("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
                     `6_ 6  )   `-.  (     ).`-.__.`)
                     (_Y_.)'  ._   )  `._ `. ``-..-'
                    _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
                   ((('   (((-(((''  ((((
                 K R I S T E N' S    C O L L E C T I O N
		_________________________________________
		                WARNING!
		This text file contains sexually explicit
		material. If you do not wish to read this
		type of literature, or you are under age,
		PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
		_________________________________________




			Scroll down to view text


















--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2006.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------

The P.E. Teacher
by Bbop (bbopharris@hotmail.com)

***

A high school student falls for his P.E. teacher. (Mm-
teen, ped, mast, oral, rom)

***

Part 1

This happened when I was in my third year at high 
school. Something, it was, momentous. The world opened 
its doors and invited me to see.

I was a pretty quiet kid and didn't have many friends. 
I've never enjoyed hanging out in big groups, always 
preferred being with one or two of my friends. I wasn't 
much of a team player either; I preferred individual 
sports. 

One sport I enjoyed at school was swimming. I liked the 
water and the idea of trying to move along in it, the 
warm, slippery feeling of it on my skin, touching all 
of me. But at fourteen, I wasn't very good: pretty 
hopeless, in fact. To improve, my dad suggested I join 
the after school swimming club. 

The idea of staying in school an extra two hours after 
class every day was pretty distasteful, but my desire 
to become a respectably good swimmer quashed this. 

When I turned up on the Monday, the pool was pretty 
quiet. A lot of students felt the same as me, I 
suppose, so there were only a dedicated few students 
there. Mostly, they were members of the team doing lap 
after lap, up down, up down, up, down, up, down… The 
others were there watching the clock, waiting to be 
collected by anxious parents on their way home from 
work. 

An indoor pool feels so comfortable; the warm humidity, 
the slightly sweet smell of the chlorine, the way 
sounds get muffled and still echo, and the clean 
feeling of the tiles underfoot always give me a sense 
of safety.

I spotted the P.E. teacher, Mr. Gardner, track-suited, 
standing outside his office, watching the swimmers at 
the shallow end of the pool. He was your regular P.E. 
guy: tall, big-muscled, mid-30's, hard looking. But Mr. 
Gardner didn't have the arrogant expression that comes 
with the job. His face had a friendly expression, 
especially around the eyes. Also, he'd taken my class 
before for rugby, or some other nonsense, and he'd been 
decent and sympathetic to those students, including me 
of course, who questioned the value of getting covered 
in mud and trampled on by the orangutans in the class. 

I walked over and told him I was new to the club and 
wanted to learn to swim. He took me into his office, 
leaving the door open, sat me down and got me to fill 
out the membership form. I got the chance to look 
around while I was writing. The office wasn't big. It 
had a desk and a rusting, unlabeled grey filing 
cabinet, a couple of hard plastic orange chairs and no 
window. There were the usual P.E. posters on the wall – 
you know, healthy diets, join the hockey team, Kenny 
Dalglish. At the back of the room, an opened door 
showed a small toilet/ shower room. The under floor 
heating made the place sauna-like. 

Once I'd done the form, he took my $5 membership fee 
and started asking about my pretty abysmal swimming 
skills. I told him straight that I was hopeless, but I 
was keen to learn. 

"All right, Andrew," he said. "Go and change and let's 
see how hopeless you are."

By the time I left the office, my white school shirt 
was sticking to my back.

I walked through to the boys' changing area. This was 
an open area partitioned off from the pool, with 
benches around the walls, a communal shower in one 
corner and an odorous toilet area with urinals and 
cubicles in another. It was warm and white. And empty 
when I arrived. I took over a corner bench and got 
changed. I was happy there was no one else there; I 
never liked changing during P.E. classes. 

I wasn't ashamed of my body. OK, I was a little 
underdeveloped for fourteen - under average height, 
boyishly skinny, and had only stray hairs under my arms 
and around my penis, - but the main problem was that I 
got the occasional random erection. Normal, I know, but 
try telling that to an orangutan seeing it in the 
changing rooms. 

"Wee Andrew's got a hard-on, LOOK!" 

"Queer Peterson!"

"Ya poof!"

And so on, and so on. And all this accompanied by towel 
snaps as I cowered in a corner. 

God, I hated those baboons. They could make anyone's 
life a hell. It didn't matter to them if you were 
straight or gay, it was just an easy target; the wee 
guy with the wee cock.

So, I was feeling pretty relaxed as I put on my 
standard issue black swimming trunks - no erection in 
sight, - shoved my clothes in my schoolbag and walked 
back out to the pool where Mr. Gardner was waiting.

"All set?" 

I nodded.

"Right, get in the pool and show me what you can do. 
The shallow end for now, Andrew."

I climbed down the steps, into the water, up to my 
waist. Getting into a heated swimming pool is always 
nice. Like getting into a gigantic bath, the water kind 
of welcomes your body gently with its warmth. I looked 
up at Mr. Gardner.

"Well, off you go, then!"

And off I went. I'm sure it wasn't a pretty sight for a 
P.E. teacher with a reputation to maintain. He was 
probably thinking of ways to get me to join the hockey 
team instead of coming back to the pool. My freestyle 
"technique" at that time was to move my arms and legs 
randomly and as fast as possible, and avoid putting my 
face in the water. Hilarious. I managed to complete a 
breadth and stood at the other side panting for breath. 
Oh, yes, I forgot to mention trying not to breathe was 
a central part of my method.

Mr. Gardner walked over to me. He wasn't laughing. Nor 
was he looking grim.

"You're risking a premature heart attack, Andrew. It 
looks like you're fighting the water to the death, as 
if you're scared of it. Getting you're face wet won't 
hurt you. And there's a point to breathing, you know." 

I could see he knew what he was talking about; he saw 
every part of my technique and saw the faults that 
attended on each of them. 

"But there's hope for you yet. Look at it this way, you 
didn't drown. You actually managed to stay afloat. It's 
just a matter of finding the grace in swimming. Each 
part of your action can be taken apart and fixed. If we 
can do that, you'll find yourself moving smoothly and, 
like I said, with grace. Bit like the engine of my 
Triumph 500. 

Over the next two months. Mr. Gardner did what he 
promised. Starting with getting me to put my face in 
the water, then going into breathing control, and 
finally working on efficient and, yes, even graceful 
movements, he made me into an acceptably proficient 
swimmer. Not fast, I was never fast, but smooth, and in 
for the long haul. It was all I had hoped for; to feel 
part of the water, to move through it without causing 
waves. To feel like I belonged there.

And over those same two months, Mr. Gardner taught me 
another valuable lesson. 

To teach swimming, you need to make physical contact 
with your student. Sometimes you can demonstrate, but 
at other times you need to hold, touch, move the body 
parts of your student. So, sometimes   Mr. Gardner 
would get into the pool with me, especially when, 
toward the end of the club's two hours as the other 
students went to shower and change in preparation for 
going home, the pool was empty.

He'd be talking to me about some technical problem with 
my stroke, and he'd take off his trainers, tracksuit 
and t-shirt, leaving him only in his trunks. I saw how 
muscular his body was; his chest was full, his stomach 
flat, his arms showed biceps of some power, his 
shoulders were those of a swimmer, and his legs mighty. 
Despite its obvious strength, his body looked silky, 
and he had little in the way of body hair except under 
his arms. Of course, I noticed his penis, especially 
when he wore his white trunks. It made a nice bulge and 
its outline was certainly noticeable. Oh!

Usually, Mr. Gardner would demonstrate what I was doing 
wrong or how I should correct a mistake, and then he'd 
hold my body in the desired position in the water as I 
tried for myself. How he held me was generally the 
same. His arms would support me from underneath, one 
across the my thighs, one across my stomach. I'd be 
lying if I said I didn't enjoy having his arms on me, 
or if I found his holding me intrusive. I'd also be 
lying if I said my penis didn't react in its 
predictable way to physical contact.

Let me take a step back here. 

At that time in my life, I still wasn't so sure of my 
sexuality, my leanings. I'd had erection-inducing 
crushes on girls, and their breasts, at school, but I'd 
also had a couple of brief homosexual encounters with a 
friend. I'd come each time, either by my own hand in 
the case of the former, or by my friend's fumbling hand 
in the latter. They had been equally exciting, and I 
was no nearer making any decision. I'd tentatively 
accepted that I liked boys, but the idea of a girls 
body (and the pornography I'd seen) had made me erect, 
too. 

Back in the pool, that was why Mr. Gardner's arms 
across my body felt good. He'd hold on to me as I 
squirmed my small body around until I managed to get 
the action he'd shown me. But it didn't stop there. In 
my maneuvers, I'd sometimes get away from his hold. Mr. 
Gardner's would try to catch up with me and sometimes 
in the splashing and twisting his arm would rub across 
the front of my trunks.  

The first time this happened, he apologized. I was a 
little embarrassed and mumbled an "it's OK." Why 
embarrassed? Perhaps because I was sure he felt my 
erection, or perhaps because he was this muscular P.E. 
teacher MAN and would think me queer. Wasn't that how 
men acted?

The second time it happened, we were alone in the pool 
near the end of the session. Everyone else was in the 
changing rooms or had already left. I remember I was 
trying to work on controlling my breathing and Mr. 
Gardner was supporting me as I went through motions of 
the left-right-breathe-left-right-breathe variety. My 
body got away from him a little. I felt his arm slide 
under me and cross the front of my trunks. His arm must 
have felt my stiffness because the next moment, Mr. 
Gardner's hand was on top of it. I gasped and splashed 
a bit, but didn't want him to take his hand off. Of 
course not.

"Is this all right, Andrew?" This in a lowered voice. 
"Just say."

I turned and looked at him, nodded. As if he needed to 
ask. 

"Just keep on with what you're trying," he said.

Imagine trying to swim when a very nice and very nice-
looking man has his hand on your irrepressible cock. 
But I did what he said, trying to behave normally. 
While I was left-right-breathing, Mr. Gardner was 
feeling my erection through my trunks. His fingers felt 
it from head to base. He squeezed it, as if gauging its 
stiffness. Then, underwater, he pulled down the front 
of my trunks, took my cock between thumb and forefinger 
and started to masturbate me. Oh! How can I tell you 
how this felt to me? Just close your eyes.

He was pretty quick. Of course, he didn't want to get 
caught – neither did I, - but I'm sure he knew I was 
about to burst. After maybe half a minute of his 
fingers moving up on down on me, I jerked spastically 
into the pool's warm water. Mr. Gardner kept stroking 
me until I'd finished thrusting and twitching, gently 
pulled my trunks back up, and turned my body in the 
water so I was standing in front of him. 

Mr. Gardner smiled very sweetly at me and whispered, "I 
hope that was OK, Andrew."

Feeling a little shy but very good, I told him that it 
was very OK. I could see he felt nervous about the 
whole incident, which is all I was, at that moment, 
taking it for. 

It was then I looked down at his trunks. His penis was 
sticking straight up, it's outline clearly visible 
through the material.

"What about you?" I asked.

At that moment, a few stragglers came out of the 
changing room, yelling goodbye. Mr. Gardner reacted 
first, returning the raucous farewell. He seemed to 
pull himself together after that and became more 
teacher-like.

"Don't worry about it. It's better if you just get 
yourself changed."

I guessed, and I hoped, he didn't really want this and 
reached out to touch his erection. 

Right then, another student emerged from the changing 
rooms and shouted goodbye. This made us splash apart, 
and we both hurriedly responded. 

"Did he see?" Mr. Gardner asked.

I turned to look at the changing area, guessed that Mr. 
Gardner's body had shielded what I'd tried to do. 

"I don't think so. Your body was hiding me."

He looked relieved. After that, it seemed to be over. 
He was back in his tracksuit. I got changed into my 
uniform and went to say goodbye to him in his office. 

He was sitting behind his desk, pretending to do some 
paperwork. It was obvious he was distracted by the fact 
he was worrying the end of his pen off.

"Just came to say 'bye," I said.

"Right, Andrew. Goodnight."

I wasn't going to let him off that easily. After all, 
he'd had me. I felt a little cheated.

"I liked what you did, Mr. Gardner. It was really 
good."

Mr. Gardner met my eyes nervously. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Andrew."

"Maybe," I said, pout on my lips, but only a small part 
of me meaning it.

I walked out of the pool area and up to the main gates 
and then on to the bus stop. I had half an hour to wait 
yet.

All the time, I was thinking how much I'd enjoyed his 
fingers on my penis, masturbating me, coming, shooting 
my semen into the warm pool. Oh, it was… My memory of 
it brought with it another erection. My pocketed hand, 
fingered my hardness; thumb and index finger. I was, 
however, a bit annoyed with Mr. Gardner. He seemed 
difficult to pin down afterwards.

Well, I thought, I suppose he should be; he is married.

I'm happy to say there was a third, a fourth, a fifth 
time. With each, there was a growing closeness between 
us. And Mr. Gardner became less nervous and surer of 
me. I think he needed time to trust me. Because of his 
position – teacher, husband, MAN, - he had to be 
certain I wasn't going to act queerly around him or let 
the secret out. 

If you had known me at that age, you wouldn't have 
guessed anything. Maybe I seemed happier to my 
schoolmates, but not so far away from my normal self. 
Like I said, I was a quiet boy. Actually, self-
contained would be a better description. 

And I was happy and comfortable with my relationship 
with Mr. Gardner. I was really excited by him, aroused, 
to use the adult word. There was more than sex, though. 
He was a genuinely nice man. He was kind, always 
friendly, and gradually he opened up to me. I got to 
know more about him. About how he liked to spend his 
life outside school, about his wife and small son, 
about his sense of humour. It all added up to me 
becoming increasingly fascinated by him. Every 
opportunity to be with him I took. I never missed a day 
of school because that would've meant missing swimming. 
Of course, I was falling in love with him. 

Back in the pool again, then.

The third and fourth times happened like the first, at 
the end of the club's time with only us left in the 
pool. Each time was amazing. When I felt Mr. Gardner's 
hand on me, his fingers around my erection, I swooned 
emotionally. Physically, my body was putty in his 
hands. He could have done anything with me. He could 
have wrapped me around his little finger. Each climax 
he gave me was a powerful and uncontrollable release. 

But each time it stopped there. Mr. Gardner didn't let 
my reaching hand touch him. His large, hard penis stuck 
straight up inside his trunks and I wanted so much to 
touch and stroke it. He was clearly scared. Of being 
caught, of becoming too involved, with a student, with 
a boy. Of being found out. Masturbating me was his 
limit, but he was straining against that limit, as his 
penis strained against the material of his trunks.

Later on, we spoke about this, the fifth time. It was 
the final tip of the scales that sent us both over the 
edge and sailing into the unknown air.

It was the last day of the Christmas term. The weather 
was cold and a mist hung on everything. By afternoon, 
the school had a feeling that the buildings had been 
deserted. Indeed, most students and a fair number of 
teachers who had bothered to come on the last day of 
term had slipped away at lunchtime. I was still there, 
with my lovey-lovey Christmas card for Mr. Gardner 
burning a hole in my bag, waiting for the time to head 
for the pool. I was even more excited today than usual. 
The holidays were here, but there was something else I 
couldn't put my finger on. 

Finally 4 o'clock came. I arrived at the pool and saw 
only a couple of students getting changed. 

Like the rest of the school, the pool was nearly 
deserted. The place felt a little colder than normal. 
Mr. Gardner saw me and came out of his office. 

"Not wanting to get home, Andy?" 

He'd taken to calling me this a few weeks previously, 
and it seemed he was offering me something more 
intimate. 

"Couldn't wait to come, Mr. Gardner," I answered, 
smiled.

He returned my smile and told me to get started.

After a month's solid practice I was finally getting 
somewhere with my swimming. I really hadn't needed Mr. 
Gardner's help much, but had willingly accepted his 
arms, his hands.

"This'll be the last time I'll get in with you," he 
told me as the water settled around my waist. "You're 
getting to be a good swimmer."

His words skewered me. Was this it? The last time Mr. 
Gardner would be close to me? Was this his way of 
saying goodbye? I felt totally forlorn, helpless. My 
face sagged, my stomach constricted, my erection 
deflated like a burst balloon.

He had walked away to speak to the other students and 
left me up to my navel in lukewarm water. What could I 
do now but try to swim, act like I was having my usual 
fun? That nothing had happened? I think if I'd been 
alone I would have cried. This was love, after all.

At fourteen your life is one long ride. Moments of 
unanswerable despair go hand in hand with you and 
unfiltered joy as you walk down the road. And 
everything comes in a rush and a charge at you. One 
moment Mr. Gardner broke my heart, the next, he mended 
it.

I'd been swimming for about twenty minutes when I saw 
the other students get out the pool and go to the 
changing area. Ten minutes later they'd yelled, "Merry 
Christmas" and left the pool completely. Left me alone 
with Mr. Gardner. Me and Mr. Gardner. Alone. The first 
time. Perfect, now that he was telling me to get lost. 

He'd been in his office and had came out when he'd 
heard the shouts. 

"Andy, let's forget about swimming today. It's the 
holidays and I don't really want to get in the water 
today. Why don't you get changed?"

What could I say? Well, nothing is what I said. I 
walked to the steps and climbed out. As I was making my 
way to the changing area, he called across the water, 
"Put your head round the door before you leave."

I looked over at him, said OK. Wasn't that nice? He 
wanted to say goodbye.

I got changed in about two minutes flat, not bothering 
to shower or even dry myself properly. And I have to 
admit there were tears. Not wailing floods, just silent 
painful dripping.

I almost never went. My tears were embarrassing, but 
the idea of Mr. Gardner telling me that it was all a 
big mistake was nearly too much.

But I did go and put my head round the door. He was 
sitting in his chair. He had nothing on his desk except 
for a wrapped Christmas gift. 

"I got you something, Andy," he smiled, handing it to 
me.

I wasn't sure what to make of this. Was it a sweetener 
for the final farewell? 

"Thanks, Mr. Gardner." 

It was then I remembered the card in my bag. I took it 
out and gave it to him.

"Thanks, Andy. That's really nice."

He opened and read, a smile on his lips. Or was he 
sneering?

"Aren't you going to open your present? I want to see 
what you think."

So, I ripped off the paper and found…

A pair of red Speedos. And did they look good.

"Wow! They're really great! Thanks, Mr. Gardner."

I was putting them in my schoolbag when he made my 
heart explode.

"Don't you want to try them on? I'd like to see how 
they look on you."

I was dumbstruck. I had no idea what to say.

Not waiting for a reply, Mr. Gardner came round to my 
side of the desk, pushed the door closed, took my 
schoolbag out of my hand and put it on the desk. I was 
his completely. He helped me off with my old duffel 
coat. His fingers unbuttoned my shirt, opened it wide 
and helped me out of it. He looked in my eyes for a 
moment before he undid the top button of my trousers. 
His hand moved over my already and ever-ready erection 
and pressed firmly. His fingers worked my zip down. My 
brain was spinning, my heart pounding, my body 
screaming. And I wanted him, too. My hand reached out 
to his trousers, to his penis. And this time he didn't 
move away. My hand rested on his rigid erection and he 
kind of sighed. His felt completely solid and extremely 
long. I pulled at the front of the trousers to get at 
it. And there it was in my hand, hot, throbbing, 
perfect. I explored.

Mr. Gardner's hand was inside my trousers now, inside 
my boxer shorts and on me. He was touching me softly, 
slowly, stroking his finger along my shortness. 

After a few seconds we were both getting pretty heated 
and we eased off. Mr. Gardner took off his tracksuit 
and helped me take off the rest of my clothes.

We were standing in front of each other, flesh to 
flesh, our erections like swords raised for the duel. 
My body felt small and underdeveloped compared to his. 
He was perfectly formed: solid arms and muscular legs, 
smooth chest and flat stomach, and a magnificently 
rigid penis.

Then he kissed me. 

"You're so lovely, Andy. I don't know what to do."

And I kissed him back.

"I can't help it," I replied.

And we began.

As his hands stroked my back and my small bottom, his 
lips kissed me softly, kissed my neck, my shoulders, my 
arms. My chest, and I felt his tongue lick my nipples. 

I was tall enough to reach his neck and I kissed him 
there. My hands didn't know where to touch first. My 
fingers played with his nipples, brushed his stomach, 
held his ass cheeks, gripped his arms and finally 
settled on the centre of my desire. His cock was so 
stiff that when I squeezed it, there was no give in it 
at all. I wrapped my fingers around and gently pulled 
his foreskin back. The head of his cock was bulging and 
purple.

He bent lower and his tongue kissed and licked my tense 
stomach. I felt his breath on my cock.

I stroked his foreskin, covering and uncovering him. My 
other hand moved to his tight scrotum and I took a full 
hold, and he moaned. His pubic hair was thick and wiry, 
his balls large. I began to massage his balls and 
stroke his cock rhythmically.

His lips kissed the tip of me and I gasped. His fingers 
touched my balls and I nearly dropped. I was screaming 
to be taken, and my body had given itself completely to 
him. He knew and moved his lips over and down me. I was 
inside his mouth, inside him. He licked and massaged 
me. His mouth and lips and tongue worked on my 
screaming core excitedly and almost desperately. I was 
wound as tight as I had ever felt.

With mounting excitement, my hand stroked his penis 
faster and faster. In my other hand his balls were 
rolled and squeezed, gripped, released. His body rocked 
with the motion, responding to my every push and pull. 
It felt like he was fucking my hand as much as I was 
masturbating him. His mouth on me began to mirror my 
hand movement. My grip on his penis was tight, and I 
could feel every ripple and bulge of it. The heat he 
was generating was remarkable, too. Here was a fire. 

We continued moving and responding to each other, his 
mouth covering and uncovering me, my hand thrusting his 
foreskin up and down, with growing speed, physicality 
and urgency, till the point of no return. We both leapt 
off the cliff, spurting our semen, mine to the back of 
his throat, his across my chest and his, over my arm 
and hand. We gasped and groaned as our bodies jerked in 
this orgasmic dance, giving up ourselves there and then 
to each other. 

Oh what a falling off was there!

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Kristen's collection - Directory 47