Tatawaw

©2009 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.

As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herbcatwriter@yahoo.com. Thank you.

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Chapter 9 - Every school day is a challenge

The alarm goes off. Sunlight is streaming in the large picture window. I shut the alarm off and nudge the 14-year old beside me. "Come on, Chip. Time to wake up."

"Shit, Larry, what day is it?"

"Monday. We both have to go to school today."

"Go fuck yourself!" He turns over and buries his head under a pillow. I pull the bedclothes off him and smile, looking at the lovely hairy ass I was feasting on last night.

After putting Hermie to bed with Paul and all his stuffed animals, I stopped by the teenager's room to see if he was in the mood for some action. Chip was practicing his electric guitar (with earphones, so as not to keep anyone awake.) His roommate, Shumba, was studying. He's determined to keep his grades up and not jeopardize his admission to Selkirk next fall. Both were in their boxers. Chip told me he was indeed horny, was just about to wank off in fact, so he put his slippers on (nothing else) to join me. I reminded Shumba it was a school night and he promised not to stay up too late.

Chip and I really went to town. My earlier fuck with the six-year old was great of course, but there's a different kind of joy in fucking (and being fucked by) an adolescent. And while I find the little assholes tasty, when I rim Chip, it's oddly delicious. Must be the teenage hormones. We finally fell asleep around two, both covered in cum.

I turn on the TV loud, then grab the pillow off Chip's head.

"Fuck you, Larry. Let me sleep." Then he mumbles, "Like another ten hours or so."

"Nope. It's time to rise and shine, Chipmunk!" He hates that nick.

"I bet Glenn won't be in school. The russkie or the spik, neither." He means Vasily and Juan. He knows these three boys spent the night entertaining guests.

"Don't let Comley hear you using slurs like that. You're not too old for him to whip your ass."

He looks at me and guffaws, knowing Comley is an old softy who'd never hurt a fly. "It's ok, they call me Froggie." Chip finally sits up. "But I mean it, if they don't gotta go to school, why the fuck do I?"

"Simple. Because I 'gotta' go!"

Chip stands up, and stretches his arms over his head. With his morning hardon, he is poking out in all directions. He yawns loudly and tries to shake the sleepies out of his head. Through squinty eyes, he looks around for his boxers. I pick them up and toss them to him. He bends over to put them on, farts, and makes no apologies. He only finds one slipper.

"By the way, Froggie," I grin. "Fr. Ricardo sends his love."

Chip opens his eyes and looks at me, betraying a little smile. "I'm fuckin surprised he remembers me. I was a little shitfaced kid."

"Oh, he remembers you. Here,..." I dig through my top drawer and pull out a small box. "...he sent you this."

Chip opens it, a St. Christopher medal. "Fuckin old priest's still fuckin superstitious, I see." The teenager thinks he has the whole world figured out, but he puts the chain around his neck anyway. He doesn't bother to thank me or the padre, but I know he's touched. Later, I'll write and tell Fr. Ricardo how much he loved his present.

Chip tosses the empty box at my wastebasket, misses, and doesn't bother picking it up. He goes out the door, scratching his ass, half shod with his boner sticking out his fly.

Every school day is a challenge at Tatawaw. Fourteen boys, aged 6 to 15, each one requiring an individualized curriculum. All the boys are supposed to get their core lessons every day: Language Arts with me, math with Jerry, science with "Doc", and Social Studies with Bart, who also acts as dean. Then they also need to be scheduled for the language lab, instrumental music lessons, choir practice, and athletics, which at this time of year consists primarily of skiing lessons.

However, if a boy is entertaining one of our guests, that takes priority over schoolwork, so some students show up midmorning or not at all. Like I said, it's a challenge, but one that invigorates me as a teacher.

I skip breakfast to check up on the lessons I'd left for all the boys the week I was gone. About half of them were completed.

This morning, only eight boys are in their places for opening exercises. As Chip predicted, Glenn, Vasily and Juan are still with guests. But in his stupor, he forgot that Tito is also occupied.

Hermie is sitting beside Paul, ready for his first day at school. They both are freshly bathed and neatly dressed, just the way Comley likes. Chitto and Bullie are also at their desks. But poor Bullie's shirt refuses to stay tucked in his pants. Adrian is the neatest. What the fuck? Does he iron his clothes each day? Travis too is dressed for school, although his mind is elsewhere. He's tapping away on his desk with his pencil. Only Chip and Shumba, the teens, are not wearing the khaki and blue "uniform." They have on their own clothes. Chip looks like he could use Adrian's iron.

Fifteen minutes late, eight-year olds Kumar and Janek come running in. Bart states the obvious: "You're late, Boys."

"Sorry, we lost track of the time."

"They were 69ing," tattles Adrian. A number of his classmates glare at the snitch.

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As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herbcatwriter@yahoo.com. Thank you.