English as a Sexual Language by Kris Klein

Heat Rating: Bonfire

Content Warning: GLBT homoerotica

An English lesson turns more French and Greek for a young, handsome, straight Mexican landscaper.

Arturo was grinning ear to ear, happy with the praise. He reached over to get his glass of water from the coffee table before us, taking a sip, and his scent caught me up again in its strength and sensuality. I had decided a little earlier that it was no cologne, but the man himself producing that heady mix of testosterone and sensuality, and the charge of electricity that the whiff of him sent through me was enough to make me get bolder in my lesson plan.

"Como se dice..." I began, as he replaced his glass and settled back on the couch, "en Espanol..."

And I reached over to yank the white polo shirt out from under the waistband of his jeans, pulling it all the way up to expose his rock-hard abs and well-developed chest. His chest was perfectly smooth except for a few tiny black hairs swirling around each of his dark, tiny nipples.

My mouth went bone-dry… probably from the fact that he didn't even flinch or stop me, or maybe because my hand now rested on his bare, warm and very hard chest. "Come se dice... en Espanol?" I managed to say, rubbing my hand gently across his broad pecs.

"Pecho," Arturo replied, looking down at his own body. He even lifted up the shirt in both his hands to be able to see better, and sat there watching my pale hand glide seductively over his dark body. "Pecho," he repeated, looking back up at me.

I think, at that point, he could have said ‘cucumber' and I would have agreed. My mouth had gone cotton-dry, the moisture evidently fleeing south to my dick, which I could feel growing wet in my pants. "Si," I croaked. "Y en ingles?"

Arturo was holding his shirt all the way up now, to his shoulders, and he stared down at his chest again, thinking. The fact that my hand hadn't moved, was still touching him, didn't seem to faze him at all.

Again, after a few seconds, he looked up at me with embarrassment. "No se."

"Chest," I replied, pronouncing it carefully so he'd catch the hard sound of the "ch". "Chest."

"Chest," he repeated; then again, as if to himself. "Chest."

I didn't write this one down yet. I couldn't. I was left-handed, and that left hand liked it just where it was right now, thank you very much. So much so, in fact, I seemed to have no control over it as I watched my left hand slide slowly down to rest on the rock-hard six-pack that was Arturo's belly.

"En... uh, en Espanol, por favor?" I asked Arturo, voice cracking.

He looked down the length of his small, compact body again, still holding up his own shirt. "Estomago," he replied. Then, after a second's thought, he glanced over at me again and beamed.

"Stomach!" he said, in perfect English.

"Yes!" My hand patted his flat belly. "Yes—bueno! Stomach! Exactamente!"

I finally forced myself to remove my hand, noting both words in the notebook as Arturo lowered his shirt again to cover that amazing, well-toned body.

"Hold up," I said, setting my pen on the coffee table with the notebook. "Un momento." I leaned over and, using both hands, grabbed his shirt and pulled it up and all the way over Arturo's head, removing it from his body. He didn't stop me, or even look at me like I was anything other than his teacher, and that this was just part of the lesson. He watched as I tossed his white polo onto the coffee table, but didn't make so much as a move to retrieve it.