beforethefall
Post 2, 07/16/2004
New School Year#
Author: SmokinReggie
Date: July 16, 2004
Mood: Chilled Out
Listening to: Bush - Sixteen Stone [1994] - Glycerine.mp3Only five weeks after the Heatwave hit, school started back up.
Can you imagine that? Most of the boys started that summer having never even seen a naked girl in a magazine, and in a lot of cases, they'd never even thought about stickin' their dicks in one yet. Then a bunch of them went into the next school year as expecting parents, and quite a few of those, like in my case, with multiple mothers to boot. Crazy luck. In any other school at any other time, it would've been the stuff of legendary bragging rights for any boy, but, damn, if everyone's special, nobody is. Thanks, Heatwave.
I turned ten that summer, and I went into 5th grade in the first week of September 1994. At the time, I just thought I was father to three cubs; it was still too early to tell me and Maggie had twins cookin'. Anyway, those first few weeks of school were tough, man. The initial effects hadn't mellowed out for us yet; our bodies took years to catch up and get used to being instantly thrown into puberty and all that extra Heatwave chemistry in our heads before it got more manageable, you know? But also, the world hadn't caught up; grown-ups didn't understand yet that the Heatwave literally changed us kids' brains. Sure, they knew what it was like; after all, they got all ramped up for those couple weeks too, but us kids, we got stuck that way.
Now think ‘bout that, you're hornier n’ with more hormones than you've ever known an' you're brimmin' over so bad your mom sent ya' to school with extra maxi-pads for the front of your underwear tucked in the front pocket of your backpack, cuz' you can't stop leakin' unless you jerk off every hour or so…and you're expected to sit still and behave and pay attention in class, man? An' there was like, no such thing as covert jerkin' off under th' desk or nothin', cuz, like…man, once the waterworks started, boy, there'd be a puddle under your desk before long. Not to mention the risk of settin' off everyone else's Heatwave around you, then you got a real problem on your hands.
A couple weeks in and the school - an' everyone else for that matter - started to wise up, and, well, the more lasting changes started happening, at least the ones us kids noticed, I think. They converted the old school bathrooms by the gym that nobody used into these things called ‘relief rooms’ that were, for the boys at least, long trough urinals that weaved through the room to maximize how many boys could be in there at any given time. We'd be packed in standin' shoulder-to-shoulder with other kids from our grade, crankin' out our fourth daily scheduled wank between classes. The Heatwave sorta' comes n' goes, but when it's on, man, it's on; and those rooms would be so packed that boys would have to resort to circlin' around the big round hand-washin' sinks and tuggin' into those too, nothin' with a drain was safe from it during a rush.
That shit was an adventure, man - every time. Slipping in as discreetly as you can, making the awkward look around to see if any of your buddies were around with a spot beside them. Finding the only open spot between the big bear kid you don't really know and that really nerdy mouse kid that always ends up in the trough beggin' for folks to shoot right onto him once he gets into it cuz' he got it worse than most did and he just can't help himself. And despite the shit position, you gotta' do what you gotta' do, so you settle into that little gap where you barely fit, the bear's fat squishing up to you on one side and the weird mouse kid eyeing you up a little more than you'd like. You try to shut out the outside world, just tryin' to focus and get it over with, remembering some good times from the Heatwave, and good times since, or fantasizing about some girl you're into or somethin' weirder -
Alright, ha! I gotta break the flow for this one, man: Anyone else get that thing where your head goes weird places when you're huntin' for somethin' to fantasize about? Mine was always electronics of some sort; plugs gettin' pushed into sockets, video tapes goin' into the machine, stuff like that for some reason back then. That sorta' shit does NOTHING for me but my brain's always gotta try it and see, like, just in case it got hot all of a sudden or something. Fuckin' weird. Ha! Comment if your Heatwave brain's got some crossed wires that mess with you like that too.
Anyway, no matter what you're thinking about, you start to get into it, and things are moving along, but that fat bear kid next to you is sweating and grunting and groaning and probably already a few minutes into blasting his soul into the trough for the third or fourth time of the day, but despite all that practice, he's still so into it that he keeps missing his shots and splattering your shoe.
But, man, that's only the start of it, you know? Cuz', when you're right there next to him, you just can't deny that it's kinda hot how he's so into it, and there's no way you can call him out in the moment and ruin that for him, cuz' it's somethin' you want to get to, too; you GET it, man. Then the thought comes to you that maybe a peek over at him wouldn't hurt, and a split-second later, you can see it for yourself; yeah, he's just milking it and rolling his huge balls in the other hand and blasting these huge, fat ropes of cum, over and over. A real-deal fuckin' heatwave-kid orgasm right there beside you, enough to drown a fish as you realize that stuff is running by like a fast-flowin' creek in the trough from all the other boys uphill from you too, and it hits you that, man, everyone here's riding that wave, like damn!
Then you get that buzz in your guts and the little lightheaded feeling and damn if it don't just grab ahold of you thanks to that Heatwave brain; all of a sudden you're right there with that big bear dude next to ya', and you have to catch yourself however you can as your knees go weak and it starts…and somehow it's not gay at all when that bear sees it coming, and grunts some sort of encouragement at you while he catches you against his side and throws his arm around your shoulders and splashes another huge shot of cum half-off its mark and it splatters off the side of the trough and down the leg of your pants. Nah, nothin' in there is gay at all, man - and I mean it, it's just boys bein' boys - you just grab him back, and you lean on him, and he leans on you, and you don't really mind it at all while you both sort of just… find a few minutes of brotherhood with a stranger, while you and him are both slingin' massive ropes that run into the little river of cum in the trough while stealing glances up and down the line, cuz'…I'll be fucked, straight or not, if there's one damn thing that Heatwave brains love, it's that little bit of physical connection you get even from casual touches, when you're around other Heatwaved folk gettin' off. Any kind of intimacy makes it that much better.
Sometimes you'd make a lifelong friend there. Other times you'd both get cleaned up and it'd be too awkward to talk about, and the only acknowledgement of what happened was that knowing eye contact when you saw ‘em in the halls later…but you knew, you both knew, that if you saw an empty spot next to ’em in that relief room, you'd hurry to get that spot before anyone else did. Cuz' you had that connection, now.
I held more guys' hands in the time I spent in that relief room than I have outside it in my whole life. Crazy to think about.
Sheez, man. I gotta' call the guys over for a movie night again sometime soon, when the wifeys are out with the girls. Somethin' special about that. Snappin' myself out of it, be right back. Heatwave's runnin' hot today, I guess.
Alright, where was I? Before you ask in the comments, yes, I washed my hands.
All the boys spread rumors that the girls had somethin' better on their side of the wall, like vibrators on steroids and porno and shit like that - the sort of rumors you'd expect around a Junior High school filled with Heatwave-brained degenerates, ha! - but Maggie told me it was basically the same we had, but with seats. That sounded more believable to me. Still, the unlikeliness of the girls' situation being better than ours didn't stop boys from trying to get looks for themselves, the poor fuckers. The Heatwave brewed up a lot of boys that were more enterprising than they were smart; this kid named Ronnie got the worst of it though, ha!
He was this kangaroo kid, a couple years younger than me. I think he was in 3rd grade. He got the wise idea to barge in and try to sneak a peek during the lunch rush hour, egged on by some friends of his. Poor kid didn't come back out either… at least 'til a teacher went in and got ’im, ha! The girls set in on him right away I guess; they had him pinned in the corner and were runnin' a train on that poor kid who, of course, was soakin' up every bit of of the lovin' up I'm sure - at least, until it started to hurt. Lucky kid bred more pussy in an hour than even us Heatwave kids could dream of tagging in a month!
Damn teachers put guards outside the doors of the relief rooms after that. Didn't stop us from puttin' holes in the walls though. The walls were too thick for us to reach our little grade-schooler dicks through to use 'em as a glory hole or anythin' - not that we needed it, we got plenty of hookups outside of school in those days - but, man, those spots were a favorite for both the boys and the girls, knowin' someone of the opposite sex on the other side was gettin' off to them gettin' off. Good times, man.
Hell, aside from the relief rooms though, plenty of other stuff changed too around school. Sex ed started getting taught in every grade, they did pretty good with that; they even kept it like… on our level, right? I heard the government had child psychologists help develop the program specially for us. It started with basic safety-consent-and-autonomy stuff in the little-little classes, and kinda' went up from there. There were free condom dispensers all over the place, they always seemed empty though. Thankfully most of the girls got IUDs implanted early on to curb the childhood pregnancy rates, and given our population was so young, and had such little exposure to folks outside our age groups and experience plus us bein' of all different species n' such, STDs still aren't really a thing at all, crazy to think about. Anyway, the incredible amount of bareback sex was not unappreciated by any of us, ha!
They started letting us carry water bottles in classes that year, too; hydration was a whole thing. The following year, it was on the supplies list, along with two towels and two changes of clothes. Dietary requirements changed, too; they took a while to catch up on that, but more protein-rich diets had to get implemented for the herbivores, which was tough. Us omni's were mostly fine with a few adjustments, I don't think the carni's even noticed it, but man, those rabbits were looking pretty sick before they dialed in the supplements. Extra beans, whey protein isolate, some extra vitamins, they were right as rain again.
A few teachers got in a lot of trouble, too, I remember. Like, despite everything that changed, the grownups were desperate to hang on to whatever taboos they could still keep a grip on. As a father, I get it, nowadays, of course; us Heatwave kids all have a unique weakness that can be exploited, like… All you gotta do is set off the right sparks that stoke the Heatwave's fire, and once things are in motion, we're just gonna go along with whatever after a point. It's a lot easier than it sounds, man; probably the closest thing to hypnosis or mind control there is. Plenty of adults abused that to their own ends in the years that followed, some got away with it, some got found out later and got in deep trouble. In other cases, it was more of a mutual thing, though; because of that, to us kids at least, it just seemed unduly harsh that a teacher would be looking at prison time if they said ‘yes’ when one of their students was in a bad way and practically begging them for a little help, you know. Wild times.
Anyway, I probably could keep goin' about the stuff that changed - there was a lot, after all - but that's probably enough for today. I wanna leave some stories for other folk to tell too! Already got someone that's committed to a guest post, so excited to see what they've got to share.
About the Author:
My name is Reggie Montgomery. I'm a red squirrel, and I'm 20 years old. I have three incredible wives, and four beautiful daughters that amaze me in new ways every day. I grew up in a town called Aardvark Heights, Missouri, and yes, I'm a Heatwave kid. I'm creating this blog in the hopes to give a voice to the people like me that had the same sort of weird and unforgettable childhoods that I did. This blog is going to be used as a place for us to share our experiences, what we loved, what we hated…and more importantly, to give a voice and space to the people that lived through one of the biggest mysteries of the modern age.
If the Heatwave has left a permanent mark on your life, please feel free to share your story to webmaster@btf-writing.com. We accept both credited and anonymous submissions!
In 1996…#
The last class of the day was always a tough one to get the kids through, ever since the Heatwave. It had already been two years, and Mr. James, a seasoned vet of Aardvark Heights educational system, sat at the head of his sixth-grade Homeroom class as the assembled ten- and eleven-year-olds fidgeted anxiously in their desks, two minutes before the dismissal bell. The conservatively dressed, limber, fit thirty-six-year-old Irish Setter was an art teacher, at least outside of the Homeroom hour, and he did his best to maintain an upbeat and casual atmosphere in his class, but keeping the mood light was hard when the kids were getting pent up late in the day. Still, as teeteringly ready to boil over as they were, the Heatwave's mark had been somewhat muted in the pre-pubescent students since those fiery months following the Heatwave.
The researchers and doctors said it was a ‘false lull’. The change in the kids of Aardvark Heights was permanent and confirmed to be present in them, and while the Heatwave never exactly laid dormant, its effects seemed to ease off considerably after the first few months in those kids who weren't quite old enough to be in early puberty from the Heatwave's direct effects. It wasn't until the year following the Heatwave, after there had been enough time for the initial effects to fade, that everyone found out that something worse had been discovered in store for those younger kids that they initially thought were spared from the worst of it.
Heatwave puberty was coming for every last one of those kids, and from what they'd observed so far, it was going to be a real bitch of a puberty for those kids to get through.
Mr. James had his fingers steepled in front of his nose as he looked out at the class. At one boy, in particular, whose head was hanging low, trying to stay under the radar as he sheepishly hung onto his desk; fingers white-knuckled around its edges as if it could fly away from him at any moment. His name was Nicholas, and he was an eleven year old Clydesdale stallion. Despite his young age, he was already five feet, eight inches tall, and a hundred and seventy pounds of dense and gorgeously defined muscle. Being a defensive lineman for his Junior Varsity football team had built him well, and his wardrobe choice of loose athletic shorts and a tank-top did well to show off plenty of the horse's lovely, shiny, brown-and-white mottled fur and striking musculature.
While the other kids seemed more focused on the clock's ticking and oblivious to the young stallion's plight, Mr. James could easily see from his vantage point the reason for the utterly embarrassed, broken body language of the stallion. The loose leg of the stallion's athletic shorts fell three inches short of the end of his flared, desperately hard erection that had grown down its leg over the last fifteen minutes, its flare only barely hidden between Nicholas' knees as the stallion squeezed them together. He'd been drooling a thick mess of precum down his shins for the last ten minutes, and it was pooling around his rubber-shoed hooves in a steadily growing disc of gloss on the white tile floor. It was a sure sign that the poor stallion boy was entering puberty under the Heatwave's tutelage, and was about to have one hell of an adventure in redefining the concept of modesty and propriety in the midst of his classmates who, largely, were not yet there in it with him. Even as the Irish Setter carefully calculated his play, his heart went out for the poor young horse who was barely holding himself together, and as the scattered beep-beeps of imperfectly synchronized digital watches in the room announced the slightly-off time arrival of the dismissal bell, the class began to surge into motion with binders being closed and backpacks gathered, and Mr. James saw his opportunity. He cleared his throat.
“I hope everyone's got a good weekend ahead of them. Be safe, play safe, and we'll see you on Monday. Oh - Nick, could you stay behind after class for a moment? I could use your help with something if you wouldn't mind,” the dog said with a smile as the bell rang, and various voices crooned ‘oooohs’ of presumption at Nick being in trouble, for one reason or another. Nick's eyes shot up to Mr. James', first horrified, then softening as a slow realization settled that he'd been spared from the expectation of lurching up - and standing, in his condition - to leave along with the other kids as after-class chatter started up and kids rushed out of the room to begin their weekends. Mr. James stood by the door to wish everyone well, smiled and shared pleasantries, but only a minute later the class had been vacated of everyone save for himself and the stallion. Mr. James eased the door closed, flipped the lights out, and dropped the roll-down shade on the door's window. When he turned back to the room, lit only by the natural light from the two walls of second-story windows, Mr. James found the horse's face buried in his hands, and the hormone- and frustration-fueled tears had already started flowing.
After all; Heatwave puberty was a bitch to get through. It wasn't the first time he'd seen this. It wasn't even the first time, this week.
Mr. James wordlessly moved toward his desk, and used one bare foot to nudge the wastebasket from beside his desk and kicked it over toward the horse, sliding it almost perfectly into position. Nick seemed to get the clue despite the frustrated tears he kept trying to wipe from his eyes, sobbing quietly as he used his hooves to wrangle the wastebasket under his flared glans to give him a better place to drip his unstoppable issue.
“I- I'm sorry, Mr. James, I…I'll clean it up, I swear I didn't d-do it on purpo-” the stallion started, but was quickly cut off by Mr. James.
“It's okay, Nick. You can't help it, and I understand that. All of us teachers do. Thistle will take care of the mess for you; don't worry. If he minded, he probably would've left a long time ago, don't you think?" Mr. James joked, and the sobbing stallion mustered a sheepish laugh.
“Y-yeah, I guess. I …it won't go away, I,” Nick sniffed wetly, “I used to be able to make it go away but …the last few weeks it just keeps getting worse no matter what, unless…y-you know," the humiliated young stallion mumbled. Mr. James fetched a box of Kleenex from his desk and set it down in front of the horse, who was quick to pull three from the box and blow his nose into them as he collected himself, before reaching under the desk to drop the tissues into the wastebasket. The dog pulled the desk in front of Nicholas' to the side and sat down sideways in the seat, facing the young horse. He knew he was in the line of fire of that flaring, precum-drooling horsecock, but he didn't exactly mind the idea, and the gesture went a bit further than that, to signal to Nick that he trusted the horse and wanted to be there for him.
“It's alright, Nick, you're going to be alright…everyone's going to go through this sooner or later. You'll make it out the other side and …well. You'll find the new normal, soon enough, you know?” Mr. James said, with a soft laugh. He reached out and placed his hand on the back of Nick's, and settled his fingers into the stallion's clammy palm, giving a reassuring squeeze. Poor Nick couldn't help but squeeze his hand back, and Mr. James felt him tremble feebly, a strange feeling from such a massive body. Mr. James' mind circled on that tremble, and a smile pulled at the corner of his muzzle that he tried to stifle, as a little thrill welled in the dog's belly. “…We can just sit here and talk, and try to wait it out, alright?”
It wasn't the first time Mr. James had seen this, after all. It wasn't a particularly rare occurrence; kids would start exhibiting their first symptoms in the classroom, just like this, long before their parents and the school administration could handle the paperwork and permission forms to issue the aptly-named ‘white pass’ reserved for pubescent, Heatwaved students to excuse themselves from classes for urgently necessary relief. Mr. James had helped others through it, and genuinely didn't mind; there was some part of him that flustered and thrilled every time he saw it in motion, that loved the energy and hormonal need and urgency that brimmed in these young boys. It was a secret passion of the dog's to collect beautiful young boys like this into his sphere, and help guide them as he thought himself uniquely capable of, among the faculty. Of course, the other teachers didn't know of his proclivities; his secret was kept tucked away, hidden deep in the back of a closet and only allowed to peek out in situations like this, where the vulnerable moments and quiet isolation gave him the confidence to show a glimmer of his true self. The teacher's reverie was interrupted by Nick's frustrated voice.
“M-my parents won't let me get a pass. Mom doesn't understand what it's like, and…Dad d-doesn't believe in the Heatwave at all. He gets mad and tells me I need to man up and stop acting like some pervert just because I'm an early bloomer,” Nick blubbered, the tears starting up again. “They don't understand, like…it's not because I want to, it…it's like…I need to; like I'm under water and I can't breathe, and I'm trying to-” Nick sobbed, again, and hid his face in his hand. Mr. James squeezed the horse's free hand a little tighter, and Nick squeezed back with another wet sob into a fresh fistful of Kleenex as it was pulled up from the box. Mr. James glanced down, and saw the stallion's mottled brown-and-pink erection still bobbing from the leg of his shorts, an inch of precum already oozed into the bottom of the wastebasket as the horse continued, “And…all t-the girls are afraid of me b-because I'm a Clydesdale and Marcus and Chad are already dating the only horse girls in the school and- and, s-sorry, I, uh..”
“Don't be sorry, Nick. It sounds like you're going through a lot, and I want to help however I can, alright? You can tell me whatever you want to, okay? It's just between us, but we can talk about anything you want to.” Mr. James said with a reassuring smile. “Hey, you don't have anyone coming to pick you up, do you? I can go let them know you'll be a few minutes, if you want some, uh…privacy to take care of this.” Mr. James knew what the response would be, before he'd even finished his question. It was always the same.
“N-no, uh…I walk home, uh… I…I don't want to d-do it alone," Nick croaked, sniffling again and wiping at his nose and muzzle with the damp tissues, frustration welling again in the horse's stifled sobbing. Mr. James couldn't help but melt a bit at the poor horse's plight; the Heatwave had a tendency to make the boys more honest about their desire for intimate company, at least.
“It's okay, shh, it's alright, Nick,” Mr. James reassured the poor young horse, “The doctors all say the Heatwave makes you …you know. Want company, like that. It's just part of growing into it, alright?” the dog said, offering a lazy wag of his tail as he smiled to the horse. He couldn't help himself, as he smelled the rich, masculine, potent scent of the young horse's precum as it kept flowing.
There's no way it could be this easy... He's so primed already; maybe just another little nudge…something with plausible deniability, right? Oh, you dog, you…
“If you don't want me to go, I won't. If you want me to help, I will however I can. My heart goes out for kids in your situation, you know? I can't help but want to give you…a hand, if I can," Mr. James said, with a leading pause that brought Nick's brown eyes to his own. He offered a little warmer smile as Nick's immediate realization registered, then changed with his disbelief as his conscious thought and lack of confidence took over from the Heatwave brain's initial, over-eager optimism. He wasn't quite there, yet.
“I d-don't know if my parents will listen to anyone…they're kind of…y-you know, old-school,” Nick mumbled, sounding uniquely defeated. Heatwave denial was definitely one of the challenges some students had to contend with; parents who, for whatever reason, weren't ready to accept that their children weren't anything but their idea of normal, in spite of everything that'd happened.
“Well, that's only one way I could help, Nick. If you really needed it, you know…well," Mr. James chuckled a knowing chuckle as he made a point of looking down, then back up to Nick, “You're a fine specimen of a young man, and while you are a gifted student, you're not beyond my own level of expertise, if you need some…one-on-one tutoring to help find a solution to your problem.” The teacher smiled as he watched the gears turn in Nick's head; it was so fun to speak in uncertain but obvious terms to the boys, and watch the Heatwave struggle for control in their heads. Deep down, they always knew what he was talking about, but their inexperience struggled between their need and lack of confidence or disbelief that an adult would want to help them, a conflict that played out in their micro-expressions in real-time, which Mr. James found an insatiable appetite for. There was one last pin to pick in the Heatwave's lock, and the Irish Setter reached up to set it into place; he closed the horse's hand between both of his own, and held it in an earnest, warm embrace as he looked the horse in the eye. “…I'd very much like to be the one to help you out, before you make your way home this afternoon, if you'd allow me to. I just need to be clear that this is exclusively between us as friends, and we'll never speak of it to anyone.”
The tension in Nick's posture and expression melted, slowly, as Mr. James watched the Heatwave take over. It was a visible effect, once you knew what to look for. The stallion's tearful eyes softened their distressed expression and he slowly managed to compose himself, distress in his eyes changing to a half-lidded, drunken, glassy gaze. The Heatwave-eyed young stallion was now catching his breath in shaky, trembling, purposefully-slowed breaths as his ears pivoted toward the teacher, as if searching for some sign of doubt on the teacher's face. Mr. James felt the young stallion's hand relax, before it turned slightly, and grasped his hand back, while the young horse shivered to his core in his seat; one of those strong, involuntary shudders of arousal that wracked him in his place. There was a loud patter of resonating plastic as horse-precum jetted powerfully against the wall of the wastebasket, and the teacher's smile broadened as Nick's eyes met his again, now filled with that hope and eager realization and completely absent of anything but the Heatwave's roiling need.
“Y-you would..? Really, Mr. James?" Nicholas asked, his breath a bit deeper, now.
That's it, big guy…just let it take control for a little while and you'll feel a whole lot better. You're mine, now, Nick…
“Yeah, Nick. For you, I will. Why don't you…” Mr. James hesitated, glancing toward the door, where the hallways were already growing quiet and lonely. “Why don't you give yourself a few strokes, and let me know what comes to mind while you do that? I'll make it happen for you, buddy.” His heart was pounding in his chest, and his slacks were tight with anticipation as he let Nick withdraw his hands, finally, and Mr. James leaned back to look under the desk as Nick's hand pushed into his shorts and began polishing along the barrel of his cock, milking a fresh shot of white-threaded precum into the wastebasket. Nick was a draft stallion, and it showed; but thanks to his age and having only just entered puberty, he was still only on the larger side of ‘considerably-above-average’, as compared to most adults of any smaller species. In a few short years the Heatwave would make sure Nick's endowment would be wholly unmanageable, likely twenty inches or more in length, and thicker than his forearm. Mr. James just sighed as he watched Nick pumping his ten-inch erection under the shorts, making that thick, exposed glans flare again. “…So..?”
“Mmmnh…I wanna…I wanna do it,” Nick said, breathing more heavily as he began working himself under his shorts, ”I wanna …y-you know, I wanna breed." Mr. James chuckled quietly and began unbuttoning his shirt, a casual, matter-of-fact loosening of not just his garments, but his persona as a teacher and authority in the classroom.
“Well. I might not have a pussy for you to breed, Nick, but…just between us? I think I've got something tighter, that you might like even more,” the dog said with as charismatic a grin as he could muster. “Take your shorts off, and be careful not to get them messy - you'll regret it once you come back to your senses if you do,” Mr. James smiled. He stood, untucking his shirt, and walked to his desk in the corner of the room. A few books and piles of paper were carefully moved, before Mr. James unbuckled his belt, slowly unfastening his slacks' fly and shrugging them off his hips. He dropped them to mid-thigh, leaned forward, and lifted his tail, putting his bare, long-brown-furred backside on display. He was fit, and he knew he was attractive; an understated nerdiness composed his appearance for classes, but his ass was one of his finest assets, and he often found it able to sway even the straightest of boys in need, Heatwave or not.
Nick was already rising from his desk, with modest effort. He carefully dropped his shorts and hung them over the back of his chair, still wearing his tank-top as he strode across the room. His movements were eager, a boy with a new toy, his erection held in a hand to keep it from swinging wildly and slinging his drooling precum everwhere. As he stepped up behind Mr. James, the dog turned away and leaned down, hiking his backside a little higher to taunt the stallion.
“Just go slow at first, okay buddy? Use your precum to make it slippery and push in slow. I'll let you know if I need you to stop,” the dog said, bracing himself. He could feel Nick's heat against his backside, just before the stallion's erection pried under his tail and smeared an enormous pulse of precum between his asscheeks. Mr. James' eyes rolled slightly at the sensation, and pressed back as Nick blindly went by touch alone, overeager pushes squishing him off-target and causing him to hotdog up between his asscheeks again and again.
Nick was already trembling, the young horse's need having simmered for too long. Mr. James could feel him smashing toward his mark, but just off, and he lifted his hips higher, arched his back and presented himself more fully. The next attempt found better purchase, and Nick's eager pressure started to stretch him open, until the stallion's stubbornly hard erection began to squeeze its flare in under his tail and make the dog grunt out at the breadth to which he was forced open around the horse. The initial pressure built, and then relaxed as the horse's glans slipped through his ring, and Nick buried himself to the medial ring under Mr. James' tail, gasping with a heated moan that was echoed by the canine teacher. The horse grasped the dog's hips and pulled him back, and Mr. James obliged, pushing back as Nick ground his hips urgently forward and slowly sunk his full arousal into the hot, tight confines of his teacher's backside until the horse's egg-sized balls smashed to the back of Mr. James', and the boy was seated completely in the teacher's guts.
Mr. James took his turn to shudder, finally, as he groaned out. His sheath was full, jutting two inches of red, pointed dog-cock out to spritz watery squirts of precum onto his desk and stain his undershirt with errant spritzes as Nick gave a soft whicker and dug his fingers into Mr. James' fur.
“That's it, Nick…mmnh, go ahead and breed me, buddy- it fits just fine,” Mr. James urged as the horse snorted, drew back and thrusted, an awkward, off-angle thrust that was a little better with the next try, and even better on the third stroke. Each plunge forced a grunt out of the dog, and he secretly loved it as Nick's hands greedily handled his hips, both to pull him back and hold him in place, but the sifting of the horse's fingers through his lush, soft fur was not unnoticed as Mr. James hung onto the edges of the desk and did his best not to bark out as Nick began to work his hips in faster, more fluid motions. The horse was panting in deep, measured breaths, building into a hard, steady plunge, over and over, as thick blasts of the horse's precum kept things moving effortlessly. Mr. James groaned, tucking a hand down to grip his knot through his sheath, massaging it as the horse's rapidly flaring glans plowed over his prostate again and again with each stroke.
“Mph, Jenny,” the Heatwaved young stallion moaned, digging his fingers in against the hips between his paws as he thrusted again and again, sweat slicking his short fur to a shine as he felt the tight, hot, wet, slick tunnel compressing his glans as it flared, and he pumped deep into those textured depths again and again as he fantasized about his dream girl.
“Mnh, yeah, breed her, Nick. She's all yours, ohgod, just don't stop,” Mr. James panted, pumping his sheath over his erection, fingers lingering behind his knot even as he remained mostly-sheathed, jetting his precum against the desk. Nick's motions were already getting shaky, and his panting more rhythmic, an athletic, measured breath that betrayed the horse's incredible fitness and stamina, despite his inexperience in this act. Each shove forward smashed the horse's massive, sweat-glossed balls to the dog's fluffy sack and made him grunt with the depth that the stallion's flare jabbed up into him, smashing in behind his bellybutton over and over. His ass was dripping-wet, cheeks smeared in the horse's copious precum, his guts drenched already in a pool of thick, cum-threaded pre as he felt the first urgent throbs of Heatwave-edged arousal fattening the belly of the horse's cock with the initial pulse of thicker issue that surged up.
“Mhf..Jennynnhh, ngh,” the horse keened, pulling Mr. James' ass tighter into his lap with deeper, full-length strokes as the stallion gave in to his Heatwave breeding instinct the dog had been stoking. The first torrent of the young boy's issue surged forth as his aptly-named ‘warning shots’ began in earnest; a blessing of the Heatwave that contributed to their hyper-productive climaxes, though the surge wasn't coming from orgasm itself, rather than the Heatwave over-priming the stallion's fertility and venting the excess out through his cock in fertile, ivory washes of overflowing cum. It poured into the dog's guts, making him lightheaded as he groaned and pulled his own knot, urgently stroking himself as the horse worked himself into a frenzy over his back, panting and giving more needy, shaky moans as Mr. James gritted his teeth and trembled. He pulled his knot again, and gasped as climax took him, a hot surge of pent-up dog cum arcing onto the side of the desk in a thick shot, then another, as Nick snorted over his back.
It was all over too soon. It always was, with the young ones. Nick gasped and vocalized abrupt climax as he barreled forward and slammed himself home into Mr. James' ass. The momentum shoved the dog forward until his cock was smashed up to his desk, still pulsing hot dog-cum over the old, weathered wood as the horse's flare spread a broad bulge in the Irish Setter's lower belly. The first bolt of the young boy's climax came with considerably greater volume and force than his warning-shots. Nick groaned and snorted with each huge pulse of climax, and as his flared erection lurched inside the dog, Mr. James could feel the belly of Nick's erection swelling with each massive surge of semen flowing through it, as a torrent of liquid heat poured up into his stomach and made him nearly faint with the intensity of the pleasure. Nick surged again and again, flooding his climax up into his teacher as the dog held his fist behind his knot, not even unsheathed, and Nick's balls bounced against his with each powerful flex of climax that grew steadily further apart, until they finally stopped with a fresh shudder from Nick as both simply panted and tried to catch their breath.
“Nnnh, th-there you go, yeah,” Mr. James said, breaking the silence, “Good job, Nick. You got 'er good. Phew. Better, now?” the dog chuckled, feeling Nick already going soft inside him, though the horse seemed reluctant to pull out. For a moment, at least, Nick was still hanging on to his hips and squeezed close, panting as his cock softened in the dog.
“Y-yeah,” Nick uttered, a little clumsily as he began to draw back, the tightness of the dog's ring milking out a thick plug of gelatinous seed as the horse withdrew. The natural plug prevented the abrupt gape of the dog's ass from oozing more than a few ounces of the horse's massive issue out before it slowly recovered and began to close, and Mr. James stayed bent over the edge of the desk as Nick stepped back a little sheepishly to look at the destruction he'd left in his wake. A tense pause stretched for several seconds in the cool classroom air, before a softer, disbelieving voice rose from the young draft stallion. “I…I'm not gay,” the horse abruptly muttered. It was nervous and shaky, and a little unsure, but the tone warned Mr. James that Nick had been relieved of the Heatwave's influence, for the time being, and he was recovering his senses quickly. It was time to do damage control…
“Woah, nobody said you were, Nick,” Mr. James said, carefully straightening his back and slowly, tenderly erecting himself as he stepped back from the desk with a messy web of dog-cum shot onto the side of it, his cock still angry-red and erect, knot fully swollen in his sheath. “You're just a Heatwaved boy that needed some help, I know that. Don't worry, I don't have any illusions about that,” Mr. James said, as a thick trickle of ivory fluid ran down the back of his thigh. “Can I help you get cleaned up?"
“W-why did you let me do that?” Nick croaked, frustrated, confused tears welling in his eyes again. “J-just because I can't find a girlfriend didn't mean I wanted to…to…" Nick was backpedaling, obviously distressed as he was finally capable of processing and realizing what had happened, as the Heatwave abandoned him in the afterglow and left his more lucid mind to clean up the mess. Mr. James knew he needed to intervene fast, before this got out of hand.
“Nick, stop and take a breath. Look at me," the dog said in a more authoritative tone, reassuming his teacher persona, even as he was pulling his pants up in spite of the mess he was leaking from both sides, “You didn't do anything wrong, okay? It's okay, I just wanted to help you snap out of it, I don't think any less of you for needing a little help. I won't tell anyone; it can be our little secret, okay?”
“No, that wasn't…” Nick struggled to find the words, “I didn't really want that, you… you know better, you're a teacher! That wasn't me, it…it wasn't me,” Nick said, reduced to a sobbing mess again as the conflict raged and fed back into itself. “I'm not gay, I'm not..! That's so gross…I didn't want to … do that with a guy, why did you make me want to?”
The betrayal that Mr. James heard in the horse's voice hurt. But it was nowhere near as distressing at the thought that Nick was able to figure him out so effortlessly once he came back to his senses. The horse was already scrambling to pull his shorts up, smearing them in the mess of still-drooling cum from his member, his shins sitll slicked in leaked precum from earlier as he hastily gathered his things.
“Nick, wait! I'm sorry if I misread you or something, I … I thought it was clear you just needed some help,” he lied. Nick might not have the words for it all yet, but he had enough that if anyone heard what happened, they'd easily figure out that the teacher had been pulling strings and implanting desires in the Heatwaved youth he had access to. Mr. James was going to say more, but he found himself unable to come up with the words as Nick yanked the classroom door open and hastily hurried out of the classroom, still strugging to stifle the tearful mess of his ill-defined hormonal rage and tween angst and his more-aptly-directed betrayal at having been taken advantage of. Mr. James' heart simultaneously sank, and felt like it was about to leap out of his throat as he watched the horse storm, half-blinded by tears, down the empty hall and beyond his influence.
Heatwave puberty was a bitch to get through, but it was far from the only thing the kids in Aardvark Heights had to worry about in the years after the Heatwave. The truest of dangers was those who had tasted their sample of the Heatwave and were now totally free of its influence, but knew exactly how to manipulate those in its thrall.