HIStory

‪History is typically written by the weiners — not the case with this crazy, delusional puss. If what we all share is the grand illusion called, "Maya," then everyone's a liar. Fake news is just as real as the money that bought it as "real" news has only the integrity of the conviction of the writer that caught it. Each is like a spank. Who spanks the hardest? Who spanks the most? That is the consideration of this fabricated post, how real it can feel if you play along.

"So is that why I'm in detention?"

I walked up towards my sophomore history teacher.

Mr. Derringer looked up from his papers, shifting wheels in his ancient leather teacher's chair.

"Wouldn't your job be a joke if history were as fake as the news?"

With that, he stood up, a whole foot and half taller than I was.

"I think we can both agree that history is very real," said Mr. Derringer as his index finger raised my chin to better the gaze between us.

I reached down and unzipped his muted brown Dockers, my fingers sliding across his presumably plaid boxers. My eyes were still fixed on his.

"I'll be your little communist," I said, biting my lip with a slap-face grin.

"I like it when you're a little red," he said pulling my hair down, pulling my head down, shoving my face down around his cock. There he hammered my sickly gagging face with his hips.

"Ah, fuck communism," he moaned. It reminded me of the first time this guy and I had detention. We were caught studying in Mr. D's room after hours. He let the guy leave early for football practice and kept me behind to ask questions.

"I don't think you and your friend were studying in my classroom," Mr. Derringer inquired at the incident that occurred months before.

"You're always right, Mr. Derringer." Of course he wasn't, but of course he was.

"Show me again," said Mr. Derringer.

"If I 'actually' treated every guy the same, wouldn't that make me a communist?" I asked.

"A dirty, filthy, communist," he said then as he said just now, as he thrust harder towards the back of my throat, head just slipping past the curve of my throat hole. My lips tighten around his shaft. He sits and spreads his knees wide as my head descends.

There was a knock at the door. I look up at him as if I'm not going to let go of his cock. I duck under the desk and thrust my middle finger into his asshole.

"Oh, I didn't know you were still here. Oh, please sit. I didn't mean to bother you," said a shyly delighted Ms. Pansley as her heels chirped towards Mr. Derringer's desk in a nervous barrage of steps.

“Uh, yes, how can I help you?” asked Mr. Derringer, who did feign an attempt to stand before returning to the meticulous task of lining up the edges of his stack of papers.

Ms. Parsley continued, "Would you believe that someone accidentally slipped in one of your homework assignments with my test files?”

“Oooh myy.”

“From Miss Saufty. Here you go," she said. I grinned. Right on time.

As Ms. Pansley returned a particularly errant file, her fingers grazed ever-so-accidentally against Mr. Derringer’s hand. I could tell he liked her too as he came into my mouth. I swallowed quietly as their conversation deftly continued over the shuffled and straightened papers. I zipped him up and gave him a soft encouraging pat. He got up and saw Ms. Pansley to the door.

"Ms. Pansley," he paused, then leaned in to kiss her. Her papers fell unto the ground as a fountain. I couldn't help but catch a glimpse and smile myself. Two teachers who had known each other for several seasons finally made a dinner date over collected shelves and papers. After she left, Mr. Derringer stared at the closed door and the room was silent for several minutes.

“Maybe there’s a lesson to be learned after all,” I mused.

Then I left detention a half hour early.