Touchdown
8/29/09
The bell rang, signaling the end of yet another intense History lesson. Students trickled out into the hall in small groups, laughing and talking and carrying on. Jodie Landon hung back by her boyfriend Michael Mackenzie's desk as he straightened papers from a spilled folder. Just as he had gotten things together, Anthony DeMartino the graying, maniacal History teacher called out to him.
"Mr. Mackenzie, please SEE me before your next CLASS."
Jodie frowned. Concern creased the area between her brows as she glanced between Mack and Mr. DeMartino, wondering what the problem could be. Mack had one of the top grades in the year, always turned in his homework and never disrupted class. She could think of no reason for him to be kept after the other students had moved on.
"Ms. LANdon, if you would be so KIND as to close the DOOR on your way OUT."
It was only a minute or so until the next bell; Jodie didn't have time to wait. Mack's next period was study hall, but Jodie had Barch and even if she was a girl, being late was inadvisable. With a last worried glance, Jodie closed the door firmly behind her and trotted off to Science.
Mack finished gathering his things into his backpack and approached DeMartinos desk, face carefully neutral. DeMartino gestured for Mack to walk around so that they stood face to face in front of the board. They stood that way for a long moment, and neither moved nor spoke. All at once DeMartino swept Mack into a tight embrace and crushed the boy's lips with his own. For what seemed like centuries they searched each other's mouths frantically, sharing breath as their hands roamed over backs, shoulders, buttocks, raked through or tugged at hair. Finally they pulled apart, hazy brown eyes staring into dazed blue from only inches away.
Mack's broad, muscled chest heaved against DeMartino's narrow, wiry frame intimately. The aged teacher's Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed and with a fierce grin, darted his head forward to bite his student's lower lip. Mack gasped in pain and surprise but did not pull back. A lazy trickle of blood slid down the abused lip to Mack's chin and DeMartino held the boy's eye as he leaned forward and licked it away.
"Four o'clock. The Dutchman Inn. Room 238."
A shadow of desire flitted through Mack's eyes but, remembering himself, he frowned.
"I have football practice until five."
"Cancel it." Seemingly of its own accord, DeMartino's left hand slid down and slipped into the back of Mack's jeans. Prickly heat swept up the teen's body as the hand first caressed, then squeezed. "Doctors orders. You're gonna be laying down for the rest of the afternoon."
Slowly, torturously, the hand withdrew leaving lines of fire that trailed to Mack's lower back. He grinned.
"Since when are you a doctor, Tony?"
A wistful expression crossed DeMartino's severe face and for a moment, Mack fancied he could see his lover as he had been in his youth, rugged and handsome and whole. Then DeMartino's shark's grin cut his features and the illusion fell away.
"They used to call me Doctor Love." Mack groaned at that and collected his things. He was already late for study hall and lingering any longer was a bad idea. He threw a last smoldering glance over his shoulder and closed the door behind him."
Gibson was pissed. This was the third time in the last two months Mackenzie had begged off from practice, and at no time had he presented a proper doctor's note to excuse himself. A shrill whistle cut the air yet again and the dog pile at the 30 yard line untangled itself into several bedraggled teens, all sporting the Lawndale Lions Blue and Gold. It was the fifth time that afternoon that practice had come to blows, and Gibson was on his last nerve. He had no assistant coach, Mackenzie had always filled that roll nicely and kept the players in line with what seemed like minimum effort. Now that he was absent, this task fell to Gibson and he found himself to be severely lacking.
Not only did Gibson have to actually do his job, but he was terribly out of practice.
The telltale churning started up in his gut and Gibson suppressed a groan.
Mackenzie better have a damn good excuse this time, he thought as he fished a pack of Rolaids out of his back pocket, or he's really gonna need a doctor when I'm done with him.
The chalky, minty flavor filled his mouth as Jeffy and Kevin crashed together and started rolling across the field as the rest of the team egged them on. Tears threatened, Coach Gibson dropped his clipboard, and heaved an enormous sigh. It was gonna be a long, long day.
The door clicked shut and DeMartino grinned. Mack dropped his key, hanging from a ridiculous plastic key chain in the shape of a clog, onto a handy end table. He kicked off his shoes, taking his time as the older man's eyes bored into his back. When at last he turned, he found the teacher lounging in a straight-backed wooden chair across from the king-sized bed. He wore only a white loaner bathrobe and a spray of startlingly black hair was visible through the V the robe made where it crossed over his chest. In one hand he held a bottle of massage oil, in the other a bottle of Astroglide personal lubricant (and moisturizer).
A fierce grin stretched across the football captain's face, an expression that turned it both vaguely threatening and darkly handsome. It was an expression DeMartino had seen only a few times before, and it sent ice through his veins, fire through his belly. A flush rose to his face and his skin pricked with anticipatory gooseflesh.
Without warning, Mack rushed forward and pulled his lover from the chair by his biceps. Once standing, the robe was ripped from his body and, seizing DeMartino's thighs just below his buttocks, Mack lifted the man and slammed him down on the rented bed. Mack knelt on the bed between DeMartino's legs, their faces nearly touching. Heat rolled from the older man's nude body in pulsing waves of desire. His left hand was pried gently open, the lube removed.
And Mack ran the ball home.
End.
Alpacca Bites: Sometime during the Crazy Pairing Iron Chef in August of last year, the NightGoblyn proposed an Iron Chef within an Iron Chef: crack pairings. And I quote: "And somebody else do some decent yaoi while you're at it. Needs more boy-love."
There you have it. You now know where to send your therapy bills.