Anatomy 101 - Part 2

The next day, the same classroom felt different. The air was thicker, charged. Whispers followed Alex down the hallway all morning—half teasing, half awed. Boys who’d barely spoken to him before now gave him sideways glances, smirks, or quick nods like they were in on some secret club he hadn’t asked to join.

When the bell rang for last period, Alex’s stomach twisted the second he stepped through the door. Mr. Hargrove was already at the front, sleeves rolled up, a fresh pair of latex gloves laid out on the desk beside a small bottle of clear lubricant and a folded blue towel. The projector screen was down again, but this time it showed only a blank slide titled “Prostate and Anal Anatomy.”

“Mr. Carter,” Hargrove said without preamble. “Front of the room. Same platform.”

Alex’s legs felt leaden. He walked forward under the weight of twenty-seven pairs of eyes. No one laughed this time. The silence was worse—hungry, expectant.

“Strip,” Hargrove ordered, same clinical tone as yesterday.

Alex didn’t argue. He knew resistance would only prolong it. Tie first, then shirt, undershirt, shoes, socks, trousers. When he reached his briefs, he paused—just for a heartbeat—before sliding them down. His cock was already half-hard from the memory of yesterday, bobbing free as he stepped out of the fabric. He folded everything neatly again, set it aside, and climbed onto the low padded table Hargrove had dragged into place.

“On your back,” Hargrove said. “Knees up, feet flat. Legs apart.”

Alex obeyed. The table was cool against his bare skin. He drew his knees toward his chest, exposing himself completely—cock lying against his stomach, balls hanging low, the tight pink ring of his hole on full display. The position made his face burn hotter than anything yesterday had.

The class rose without being told. Chairs scraped. Footsteps closed in. They formed a loose semicircle around the table, close enough that Alex could smell their deodorant, hear their breathing. Some stood with arms crossed. Others leaned forward, eyes wide.

Hargrove snapped on the gloves. “Today we examine the prostate gland—sometimes called the male G-spot—and its role in sexual response.”

He squeezed lube onto two fingers, warming it between them. “Relax the external sphincter first. Voluntary muscle. Breathe out.”

Alex tried. Hargrove pressed the pad of one slick finger against his entrance and circled slowly. The touch was cold, then warm, then insistent. Alex’s hole fluttered. The finger slipped inside—slow, steady, one knuckle, then two.

A few boys inhaled sharply.

“The prostate is a walnut-sized gland located approximately four to five centimeters inside, anterior to the rectum—toward the belly button.” Hargrove curled his finger, searching. When he found it, he pressed.

Alex’s back arched off the table. A broken sound escaped him—half gasp, half moan. His cock jerked, leaking a clear bead of pre-cum onto his stomach.

“There,” Hargrove said calmly. “Firm, smooth. Direct pressure produces intense sensation due to dense nerve endings. Many males can achieve orgasm from prostate stimulation alone.”

He rubbed in slow, firm circles. Alex’s hips twitched involuntarily. His breathing turned ragged. The class watched every movement—his flushed chest rising and falling, the way his toes curled, the steady drip of pre-cum sliding down his shaft.

Hargrove withdrew. “Now, each of you will palpate the prostate. One at a time. Glove up, lube up, gentle insertion. Feel for the gland. Note texture and response.”

The first boy—Ryan, broad-shouldered football type—stepped forward. He looked almost nervous as he gloved and lubed. His finger pushed in too fast; Alex hissed. Ryan froze.

“Slower,” Hargrove corrected. “Watch his face.”

Ryan tried again, gentler this time. When he found the spot, he pressed experimentally. Alex whimpered, cock twitching hard. Ryan pulled out after ten seconds, cheeks red, muttering “fuck” under his breath.

The next boy went harder—deliberate, almost punishing. He crooked his finger roughly, jabbing. Alex cried out, hips jerking. Pre-cum pooled on his stomach now, slick and shining.

“Careful,” Hargrove said. “The goal is demonstration, not discomfort.”

But the boy grinned as he withdrew, clearly pleased with the way Alex’s body had clenched around him.

Boy after boy took their turn. Some were tentative, barely brushing the gland. Others pressed too deep, too fast. One—quiet, bespectacled Ethan—found the exact right rhythm and held it long enough that Alex’s thighs started shaking, his moans turning desperate. Ethan only stopped when Hargrove cleared his throat.

Then came James.

James had been last in line the whole time, leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching with that cool, unreadable expression Alex had been helplessly obsessed with since year ten. Dark blond hair, sharp jaw, green eyes that always seemed to see too much. Alex had never said more than ten words to him. He’d jerked off thinking about him more times than he could count.

James stepped forward. The room went quieter somehow.

He gloved up slowly, methodically. Squeezed lube. Looked down at Alex—not smirking, not leering. Just… looking. Like he was seeing him for the first time.

He slid one finger in with almost no resistance—Alex was loose now, slick, open from all the earlier hands. James didn’t rush. He curled gently, searching, then pressed—soft at first, then firmer, then slow, rolling circles that felt like he was mapping every sensitive inch.

Alex’s head fell back. “Oh—fuck—”

James didn’t stop. He kept the same steady rhythm, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing, letting the pressure build without ever pushing too hard. His other hand rested lightly on Alex’s inner thigh—just enough contact to ground him.

Alex’s cock was leaking steadily now, untouched, flushed dark red, veins standing out. His balls drew tight. Every muscle in his body locked.

“James—” Alex choked out, barely a whisper.

James leaned in slightly, voice low so only Alex could hear. “Let go.”

He curled harder, right against the gland, and held.

Alex came with a strangled cry—hands-free, untouched. Thick ropes of cum shot across his stomach, chest, even hitting his own chin. His hole clenched rhythmically around James’s finger, milking it, as wave after wave rolled through him. His vision whited out for a second. When he came back, he was shaking, gasping, cum cooling on his skin.

James withdrew slowly, carefully. He stripped off the glove, dropped it in the bin, then looked at Alex one last time—eyes dark, lips parted—before stepping back into the circle.

Hargrove cleared his throat. “Excellent demonstration of hands-free prostatic orgasm. Note the intensity and duration.”

Alex lay there, wrecked, panting, covered in his own release. The boys were silent now, stunned. No one clapped. No one joked.

James stayed at the edge of the group, watching Alex with something unreadable in his expression.

Alex closed his eyes, heart still hammering, body still humming.

He didn’t know what came next.

But he knew he’d never forget the way James had looked at him when he came.