his task, rocking forward a bit as he forgot about the shoes.

“I said take off your shoes.” Mr. Strunk closed the distance again, grasped Elwyn’s hips firmly and humped them steadily.

“You’re―ee―making it very, uh, difficult, I mean…”

“Maybe. But the fact remains that the faster you give me your underthings, the sooner I will be able to let you orgasm. Whether I allow you to or not, however, depends on how pleased I am with your behavior. It’s your fault I had to stop, you know, and I was enjoying myself thoroughly. Naughty, naughty.” Each syllable was punctuated with a thrust of the hips, some gentle, some rough.

With an immense force of will, Mr. White shoved the fog of arousal out of one small corner of his brain, and used those few cells to untie his shoes and toe them off. “I did it,” he declared, feeling a pride in his success he hadn’t experienced over such a mundane task in over two decades.

“You certainly did,” Mr. Strunk replied, amused. “Now stand, and turn back around.” The two men’s jaws crashed together. Mr. White freely surrendered, melted into the driving force of the other’s kiss; he moaned as Mr. Strunk reached for the fastening of his pants, made short work of them and cupped his genitals in one hot palm. “Before I remove your drawers—may I kiss you here?”

“Oh… yes!”

“You must be very quiet.” Mr. White bit down on the first knuckle of his index finger as his unblinking eyes watched Mr. Strunk sink to his knees a second time. He shivered as thin, closed lips approached his pulsing clitoris and hissed his appreciation for the contact as quietly as he could.

“Well done,” Mr. Strunk whispered just loud enough for his voice to buzz the protruding cotton. His enunciation was immaculate; this very tip of his lips and tongue brushed the object of his desire as he formed the consonants. He hooked his thumbs under the drawstring waist as his mouth finally made contact— his tongue slipped forth to nuzzle gently under the glans, where the skin began to part wetly.

Mr. White’s first orgasm escaped him in a low whine; try as he might to hold himself back, he simply couldn’t. His hips bucked wildly (pelvic bone glancing off Mr. Strunk’s upper teeth with painful sparks); he drew his own blood in an effort to remain quiet. Fortunately for him, it was a mild seize, a mere prelude to what would follow… even so, it left him dazed and watery. Once the spasms of joy left his limbs, he slid limply down the wall until he felt the support of the other man’s arms.

“What… what was that?”

“Did you like it?”

A beaming nod was the only answer.

“It gets better,” Mr. Strunk said as he lowered the drawers, guiding them down calves and over feet, stood up and faced his student. “Open your mouth. Do you smell that? That’s your come. Have you ever tasted it before? No? Well, you’re in for a treat… you are unusually aromatic,” he finished quietly, enjoying the blush this provoked.

The fabric forced its way to the back of Mr. White’s mouth and he grunted in recognition of his treat.

“Don’t let that fall out unless you want me to stop, okay? Blink twice if you agree.”

Mr. White blinked twice. Then his eyes widened at the sight of Mr. Strunk on his knees for the third time that day, his tongue extended to nearly grotesque lengths.

He was panting heavily, heart about to burst, when he at last felt the warm muscle between his thighs. It wended its way to the top of of his pubic mound, repeated the action. He opened his legs, feeling more than hearing the wanton moan that accompanied the motion. He ground his hips downward, and immediately was rewarded with a hot, knowing mouth enveloping his erection. The orgasm swept over him almost immediately, taking hold of his entire body this time. One firm hand pinned his ribs against the shelves while the other slipped one finger inside his dripping self, then two, holding him down from the inside; if hadn’t been for those two things, he would have dissolved to nothing more than a twitching heap.

As it was, he could barely keep his head up to kiss Mr. Strunk when the professor stood, leaving his hands in place and biting Elwyn’s bottom lip. “You made quite a mess on my hand, young man,” he faux-reprimanded as he added a third finger. “But I think you can do more for me…









Mr. White rode his increasing waves of pleasure until the last explosive syllable—the tremor in his lover’s voice broke every dam he had, and he cried out, so loud even through the thick gag that Mr. Strunk had to stop what he was doing and replace it with his soaking hand.

“I believe it’s my turn to get off now,” the man commented drolly, unfastening his pants quickly and dropping them. He wore nothing beneath, and pinched both of their clitorises between his thumb and forefinger on one side and his remaining three fingers on the other, one glans protruding at either side. He removed his hand from his partner’s gasping mouth and covered it in tiny closed-lip kisses, wiped his hand dry on his shirt and caressed the flushed face from temple to jaw. He dropped both hands to the boy’s shuddering hipbones and guided the tumescence there between his damp thighs. His erection bumped against the taller man’s pelvic bone; he ground against it roughly and hissed his satisfaction. It only took a few teasing thrusts between his legs for him to orgasm fiercely, kissing the shoulder in front of him in passing before sinking his every tooth into him. He and Elwyn moaned in unison as he squirted scalding liquid onto the boy’s happy thighs.

“Oh… Mr. Strunk… thank you for that,” the euphoric youth moaned.

“Call me William,” his teacher replied, smiling.