Chapter 18
Marvin: FYI the conference mail is going out this morning.
Olan: Thanks for the heads up. I want an exemplary slot.
Marvin: You definitely want a good slot.
Olan: Now who’s being naughty?
Marvin: Only with you.
Since the night at his house almost two weeks ago, Olan and I text frequently, sometimes multiple times a day. Our communication has taken a first-class ticket out of the friend zone straight to Sexytown. We haven’t spent time alone since that night, and frankly, all the stolen glances at school and texts in the evenings have my body feeling like a volcano about to erupt. I worry about saving all his texts. They feel like evidence someone could use against me, but also, they provide immense pleasure and have become an integral part of my spank bank.
Olan: You up?
Marvin: Barely.
Olan: I can’t stop thinking about you. Your lips around my dick.
Marvin: Well now I’m definitely up.
It’s becoming more and more clear, regardless of how I feel about dating, there’s no fighting what’s happening with Olan. Thinking about him makes my insides feel like jelly. I am so ready for more kissing, more touching, more of the steamy stuff, and based on the nature of his texts, Olan concurs. Between his commitments with Illona, meetings, and my kindergarten planning, plus preparing for the Teacher of the Year interview and school visit, our relationship has been confined to cell phones and sneaking looks at pickup.
With Valentine’s Day over, I begin to shift my focus to parent conferences because teaching means volleying from one event to the next. Scheduling of the conferences benefits from an online system that allows families to select their day and time. I simply send an email with a link, and they do the rest. Unfortunately, the rest of preparing and participating in the conferences feels more complicated.
Between culling through saved work, assessments, and portfolios and attempting to organize it all into some semblance of meaning, I’m typically scrambling to get everything ready on the actual days of conferences.
“Marvin, any conferences you need me to attend?” Kristi makes her rounds, checking in, and I truly do appreciate her wanting to help. In years past, I’ve had conferences with difficult situations to discuss, and having the guidance counselor attend makes a world of difference. Heavy topics can arise and Kristi’s presence and expertise are invaluable. Luckily, I don’t think she’s needed at any of my conferences this year.
“I’m actually all set this year but thank you for checking.”
“How are you holding up otherwise?”
Kristi views her job as not only looking out for the social-emotional well-being of the students but the staff too.
“I’m good, just ready for conferences to be over.”
“Well, I know families are thrilled to meet with you. How is Illona settling in?”
“She seems happy. The other kids adore her.”
“When is her conference? Should I come to chat with her dad about her adjustment?”
“It’s my last late conference on Thursday, not until seven.”
“Oh, I need to leave by six on Thursday to pick Alison up at practice.”
Of course you do. Thank you, universe, for hockey practice.
“I’ll make sure to let him know to get in touch if he has any questions.”
“Yes, please do. Hang in there and have a great day!”
And she’s off to check on the next teacher. Bullet dodged.
At Pelletier Elementary, we have the good fortune of having two weeks to complete our conferences. Some teachers cram them all into a few days to get them done; others spread them out to lessen the impact. I fall somewhere in the middle, offering five days of early morning and late evening options because I don’t have to worry about a family at home and know that time can be easier for many. Another way I go above and beyond, but I usually have one of the highest attendance rates.
Thursday rolls around and I’m so ready for the weekend, which tortures me because it’s my last late evening of conferences, and, well, Friday still looms. Olan has signed up for the last slot tonight, and while the thought of seeing him alone, albeit to confer about Illona, helps propel me through a full day of teaching and conferences, I also realize if I look half as exhausted as I feel, that’s not super adorable. Think more frazzled and crumpled.
By the time Olan arrives for his conference, I’ve been in the school building for over twelve hours, with barely time to use the bathroom. My dress shirt is crumpled, my khakis have cookie crumbs on them from an almost-disaster at snack time, and the bowtie I’m wearing refuses to remain straight, which feels fitting. I’m finishing up with Jessica’s parents, a lovely couple who own a lobster boat and could be candidates for an outdoor adventure catalog. They worry about Jessica’s handwriting reversals, and I assure them it’s developmental and we’ll keep working on it and offer a few activities they can do at home to help.
They stand to leave, and I spot Olan waiting by the closed door. He’s wearing dark olive slacks and a beige sweater in some silky soft fabric my teacher’s salary doesn’t allow me to be familiar with. At first glance, he takes my breath away. It shows off his pecs in a way that will make focusing more challenging than it already is. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, almost hopping back and forth, and looks like a child waiting for his punishment. Now, he’s the adorable one.
“Thank you both for taking the time to come,” I say to the Sheltons.
“Mr. Block, thank you for everything,” Mrs. Shelton says, and they nod at Olan as they pass in the doorway.
“Mr. Stone, come in. Let me shut the door.”
With the door closed, there’s a modicum of privacy. However, the classroom door has a long, thin vertical window that anyone passing by can peek in. A sign reading Conference in Session, Please Knock adds to the isolation, but we’re in school. In my classroom. To talk about Illona. I am a professional educator up for my state’s Teacher of the Year. I’ve had many conferences with attractive fathers. I’m an accomplished educator revered by the community. I can do this.
“Hey there,” Olan purrs in his deep voice.
I might be toast.
“Hello, Mr. Stone, come sit.” I raise my hands like a gay Vanna White and motion him over to the table where I’m set up. He glances down at the minuscule chair and gives a little chuckle.
“I know, the chairs are small, but the learning is big! And I sit in them all the time, you got this.”
Olan peels his coat off, pulls the small seat out, and lowers himself into it, looking a little like an elephant trying to sit on a tiny stool. A sexy elephant I’d like to jump over the table and attack with my mouth. Oy.
“Illona, as you know, is a complete delight. In addition to Cynthia, she’s made friends with just about everyone else in the class. Moving in the middle of the school year can be scary, and she’s shown such resilience. In just the seven weeks since she started, there’s no doubt she’s become an important part of our classroom community. I couldn’t be more pleased.”
Olan turns his head from side to side and nods as I speak like I’m delivering the most critical information in the world, nuggets of gold to secure world peace. I’m trying hard not to be distracted by the way his sweater reveals his neck, open enough to let me peek a sliver of skin leading to his chest. My eyes wander down, and if I were a betting man, I’d say there’s no undershirt under this sweater. Focus on Illona.
“Marvin, I know you know this, but you are a vital reason our move here has been so successful. Illona thinks the sun and moon rise with you, and I’m not sure she’d be adjusting as well with anyone else. Thank you.” He pulls his hands over his heart.
Taking compliments about my teaching never feels natural for me, and for some reason coming from Olan, it feels like swallowing a basketball. A smile is all I can offer in reply.
“Now, let’s talk about her academics,” I begin, pulling out a folder with all sorts of papers, sticky notes, and artifacts. Yes, let’s talk about schoolwork. Perhaps this will stop me from wanting to lick his neck.
“When she arrived in January, Illona knew most of her letters and sounds.” I place a sticky note on the table comparing Illona’s data from then to now and point to the numbers.
“We worked on the few she didn’t know, and she quickly acquired them.”
I stop talking and turn my head up, but instead of focusing on the data, Olan stares at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a ‘nothing’ look. Do you not understand something?”
“No, just adorable.”
“Anyway,” I say with teasing annoyance, “her writing shows progress too. Knowing all her letters and sounds, she’s able to put more down on the paper, and she’s much more confident too.”
I pull out a sample from January and another from this week for him to analyze with me, and the difference stands out even in such a short time. As I point to the January sample, attempting to explain the missing sounds, Olan puts his hand on top of mine. I gently push it away.
“Mr. Stone, we’re at school. In the classroom. There are other people in the building,” I whisper-yell.
“I’m sorry, but you’re incredibly cute in that bowtie and well, I really want to kiss you.”
Olan never fails to tell me exactly how he’s feeling, and I appreciate that, but I’m also a sweaty, exhausted mess.
“I don’t feel very cute, but thank you.”
“Mr. Block, you seem rather stressed right now.” He raises his left eyebrow and his devilish look cuts right through me.
“I’m not stressed. I’m exhausted and hungry, and you are my last conference of the evening, and I’d love to give you the information about Illona you deserve to hear.”
I attempt my least adorable smile, all teeth.
“I’m sorry. Let’s finish up.” He’s serious now, or at least faking it.
He sits and lets me conclude the conference without interrupting or being seductive, and I’m grateful for his compliance.
“I have this report for you to take home.” I take the printed summary report from Illona’s folder and hand it over.
“Thank you.” He appears to skim it, and I’m not sure if this is to appease me or general curiosity, but I’m happy he’s focused on the task.
“Mr. Block, this column, the ‘now’ column appears to be missing some of the scores from the sticky note you showed me.”
Of course, now he’s all business. Investigating where he’s pointing on the report, I see he’s completely correct. My face flashes red. How could I have made such a careless mistake? Perhaps the mental and physical fatigue of this week has caught up with me.
“Oh my. You are absolutely correct. I’m so sorry. I assessed Illona today and must have forgotten to transfer her letter sounds from my record to the computer before printing it.” I hold up my sticky note, sweat beading on my forehead.
“Let me just copy them from here.” He starts to take the sticky note.
“No, no, I’ll print you a new report. It will literally take two minutes,” I say.
And I’m already up at my computer, pecking the numbers into the spreadsheet that feeds the report and printing a new page as quickly as my fingers will move. Located in a storage closet at the back of the classroom, the printer shares the space with bins of random items needed to teach kindergarten, much of it left over from teachers who previously occupied the space. I skip over to the printer and wait for the ancient machine to whir to life and print the damn page.
“Hang on,” I call from the closet.
As I stand at the printer, attending to the digital readout, hoping for a clue to the progress, Olan’s arms suddenly come from behind me. He wraps them under mine and pulls me back toward him, so we’re doing a sort of hug from behind.
“Mr. Stone, I’ll be with you in just a second. This printer is older than Methuselah and takes a minute to warm up because, well, public education is grossly underfunded,” I blather as I gently push him off me.
“Marvin, you need to unwind.”
“When we finish, I can relax.”
“Why don’t you let me help you,” he suggests, pressing his entire body up against mine and speaking directly into my ear.
“Um, here? Now? How about no?”
Olan reaches and closes the door to the closet and turns the lock. We’re suddenly in almost complete darkness, with only a sliver of light radiating from the printer display.
“Let me flip the light,” I blurt.
Olan puts his thick arm up, stopping my hand.
“Let me help you relax. Okay?”
He spins me around so we’re face to face. His lips find mine, and even though it’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve been alone, there’s no hesitancy or forgetfulness. Only warmth and tenderness and spit between us. Olan delivers a complete knockout kiss, causing the sweat on my brow to fully drip. All the magic from that Friday night returns. I know we should most definitely not be doing this. Definitely not here. Definitely not now. We’re secured behind two doors. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there’s a small spark inside me that’s turned on at the prospect of getting caught. With a deep breath, I attempt to do as Olan instructs and stop my brain from churning.
There’s a collision of lips and ears and necks and my heart whirling and skidding until Olan pauses. My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, and with the splinter of light the printer emits, I can just barely make out his face. His eyes grow large and liquid, and I know he’s plotting.
“I’m going to help you relax. More. Are you okay with that?”
His request for consent makes my blood simmer, and I only can squeak out something that resembles “Mmmmh,” but he nods at my confirmation. His hands move to my hips, and I can feel the pressure of him tugging my pants. I’m not exactly sure what he’s thinking, and even though I know I’m being the epitome of unprofessional, there’s no way I want him to stop.
“Now.” His hands glide from my hips to the front of my khakis. The ones I only wear for conferences. To look nice for parents.
“Let.” He begins to unbuckle my belt, which is two sizes too big and takes a little work to undo.
“Me.” The button pops.
“Help.” The zipper.
“You.” My pants fly down around my ankles.
“Relax.” And finally, my briefs.
I’m standing. Naked from the waist down for the first time in front of Olan. In the storage closet of my classroom. At school. My dress shirt is unable to hide my thoroughly aroused self. Olan’s never seen me without pants, and even though it’s dark, I can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s able to make out. My brain wants to hike my pants up and flee, but the rest of my body says, “Nope.”
He lowers himself to his knees, and based on previous conversations, I’m fairly certain Olan has never done anything like this.
“Olan, wait. You don’t have to do this.”
“I know. I want to. I’ve, I’ve been wanting to. For a long time.”
I wonder if he means with me or in general and the thought of being the first man Olan tastes makes my body ache for him.
“But, have you ever, I mean, done this?” I point to myself, standing at full attention.
“Marvin. Relax. Please.”
He pushes my hips back, so they rest against the table where the printer sits, and Olan, for the first time, uses his gorgeous mouth in a way entirely new for him and completely euphoric for me. His mouth feels deliciously hot, slippery, and skilled. And because he’s a novice, I offer some encouragement and tips. Like a competent teacher, I do my best to cheer him on with the phrases “just like that” and “a little slower,” and Olan lets out small growls, and fuck, how is he doing this for the first time so well? His lips, the lips I’ve studied with my own, so strong, wet, playful.
I look down at him, the top of his head barely visible in the darkness, and reach out and put my hands on his head and grip him gently. Holding on to him as I see the faint vision of my cock sliding in and out of his mouth drives me wild. I move a hand to his mouth and pop my index finger in, feeling the tiny gap between his two front teeth. I’m so painfully aroused my body hums. Not stopping, with joyful sloppy slurping noises, Olan glances up at me, and my heart lurches in my chest.
“Olan, damn.”
“Mmmmh. Your dick, it’s bigger than mine.”
Ever the engineer, Olan’s comparing sizes and probably making mental notes of approximate measurements. Yes, my cock is larger, mainly fatter, but I have zero complaints about his. I want to do something for him. Still, I’m incapacitated by what he’s currently doing. It’s hard to focus on moving.
“Damn. How did you get so good at this?” I ask, pulling him up for a moment, his face so close I can feel his hot breath on my lips.
He doesn’t answer but hesitantly puts his lips near mine, testing my acceptance to receive them. I lean forward and nibble on his bottom lip, and he laughs. I kiss him, tasting myself on his lips and the adrenaline from the moment makes my chest pound. His tongue tastes sweaty and salty, and as I think about his lips around my dick, his hand strokes me, all slick from his mouth, and I pull back because now I need his consent.
I wrap my arm around his waist and bury my hand in the back of his pants, searching until I find what I’m looking for. The slight fuzz I remember welcomes me, and I buff it gently. I carefully explore his ass with my fingers. “This okay?”
He answers by bending over so his mouth makes contact with my dick. But this time, grasping the table for balance, his legs bent slightly at the knee, he pushes himself back onto me, increasing the friction. The surprises never cease with him. Removing my fingers momentarily, I spit on my hand and lean over the best I can, my slippery digits exploring this new frontier. It’s been three years since I’ve been intimate with another man and I’m so damn into this. Olan feels different. There’s a trust there and that propels the floodgates open. Apparently, it’s driving Olan wild because he’s making new noises, lower, deeper, rougher. As he slurps on my dick, he begins rocking back and forth, fucking my fingers, and his damp heat and softness turn my core to putty. I want more.
“Fuck, you’re horny,” I whisper.
I pull myself out of him and place my hand on his shoulder to keep him in place on the table so he can brace himself, the printer’s soft light illuminating his beautiful face. Moving behind him, I reach around to unbutton his pants and yank them down. Based on his reaction to my fingers, I want to give Olan a little surprise.
“Um, what are you doing?”
“Mr. Stone, I think you’re going to like this.”
Kneeling on the floor, I slowly make contact with my tongue, teasing him with just the tip. Olan jolts forward a bit and shudders.
“Holy fuck, Marvin,” he whimpers.
“You like that, Mr. Stone?”
Once again, he answers by forcing gently back. This time my tongue probes and licks and slides, and he starts thrusting back on my face, the hunger in my belly bubbling. Opening Olan’s eyes to new experiences dissolves some of my fears. I am starving for Olan, and he’s fucking delicious.
“Oh my lord,” he moans.
“You taste amazing. Jerk yourself.”
He begins stroking himself as I fuck him with my tongue. Quickening my pace, I bob back and forth with the motion of his hips. I reach down to stroke myself, trying to match his rhythm.
“Fucking perfect. Your ass,” I hiss.
“Oh god,” he whimpers.
My heart quickens, and I push into Olan harder with my tongue because I can tell he’s close, and all I can think is, what the fuck is my life right now?
“Marvin don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.”
Olan’s entire body starts to contract, and because my face is buried in him, I sense him tensing up. His muscles quiver and pulse over and over as he explodes and lets out the lowest growl I’ve heard from him. He’s coming undone, and knowing I have a part to play in that makes my cock throb in anticipation.
I’m close but not quite there yet. Yearning to bury my tongue deep inside him, I let go of myself for a moment and spread his cheeks wide. My damn huge Jewish nose gets in the way, but I’m relentless and ravenous for him. Olan continues to push back, helping me delve into his entire ass with my mouth.
Moments later, my own climax approaches. My body shakes, my tongue buried inside him as he bucks against me. I unravel. Trying to prevent a total disaster of a mess and also because I crave for Olan to feel every drop, I swiftly stand and shoot all over his delectable ass, slightly pushing myself on the wetness left from my mouth. Shaking with aftershocks of pleasure, I fall over his back, kissing his neck from behind.
We stand there, hot, sweaty, panting, half-naked, and I’m at a loss for words. The heat of our bodies comforts me as I feel our heartbeats begin to regulate.
“What the hell was that?” he asks.
“It’s called rimming.”
“Um, I think I like rimming. No, make that love rimming. Yes, definitely love rimming.”
I laugh because he’s so ridiculously precious.
“Relaxed?” he asks.
“Completely. I think that officially ends your parent–teacher conference, Mr. Stone.”
We both chuckle. I grab a roll of paper towels from the shelf, and we begin the task of cleaning up.
Olan grabs my bowtie and attempts to straighten it. Swooning over his sweetness, I remember my pants around my ankles, and a nervous cough lurches from my throat. Pulling his pants up, Olan begins to speak.
“Listen, I know it might not be proper for me to ask this with your pants around your ankles, but Illona and I will be heading to Peaks Island over spring break. Cindy’s staying here with her boyfriend. Would you care to join us for a few days?”
“Are you looking for a babysitter?” I cock my head.
“Um, no. Definitely not. I will be there the entire time. I’m looking for you.” He pokes my chest.
“What about Illona?”
“What about her? She adores you almost as much as I do. Almost.” He leans over and carefully pulls my pants up, buttons, zips, and buckles to completion. Moving his mouth over mine, he seals the deal with a searing kiss. I’m not sure what just happened, but was that even me? Doing that. At school. Who am I? Olan brings something out in me I didn’t know existed. Something primal and raw, and I’m fairly certain I love it.