The Botany Professor Ch. 02

Back home I enjoyed a wonderful reunion with my wife and son. Running from the plane into their arms. Tears of joy, of relief, of a nightmare finally over.

As I hugged Angela and Bobby, awash in waves of love and rejoicing, still a tiny thought itched in the back of my mind: Now I’m out of those bastards’ power–but did they break me completely? Will I be able to get it up for her?

As Bobby held me close, my leg moved between his. Not intentionally. Not really. It was as much his move as mine, but I gnashed my teeth. You fucking pervert! He’s your own son! “Oh, my family, it’s so fabulous to be home!”

Both my father and father-in-law were there. Dad was retired, living with us since Mom died a few years ago. He leaned on his cane, tears in his eyes as we embraced. With Angela’s father, somewhat younger than Dad, we had a group-hug.

Back home, and oh, how fine was my little white cottage, my lawn, my garage, everything that meant normal, real to me–even my hibiscus was blooming for me–maybe I could get over the nightmare. After the long kisses and hugs, discussions of my health, news of the family and home, gradually the conversation focused in on closer details of my “adventure.”

They got a PG-rated version. Even the Army debriefers didn’t know the whole story of the six-month homosexual orgy and servitude I lived through–except one SF medic, a Sergeant Feldman, in a camouflage-green closet of his own. His gaydar sensed my “availability,” and he laid me in a copse of bushes while the rest of his team rounded up the FARC terrorists.

My family heard about privation, starvation, and beatings, not the gang-rape the first day, not my camp-whore status, not the creeping familiarity with and craving for sex with men. They didn’t hear tales of my sucking and fucking the dozen members of the camp every single day.

I could never tell Angela how the greatest sexual orgasm of my life came from sodomy with a terrorist brute. His colossal phallus stretched my asshole past the point of pain. He fucked me into unbelievable exhilaration and total surrender.

I could not tell them how I’d been “retrained” to climax from hard, virile cocks up my ass and how I lived all six months in constant willingness to spread my legs for those men or swallow their spunk.

They’d broken me. Made me their bitch, their cum-slut. And as much as I hated it mentally, I could not resist it physically.

My teeth were on edge as Angela called us in for dinner. Will she discover the truth if I can’t get it up for her? I was so nervous before I went into the dining room, I drank a double Scotch–and nearly choked on it when I remembered that too much alcohol can dull the libido.

Throughout dinner I paid attention to my pecker and any incipient erection. None. It was as soft as if I were running through the jungle from a jaguar. Don’t panic, what’s it got to harden up for? A turkey dinner?

I wondered if anything would happen if I thought about… The day Gonsalvo made me their complete bitch. He laid me on my back, kissing me tenderly and affectionately (an astonishing change from the usual brutality). Horny from a constant diet of Catuaba tea, I was soon purring and expectant.

He had the most titanic dick I’d ever seen. Unearthly huge, grotesque, a pony would be proud of it! He must’ve been drinking Catuaba since childhood.

After many weeks, fucking was no longer an agony to be feared, rather an agony to be wished, and that day, his first time fucking me face-to-face, his terrible male power swept me before him to the point I could not resist his passion, and screaming his name in guttural howls, I reached an orgasm–the fiery pain of his huge penis showed me who’s boss.

And as he humped away, he drove me into another and another orgasm, finally so many I was in a trance, constant ecstasy.

It worked! My organ was so hard under the table, I had to keep still, or it rattled my plate. Good sign.

Then we all moved into the living room–I refused a glass of sherry. Sitting on the big Victorian couch with my loved ones, I was amazed at how upside-down my life had been for so long, and how familiar-but-new it seemed then. We chatted a little more. I told them about Colombian plants–I left out any mention of Catuaba–and as usual, anytime I started going on about plants, the boredom set in.

Dad finally got up, kissed me on the cheek, and went downstairs to his room. Angela’s father said goodnight and left. Bobby went up to his room.

Finally Angela arose, and dragging her hand sensually over my shoulder, arm, and hand, she moved gracefully away to our bedroom. The Moment had come. I had to make love to her that night, of course. She’d suffered the opposite of my fate–she was without sex for six months, poor thing, and Angela was a spirited woman.

She never refused me. Often initiated the calisthenics herself. Surprised me with sexy little negligees and nighties.

Six months without sex meant she was in heat. mecidiyeköy escort

I seized the moment of solitude for an important errand. From my rucksack I took the two Catuaba seed-pods and hurried out to the greenhouse. Angela would take a long time in “pregame warmup,” so I hurriedly plucked the seeds from the two pods and planted them in starter pots. Catuaba would not cease to be a part of my life.

Poor Angela. I could never tell her of the depravity I’d been a party to–she would be horrified. Maybe even divorce me. In spite of her peppery nature, she was religious, pure, and devoted.

But delightfully horny. When I came into the bedroom after cleaning up in the greenhouse, she was still in the bathroom in female grooming rituals.

She started our session that night by slinking into the room wearing a negligee of silk only a little thicker than fog and–I couldn’t believe it–a white thong with “I ¦ Bill” in red letters.

For my part, I wore only air, and with our first kiss, her fist was around my cock.

Round One began with a very nice blowjob. Angela’s face–those big, blue eyes, that button nose, that little mouth–always looked like Tinker Bell sucking Captain Hook’s monstrous cock, a sight I found terribly arousing, but I realized that after six months of nonstop cocksucking, I was better at it than she was.

When it was time for Round Two, I was in a cold sweat–Can I keep hard from her blowjob?

As I thrust in through her wet, eager pussy, a chill went up my spine when I felt my hose soften. In desperation I forced myself into a weird fantasy–I was Gonzalvo, and she was I, Dr. William Thomas, and my giant meat was thrusting into the agonized hole of the gringo.

It worked. I stayed hard and robust and had stamina enough to do her in the usual missionary position for 20 minutes or so–then I rolled her over and pulled her up onto hands and knees. “Oh, my,” she gasped, but she didn’t refuse to take it doggy-style, something new for us.

As a matter of fact, that new, wicked addition to our sexuality brought her to an orgasm. She tried to muffle her whining screams into a pillow, and in an inspiration, I brought my mouth down to her ear and talked dirty–“You miss my big boner rammin’ into that tight pussy?”

She gasped, then “Mm–hm!” Poor thing, she doesn’t realize I’m Gonzalvo fucking the gringo.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

She looked back up at me. “Oh, Bill, I can’t say it…”

I reached under, gripped both her nipples and twisted them. She let out a yelp, then hissed, “What’s come over you?”

“I missed you, you and this hot, tight cunt!”

“Oh, Bill, it makes me so hot when you talk like that!”

“What’s the part of me you missed?”

“Oh, I can’t!”

I grabbed a fistful of her long, brown hair and pulled back her head. “Say it!”

She gasped, then looked up at me with glazed eyes. “I missed your cock…that big prick.” She growled. “It’s even bigger than I remember it.”

I rolled her over onto her back again and raised her ankles to my shoulders, another position we’d never tried. Then I bent over her, pulling her legs back to her shoulders, rotating her hips up to me, and I sucked one of her tits.

“Oh, Bill, you’re a madman! I love it!

“What do you want me to do?”

“You know. Do it.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh, I can’t. I can’t talk dirty.”

I fingered her clit, which made her gasp. “Say it!”

Panting, she looked up at me with fire in her eyes, “C’mon, you big fucker! Plow that giant cock up my pussy and make me scream!”

And I did.

I did her so energetically and so long, I got her howling–without hiding it in a pillow. I worried that Bobby would hear us, but by then we were too far gone, too horny, too in the moment to care.

Later, as we lay nuzzling together in the afterglow–her cunny dripping my seed into the time-hallowed wet spot in the sheet–I asked her how she’d managed to go without sex for so long (I hinted that for my part, in the jungle I’d “relieved” myself manually).

She kissed me. “Women without their husbands find ways.”

“What does that mean? This?” I fingered her hot-button, and she jumped.

She giggled and kissed me again.

She lowered he voice to a whisper. “We were really loud this time.” I grinned. She was the only one screaming. She went on: “You think Bobby heard us?”

“I dunno.”

She giggle again. “Well, if he did, I don’t think it would be anything he doesn’t already know about. He’s 20 now, and with kids these days, he’s probably done things a lot wilder than what we just did.”

I caught myself wondering how well my son was equipped. Bobby was a sophomore studying business management, still living at home to save money. We hugged and nuzzled for a few more minutes, then went to sleep–she did, anyway. I couldn’t stop thinking of the picture she’d put in my head:

Bobby beşiktaş escort Thomas’ hips lurched and lunged, and the blonde-haired cheerleader under him squealed and gasped as he drove her into orgasm. The huge penis spreading her pussy lips painful-wide made her thrash back and forth, hooked like a sleek salmon, growling wordless sounds as he kept her in high ecstasy!

I wanted to see him naked.

No, you don’t, you pervert! He’s your own kid!

I woke up the next morning, and Angela was gone, rattling dishes in the kitchen as she made breakfast. I heard Bobby singing in the shower. I have to take a leak.

No, you don’t!

Yes, I do. Just now I…have to.

You’re going in there to look at Bobby’s tool!

No! No, I’m not. It’s morning, and I have to piss. I’m not. I’m…really…not going in there to see Bobby naked…

The bathroom was small, nothing unusual. The bathtub was surrounded by frosted glass–but the door was clear glass, not frosted. It was a mistake by the installers, but it was such a problem to get it replaced, we decided just to live with it. So through the door, the bather was clearly visible.

As I stood there pissing, I looked casually to the left. Bobby was busy scrubbing himself, looking away.

Look at that stud! What a body! My own kid! Varsity football player with the freckles and All-American good looks of Richie Cunningham. Unlike either Angela or me, Bobby was blond–foamy shampoo covered his crew-cut. Also unlike me, he had little hair on his body. Nothing under his arms. Nothing on his chest. Only a little hair between his legs. Damn, he’s grown bigger than I am.

And damn, he’s hung better than I am! I gulped. The gene for big meat must come from the maternal grandfather. I’d seen my Dad’s cock. It was nice–I was fascinated by his foreskin–but it was nothing special. It was like mine–or like mine was before six months of Catuaba tea. I’d never seen Angela’s father naked. At 78 he was in good shape–seemed like he could have a big one. Maybe he contributed it to Bobby because, damn, my son looked like he had a third leg.

And that foreskin! Covered the flare of his cockhead like the nacelle of a jet engine, and the tip of his glans jutted out seductively. Like Gonzalvo’s! I would love to suck that! My own pole twitched in my hand, and suddenly it got harder to piss.

Damn, I loved looking at his hale and hearty body, the fruit of my loins, and I got such a throbbing hardon, no way could I pee. I shook my head in frustration. What in hell are you thinking? You sick, queer bastard! You would defile your own son??

I zipped up–or tried to–and left the bathroom in shame. Went into my study and poured myself a glass of Jim Beam.

I looked out the window at the rising sun and swore in a soft voice, “I will never allow myself to touch Bobby!” I tossed back the whiskey and sat down, feeling a little better.

But the ache didn’t go away. Bobby is straight, so leave him that way! I had to face it: I was a moral wreck, but my wife and son were still “whole.” I had to protect them from the seething, testosterone-powered world out there.

-==(^)==-

As weeks went by, the Catuaba plants in the greenhouse grew rapidly. I repotted them into larger containers. One day my wife chirped, “I’ll bet you’re glad everything’s back to normal!”

I gritted my teeth. I was so horny I wanted to get down on my hands and knees and gnaw on something, but it wasn’t pussy I wanted. I wanted to be bred.

I kept thinking of Guillermo naked and hard, and I simply had to see some male skin! I made up excuses to walk over to the university fieldhouse and zigzag through the dressing room. Judas, look at those bodies, look at those cocks! Look at that kid, I love uncut cocks!

I remembered how I used to stick my tongue under Guillermo’s foreskin and shuck it back, tasting his smegma and precum at the same time. But Guillermo was in a Colombian penitentiary.

I looked into the showers as if I were searching for someone. What a hot scene. Some of those students had to be gay; some of them even had beginning erections. How I wished I could connect with them–but how? It was impossible.

Even if I took off my clothes in the locker room–“Excuse me, I’m Dr. William Thomas, and I’m going to use the faculty squash court–Oops, dropped my contact lens!” If I dropped onto my hands and knees, I would not hear El Gato snap the waistband of his pants. He would not mount me and skewer me like the cum-slut bitch I was.

I would be arrested and jailed. I would be ridden out of town on a rail.

I was in agony because fucking Angela wasn’t enough. My well trained ass ached to be filled. I was grateful I could reach an orgasm with her (a man can’t fake it: if she doesn’t have to sleep on a wet spot, she knows). I was lucky the Gonzalvo fantasy worked for me until gradually my balls remembered how it worked the original way, etiler escort and I could enjoy pussy again.

But I’d acquired new, exotic tastes. I actually considered wandering through the city park late at night. The place was known for homosexuals lurking about in the dark–which to my renewed perspective was not a bad thing. My rear end ached, and I was desperate. But I can’t go down there! I’m too well known in the town! All it would take is one person recognizing me prowling around in there!

The bastards in Colombia had really cursed me. I was out of their clutches–but I didn’t want to be. I wished I’d been arrested and thrown in jail with them. I craved to spread my legs for them. I ached to see Guillermo’s naked body and feel his monstrous erection stretch my asshole until I groaned. I wouldn’t even mind a brutal session with Gonzalvo. I wanted to be made!

Finally my frequent visits to the locker room were noted, and Coach Kaugman came right out and said it: “What brings you over here so often?”

Beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead, I smiled. “Trying to reschedule student-tutor schedules, and some of the guys are hard to find–I’m looking for them everywhere.” Fuck, I hope that’s believable. In any case, it put an end to my locker-room cruises.

Kaugman was a real straight-arrow. Almost a Bible-thumper. I heard he had pre-game prayers with the teams. I think he swallowed my story mainly because he was incapable of imagining anybody so depraved.

How I wish I had the moral fiber of a coach. They work honestly with young men, helping them to develop themselves physically, teaching them athletics and teamwork. I gritted my teeth. If a slimeball like me had the access of a coach, I’d have the kids fucking me every day!

I could only admire the strength of those men. Coaches operate in a world of moral danger apparent only to a perv like me. I had to look at naked young men. I had to see male flesh! They had so much more self-control than I.

-==(^)==-

I knew how sick it was, but I located some architectural plans of the fieldhouse. The air conditioning ducts were large enough for a man to crawl through; branches of them went to the locker rooms, the shower rooms, and various indoor courts, weightlifting rooms, and study rooms.

I couldn’t enter the big ducts by taking the grate off the vent in my office–too small–so I had to stand on a packing crate in a little, windowless classroom used for storage, unscrew the a/c grate, and crawl up into it.

Carrying a copy of the ducting map, I made my way to the vent overlooking the men’s shower room. Damn! Look at that! An overhead view of naked men was unusual. Didn’t really get much view of burly young torsos, but I could see cocks–those that jutted out. Found myself breathing harder when some of them were obviously getting harder.

I smiled as some guys with extending dicks turned away from others in the shower, trying to hide their arousal. “Come to my office, young man,” I muttered to myself. “You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

It was the same in the locker room. Overhead views. Some guys with energetic dicks. I got there at the end of the day as the last students left the locker room. Finally only two were left, both sitting on the same bench putting on their clothes. But as I watched in disbelief, when they found themselves alone, they pulled their clothes off again.

Couldn’t believe my eyes. One of them stood up, and the other knelt before him. Then I saw that hard cock clearly, and the kneeling one began sucking it. Oh, how I remember that! The salty taste of his cockhead! Was he uncut? Couldn’t tell. I adore licking around an uncircumcised flange.

And it got even better! The one on his knees got up and lay back on the bench–a strapping, muscular kid with long, brown hair. He raised his legs and spread them as the other guy covered him. I got a better view of him, too, from the back. Very muscular. Broad shoulders.

Oh, yes! The guy on top lurched his hips–he was in–then that erotic thrusting. I was so hot I was almost licking the aluminum duct. I watched them for a good 20 minutes in position changes from missionary-style to doggy, the fuckee bent over the bench, his buddy squatting over his back, thrusting his sinewy cock up the hungry ass.

My ass was hungry, too. I couldn’t stop my hips thrusting against the hard metal of the duct–doubtless polishing it, maybe giving me a black stain on the front of my pants, but I was so horny, I continued the frottage against the aluminum floor–and I cummed! Right in my pants! Fuck!

But I didn’t care. I’d tell Angela I spilled ink or something on myself. Get a new suit. Wear black pants up here next time.

By the time the two students had finished, kissed, nuzzled each other (probably would’ve smoke a cigarette if it were allowed), and left the locker room, I was a nervous wreck in spite of the little orgasm. I craved sex, but I wanted it in my ass!

Grumblingly I made my way back through the ducting, but I lost my way for a moment and by accident passed by the grate over a study room. It was a small facility used by tutors or coaches for counseling sessions, but I blinked when I saw–by the bare legs, arms, and shoulders of the person–that he (I could also see his dick) was naked. Hey, what’s going on here?