TUTORING ERIC
An Erotic Short Story/
by Aubrey Watt
Website: Aubrey Watt's Blog
Twitter: @AubreyWatt
Copyright 2012 by Aubrey Watt
First Smashwords Edition: Feb 2012
ISBN: 978-1-4658-0407-5
Cover design by Aubrey Watt
Cover photo © Roxana Gonzalez, Jimmy Lopes - Licensed through Dreamstime.com
LICENSE NOTES
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the seller website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
DISCLAIMER
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
MATURE CONTENT
This story contains sexually explicit material, and is intended only for persons over the age of 18. By downloading and opening this document, you are stating that you are of legal age to access and view this work of fiction. All of the characters involved in the sexual situations in this story are intended to be 18 years of age or older, whether they are explicitly described as such or not.
Tutoring Eric
It was almost Valentine’s Day and Eric had two problems, the first being related to the aforementioned holiday, the second to a wholly orthogonal matter involving academics, specifically math, specifically the fact that he was two months into linear algebra and had no idea what the word orthogonal actually meant.
This second problem was made even worse by the fact that his linear algebra exam was on Valentine’s Day and he was sure he was going to fail. This would not have been a real issue—Eric had come to terms with the fact that he and math would never get along—but Eric had already failed the required class three times and this was his last attempt before graduation. Having just gotten off of the phone with his dad, a no-nonsense engineer type who ate linear algebra problems for breakfast, he was certain that he would be disowned if he flunked the class. And that meant that he had—HAD—to pass this exam.
It wasn’t Eric’s fault that he had done so poorly the first three times around. His coaches had hired tutor after tutor to do his homework for him, and had reassured him the entire time; reassured him so much, in fact, that he himself thought that he was pretty decent at math and wondered why he kept missing questions on the tests that the professors gave him. But in the end athletic influence only went so far, and his math instructors had been forced (that was what they all said to him at the end of the semester—forced) to flunk him time and again.
One professor in particular had been especially apologetic, insisting that she adored watching him play and came to all of his games, a fact which he had found rather strange since she didn’t seem to know the first thing about football. Indeed, if he had only realized sooner that she was attempting to seduce him, he might have salvaged his math score for that semester and avoided this whole linear algebra fiasco in the first place. But Eric was completely oblivious to the effect he had on women, and the math professor went away disheartened, forced to give him a final grade of F.
The Valentine’s problem wasn’t getting a date; being the star wide receiver at a Division 1 school ensured that he would have his pick of whichever cheerleader he wanted. It was that after dating seventeen of the twenty cheerleaders on the squad Eric was beginning to question his own fundamental sexual nature. Many of his girlfriends, withering under his neglect, had ended up cheating on him, something which he didn’t much mind as long as they had the decency not to flaunt it, but he wondered why he didn’t mind. If he had a reputation as a playboy at the school it was simply due to the fact that none of the seventeen pom-pom holding beauties cared to let on that they had not been able to get him away from his video games long enough to get him into bed with them. They regaled each other with imagined stories of his thick, thrusting cock. They compared notes about how many hours he had lasted pounding them into orgasm via every possible orifice. They discussed how wild and furious he had been in the sack and detailed all of the creative sex acts which he had performed with them—performed, they said with faux sighs of remembered ecstasy, not just adequately, but superlatively.
So it was that Eric, star player of the football team and celebrated Casanova, made it to his senior year as a capital-V virgin.
***
Irving was named after the celebrated author, but he really wished his parents had just gone with the more humdrum John instead. When he knocked on the door of Eric’s room that morning, he was holding a calculator against his hip like a cowboy holds his pistol, ready for the quick draw in case a stray calculus problem should give him any trouble. If it were possible for him to grow a mustache, he might even have resembled Robert Redford as the Sundance Kid, with his slim figure and his blond hair carefully tousled. Eric opened the door, evidently not expecting him, as he was still in his boxers.
“Hi there, I’m Irving.” Irving held out his hand to Eric, who had been trained to shake hands by his coaches and thus gave his arm a bit more of a sporty pumping than Irving was used to.
“I’m Eric.” Eric beamed at Irving like they were already friends, but did not seem to have any idea what he was there for.