Chris and Nigel

Chapter 18


This story contains explicit descriptions of sexual acts between the characters in it. Although the characters are teenagers who may be below the age of consent in the country or state where this is read, nothing written here should be taken as approval of, or encouragement for, sexual liaisons between people where such liaisons are either illegal, or objectionable for moral reasons. Although this story does not include safe sex practices, it is everyone's own responsibility to themselves and to each other to engage only in PROTECTED SEX. It is a story. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Nothing represented here is based on any fact known to the author.

The story is copyright 1999 by "It's Only Me from Across the Sea". If you copy the story, please leave the credits, and the web address of present, and also the email address of I'd love to receive feedback.

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I couldn't say it was as if nothing had taken place. It wasn't like that. It couldn't have been like that. But it was close. And hugely different. All at the same time.

It was half 'This is Nigel who has come round to play', and half 'This is Chris's lover, here for a visit', and it was weird. And yet two weeks ago, it would have been Nigel, the boy, coming round to play. If he could have kept his hands off me, that was!

Mum was trying so hard. She wasn't going to let me down. So I wasn't going to criticise. Not one single word. But I had to make sure that Nigel understood. I got my chance soon after we'd arrived.

"Fish and chips for supper? There wasn't any time to cook or anything." Mum looked tired, and almost happy.

There wasn't any time to answer before Dad said "Yes, please." And leapt out of his chair towards the front door. "Come on, boys, come and keep me company?"

"Nigel," I spoke softly as we headed for the door, "Mum's really trying hard."

"I know. But it's painful!" He was quiet spoken, too.

"We aren't getting upset about a single thing tonight."

"It's all right, Chris. As long as we're together she can do, well, almost anything." And he smiled at me. Shyly.

"I could kiss you, right here and now." I felt all grown up suddenly. And a kid at the same time. He made me want to giggle. I held my breath for a moment or two.

"Are you getting into this car?" Dad had the engine running. He sounded fierce, but his face was laughing. "Come on lads, get in!"

So we did. Funny. I used to be embarrassed about our car. When Mum sometimes picked me up from school in it I wanted to have it parked round the corner. It was a lovely car when we bought it. It wasn't new then, but it was only two years old. I was four then. I know Volvo won't be pleased, but it wasn't one of their better built cars. Rusty tailgate, rusty door sills. They're meant to last about twenty years. Even this young ours was looking like it was at the twenty year point. My mind was wandering again. Details. Inconsequential details. Odd, though. With Nigel the embarrassment wasn't there. It was just our car.

It wasn't dark. It was only about seven o'clock. It felt much later. Tired wasn't what I was. Drained. Nigel, too, by the look of his face. The walk had been a good idea. Sort of winding down. I was thinking. "Dad?"

"Yes, Chris?"

"Is Mum going to be OK? About us, I mean?"

"In time, I think she will, yes."

"She's really trying hard."

"She loves you, Chris. I think she'll cope."

"Does she like Nigel?"

"Yes. Just isn't ready, you know?"

"Is there anything I can do, Peter? To help her?"

"Just be yourself, Nigel. It'll be enough," Dad said. "Nothing special. Just be you."

It felt comfy. Cosy. Well the car didn't, but the family feeling did. "Dad, is there any way of asking Mum to relax a bit tonight?"

"Not a chance," he said. "No, seriously, I mean it. Tonight she's trying so hard she's fragile. Just take it, tonight, boys. Whatever she says or does, just don't react. Please?"

"It'll be OK, Peter," Nigel said. "Won't it, Chris?"

"Yeah. It'll be OK." It had to be. Tonight wasn't ideal, but it was all going to be perfect.

We'd arrived at the chippy. "So, you coming in with me, or staying in the car?"

"We'll come in, Dad.

There was a long queue. It was a good chip shop. We usually had haddock and chips. Cod was always ready, but the haddock was cooked to order. "Any haddock on?" Dad shouted over the queue to the counter staff?" If you didn't order it in advance you had to wait once you got to the head of the queue

"How many?"

"Four, please." We heard he call the order over to the, well, I suppose he had a job title, I never thought before, to the bloke who dips the fish into batter and puts it in the fryer. And we stood aside from the queue to wait for the ten minutes or so it would take to cook. "I hope haddock's OK for you, Nigel? I didn't think to ask."

"I've not tried it," he said. "I'll trust you. First time for everything." And he looked at me in that sideways way he had, and smiled.

We didn't talk while we waited. Not about a thing. Apart from that smile we didn't look at each other. Not me, not Nigel and not Dad. I just watched the gentle buzz of the chip shop, watched the people in the queue. It was fascinating that the people serving behind the counter could work in nylon overalls and short sleeves right next to all that hot fat. And never seemed to get burnt.

It was daft, in a way. But standing there, with the smell of the hot fat, the vinegar, the frying chips, fish, chicken bits and even with cigarette smoke drifting in form outside, I felt peaceful. Complete. I know Mum wasn't there. I knew it then. But it still seemed more like a family than it had before. Except Nigel and I weren't brothers. But as my, well, lover, yes. I was searching my mind for a title. 'Husband'? Too formal. 'Partner'? Too businesslike. It had to be 'boyfriend'. I liked boyfriend. My mind wandered, and I lost the train of thought.

"Four haddock and chips!" Loudly from behind the counter. It was ready.

"Please," said Dad, walking forward.

"Open or wrapped?"

"Wrapped, please."

"Anything else?"

"Either of you want wallies?," he asked us, pointing to the jar of pickled cucumbers.

"Gross, Dad!"

"Yes, please."

"Three wallies, oh and a pickled egg, please"

And he'd paid, and we were back in the car with two thin plastic carriers of heat and newspaper wrapped supper. It wasn't far to get back home. We were pulling onto the drive just as the heat from my bag was starting to get through to my knees.

"Right, get those bags to Mum, and I'll put the car away."

"OK Dad. Can you open the front door, please?"

Everything was all back to normal in the kitchen. I don't know why I thought that was odd. Except I was still expecting everything to be standing on its head after the last couple of days. Mum had the kettle on, and was getting the teapot ready. Funny how fish and chips need hot tea and bread and butter to make them perfect!

"Does Nigel take sugar?"

"No, Mum."

"Oh good, that's easy to remember, then. Chris, get the salt and ketchup and stuff out, could you, please? And some kitchen roll if you're going to eat with your fingers. And knives and forks and stuff, and take them into the living room." She seemed back to normal. "We're eating on laps."

I busied about and got all the stuff ready. It was only as Nigel was helping me that I realised that she'd asked me, not him, if he took sugar. Weird. Still, I'd already decided. I wasn't going to react to anything. Not tonight. We'd had our battle. I hoped we'd finished the whole war. So I shut it out of my mind on purpose.

Not a huge amount happened during supper. We mostly just ate. Dad gave me a bite of pickled egg. Oh yuck! Sour. And rubbery. We made polite conversation. That 'what are your favourite parts of school' stuff, and the 'What was the French trip like' stuff. It wasn't excruciatingly awful or anything. I suppose it was really parents not knowing what to talk about to any new friend. Not parents not knowing what to say to their son's boyfriend. They did a good job. No they did. It can't have been easy.

We have the television on as wallpaper while we ate. It muffled the awkward gaps pretty well, on the whole. I don't remember what was on. The usual night time stuff. The Bill, or another police soap. Something like that. Then a political documentary about India. Or somewhere else. I wasn't paying attention. And I wasn't daring to catch Nigel's eye. I wanted to be alone with him, but I think I knew that Mum and Dad needed to see that he was normal. Well that he didn't have two heads. Or something. So we stuck it out. All evening.

At some point in the evening Dad had cleared the plates into the kitchen. At around half past nine I had an inspiration. Of sorts. "Dad, did you wash the plates up?"

"Just put them in soak."

"Right. Come on, Nigel. Washing up."

"Eh? Oh! Sure."

Alone in the kitchen for a while. Bliss. "It's heavy going, isn't it? Are your parents always like this?"

"No. I think it's been the day. They usually left me pretty much to my own devices when Carol was round here. Oh. Sorry."



"I don't mind about Carol, you idiot. She's really lovely. No, I mean it. I don't mind if you talk about her. Well, not much."

"I suppose." I was still a bit, well, feeling a bit odd when I mentioned her. But it was thanks to Carol that we were back together, too.

"Listen, can we go and just be together in a different room from them, Chris?"

"I don't know." I didn't. I'd felt slightly strange about just taking Carol to my room. Even if all we did was listen to music, and snog and be together. I felt really weird about taking Nigel there on the middle of the evening.

"I don't suppose we can say how tired we are and that we want an early night, can we?"

"How?" It was more an exclamation than a question.

"Yeah. I know."

"The trouble is, I am tired. I do want an early night." I looked at his smile. "No, idiot, I mean to sleep!"

"Spoilsport! Mind you, I feel pretty knackered, too."

"Truth to tell, I'd give anything just to be held by you."

"Romantic loon!" He looked at me, drying up cloth in his hands, hair damp where he'd run his hands through it. "I fancy you something rotten, you know?"

"Not that you make it obvious," I was laughing at him as the tea towel got me. Right round the face. "Oh yuck!" And then it was taken away. And replaced by his lips.. Just softly. On my cheek. "Oh. Now that's much better."

"Chris, how can we get away?"

"I don't know." I turned and grabbed a mouthful of lips. And then teased him by pulling away, not much, but enough. "Look, we'll have to go back into the living room. They'll send out a search party soon."

"I suppose. I'd rather stay here, though." He was hanging the wet tea towel on the oven handle. "If we must... "

It all looked tidy enough. Surfaces wiped down. Plates and mugs sorted out and put away, sink rinsed. All finished. So we headed back to the living room. Well walked into the hallway and then into the living room, anyway

Mum and Dad were together on the sofa, deep in quiet talk. I couldn't catch what they were saying, but Dad was smiling. And holding her hand. Which looked sweet. No, looked really nice. It was pretty clear to me that he adored her as much as I adored Nigel. I hadn't spotted it before. They looked up as we came in. "You must both be tired out," Mum said. "It hasn't been the most relaxing of days." She managed a smile. A little one. But she looked tired. Hollow cheeked.

I had a pang of guilt. Had I done that to her, I wondered? She looked older. I so hoped it would go away. The pain for her. I could ease it a bit, I hoped, and knelt down in front of her. "I don't quite know how to say this, Mum." A brief pause as I touched her knee. "I don't think it's going to come out right. But I'm sorry for hurting you. I love you. I need you. I'm going to need you a lot, more than before I think. If you'll help me, Mum? Us?"

She looked at me. Both of us at each other. "I'm your mother, Chris," she said, simply. "I just want to see you happy." She sighed, but her eyes held mine. "If this is what you want, then you have all the help you need." She smiled, hesitantly. "I'm not going to pretend to you, of to Nigel that I like what you are doing. But I'll get used to it. But that's in private. Between us all."

"What do you mean, Mum?"

"In private I find it difficult to understand. I wasn't brought up to accept that boys could love each other. Not like you and Nigel seem to. In time I'll get used to it. But in public, Chris, in public I'll be on your side, both of your sides, so strongly that the world will think I approve."

"I don't think we could ask for more, Mum." We were still locked, eye to eye.

"Yes, well. That's enough of all that. You'll have me getting all sentimental. Now, sleeping arrangements."

Oh. Sleeping arrangements. Suddenly I was worried again. "Mum?"

"It's all right. I'm not going to try and stop you from... I mean I wish you wouldn't, didn't. But I'm not going to say it ever again. Except to ask you one thing. Please, take care of each other? Please? Because sex isn't the same as love. It just isn't."

"I think we know that, Mum. And we will. We do. Er, I, er, he. Oh. It is love, Mum."

"Right. Enough said. Until we can get something sorted out I can put the camp bed in your room, Chris. Or I can make up the spare bed for Nigel. Or... "

"The camp bed will be OK, Mum. Er, but, it may not... "

"Be slept in? Yes. I know." She sighed, but didn't criticise.

"Mum, I don't really know what to say. Except that, well, I don't want to hurt you, and... " I ground to a halt

"I know what you mean," she said. "Just don't grow up too fast, Chris. Be a boy a bit longer. You've all your life to be a man."

"I know, Mum." I didn't. Not really. Well, perhaps a little. I did feel grown up. But I also felt a bit out of my depth. More than a bit. I went on the school trip a kid. I wasn't sure what I'd come back as. It wasn't a kid, I knew that for sure.

"I'm not sure you do, not really. Neither of you."


"No, what I mean is, yes I know you love each other. I can see it. Feel it. I hope it lasts." She saw my face change. "I do. No, I know it isn't what I'd choose for you, but I'm going to be OK with it. It will just take me some time. I know you're going to be together. I, oh, do you know what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes, Mrs Jenkins," Nigel said. "I think we do. I know we're young, and I reckon I can guess what people are going to say about us when they find out. We're going to need all the help that you can give us. I just think you're wonderful, er, oh." He tailed off.

"You're tired. Bed, boys. It's time for bed. Us too, I think, Peter," she said. "Chris, you and Nigel use the bathroom first, and give us a shout when you've finished."

"OK, Mum." And I went over and kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks."

"I'll finish sorting the camp bed out while you're getting ready."

"You don't need to, Mum."

"Oh yes I do. It's for me, even if you don't use it. I need to have done it."

I could see why. A sort of comfort. And just maybe we might want separate beds to sleep in. I was exhausted. A night of passion? I didn't think so. "See you upstairs, Mum. Night, Dad."

"Night lads." Dad grabbed my hand as I went past him. "I love you, Chris. We love you."

I squeezed his hand back and smiled. Couldn't speak. The smile was enough. He caught it. Reflected it to me.

It felt very strange that night. In my house, with my lover, in my room, with my parents knowing, and at leak OK, if not approving. Nigel grabbed the bathroom first, and I helped Mum with the camp bed. Then I joined him since Mum was still faffing about in the bedroom. I somehow didn't think they were either ready to be alone with the other. We didn't talk while in the bathroom. It's kind of hard to talk and brush your teeth at the same time, so I couldn't. Then I thought. "Nigel, are you still sore?"

"Yeah. It stings some."

"Have you washed and everything?" I felt like a mother hen suddenly.

"You sound like my mother," he giggled. "I have, as a matter of fact. I was wondering, could you, er, damn this is still embarrassing!"

"Have another look? Course. Now?"

"Why am I shy suddenly?"

"Not sure. It's sort of personal, but, well, I dunno." I hugged his shoulders. "I'll lock the door. Come on. No time like the present."

"Yeah." And he dropped his trousers. "Be careful?" And he bent forward, over our bath this time.

"Silly boy."

"Yeah, well."

"Nothing to see from the outside. It all looks fine. Where does it hurt?"

"Sort of on the left

"I'm going to do the antiseptic trick again. I'll be very gentle, OK?" And I took quite a good amount of cream onto my finger. As I touched him he winced a little. "Are you sure you want me to do this?"

"I only want you to do it. Let me relax a moment."

I watched him relax, and then massaged the cream gently into the outside, and then eased my index finger gently in. I felt almost humble as I helped him. Being allowed, no asked, to perform a very personal service for him. I felt him tense as I reached the second ring of muscle. "Can you relax again?"

"Not sure. That wasn't nice. Hang on a sec." I waited. "Ok, ready."

My main concern was to make sure that there was plenty of antiseptic there, and that he wasn't bleeding. "I'm pulling out now."

"I know that!"

"Oh yeah, you would I suppose." I was concentrating on being gentle. "No blood anymore."

"Good. I think it's easier."

"Hope so. It's clean, too. I think." I was as relieved as he was. I mean the last thing either of us wanted was a nosy doctor. "Let's get to the bedroom" And I washed my hands and led the way out after he'd got decent again.

Mum had gone, and the two beds were ready. "Had we better use both of these, Chris?"

"Probably wise."

"Toss you for it?"

"Mmm, lovely! But not what I had in mind."

"What's that?"

"Let's wait for the house to get quiet, a bit. Just get into bed. Here, you take mine, I'll have this thing."

We snuggled down. Well, Nigel did. Snuggling on a hard camp bed is not possible. The bedside light was on, the curtains drawn shut. And the room was pleasantly warm, window open behind the curtains, a light breeze trying to get in, but failing. We heard my parents go to bed and the loo flushed for the last time that night.

"You still awake?" I whispered the question to Nigel


I got out of bed. "This is going to sound silly if I tell you, so will you just do what I ask you?"

"Er, yes... "

"It's going to be nice." I hoped it was. "Gentle."


"First, I want you naked."

"No surprises there, then!" He giggled at me. "You, too, then."



He looked gorgeous as he stood there, naked. Slim, lithe, not too muscled, a slight stirring between his legs, yet soft still. I had never really looked at him before. Not looked as in savouring. "Lie on the bed, face down, head on your arms."

"Chris, I can't take.. "

"I don't plan to. I know you can't."

"OK, I know. I'll trust you." And he lay down.

I'd sneaked some of Mum's moisturising cream from the bathroom. "Now relax. This is on the list of things I haven't done before. And I want it to be really lovely for you." I put a little on each hand, rubbed the together, and touched his shoulders with my fingertips." He tensed Just for a second.

"What are you doing?"

"Loving you. Now lie quiet." I used small circles to massage the shoulder blades, seeing them so clearly defined, feeling them so hard under his skin, under the soft layer of muscle. I saw how the ends of his hair fell softly into his neck as I moved to the centre, feeling the soft section between the shoulder blades and his spine, and I ,moved gently downwards, moving inwards and outwards now towards his sides, now central to the spine itself. I remembered the beach and sunscreen, but this was different. And I made sure that, light as my touch was, I massaged him instead of just stroking him.

As I reached his waist I adjourned to him arms, starting at the shoulder, and first down his left arm I smoothed each of his muscles, and moved all the way down to the tips of his fingers., and then down the right arms. Every so often renewing the moisturising cream. Back to his waist, to those sweet dimples each side of his spine. I kissed each one of those before I moved my fingers there, and massaged, now firmer over his bum.

"Careful Chris?"

"I know. It's OK."

"Sorry. I just hurt a bit still."

"I promise not to touch you there." And I carried on, down his long, sweet legs, loving each muscle, each gap between the muscles, and I moved down his thighs, to the back of his knees, to his calves. Massaging all the way, down his ankles, to his heels, seeing where the skin was hardened on the soles of his feet, to the soft flesh of his instep, to each toe. I kissed each toe, adored them, and them moved softly back up his legs, all the way I had come, back, retracing my steps, massaging the inside of his thighs, firmly so that I didn't tickle him, all the way up to his neck. I nuzzled his right ear, exposed, and on top.

"That's wonderful," he said dreamily.

"Turn over onto your back."

"I thought you'd never ask," he murmured.

"Plenty of time."

"Mmm. I love you, Chris."

"Shh. No talking. Now turn over." As he did I brushed his lips with mine. "Now I'm going to do the same to your front." And I started at his shoulder again, and moved down to his sides. And then towards his nipples. I wasn't going to pass either of them without kissing them. I kissed the left one.

"Oh wow!"

"Shh." And nibbled it.

"Mmm. Oh. Oh Chris, that's awesome."

And kissed and nibbled the right one. Pink, not large, not small, just perfect. "Oh Chris!"

"Shh. It's going to get better."

"It's wonderful. I can't stand it." He was struggling to keep his hands on the bed. I could see his hands clenching and unclenching as he refused to let himself join in.

"Shh." And I massaged his chest, and kissed and massaged my way down the valley in the middle, to where his stomach was muscled, tight and relaxed at the same time. I could feel his toes wriggling as I moved down, and his hands were still struggling. I knew from his breathing that he was having trouble not breaking the silence. "Feel good?" I whispered.

"How did you know it would be so - oh wow, you can do that all night - so, so... "

"I guessed. Now shh again." I'd been licking his belly button as he answered. I hadn't known. I'd just wanted to tell him with my hands. Sort of. And to look at him. In detail. Everywhere I kissed or licked, I was massaging with the tips of my fingers. Now soft, now firm, I was massaging with a circular action. I wasn't even sure I was going to do anything overtly sexual. I felt I was doing him a simple service. And yet I needed him. I could feel how much I needed him. Every tingle he felt came back through my fingers to me. As I was bending over him, every time I touched him a jolt of electricity ran through me, strained for release. If he'd touched me I swear I would have hosed him down, it was so powerful a feeling. Emotions and touch bound together.

I avoided his cock. On purpose. I kissed his soft belly each side of it, kissed his edges, and massaged gently, down to the creases beside that wonderful prize. And I looked as I massaged, as he wriggled, trying to get me to touch him where he needed release. I looked.

If it hadn't been a shade, just a hint darker than his untanned belly, I would have said alabaster, tinged with pink marble. Straining just clear of his belly as he lay on his back, it was beautiful. The underside was soft looking, almost with a sheen to it, yet velvety somehow, and with a darker stripe from base to the tip running along it. As I looked to the tip the foreskin covered it, the very tip just seeming thicker as the skin was bunched, able to be pulled back over the head. He was so excited I could see the outline of the head through the drum tight covering. It fascinated me. I nearly touched it. I looked down to where the fine fuzz was surrounding the base, and smelt that scent, that musk that rose from him there, driven by heat into my nostrils. Better than all the perfumes in the world. And the base, merging into his sack, all tense, wrinkled pulling his balls close to him, almost making them invisible. I followed down with my eyes, all the while massaging his belly and the top of his thighs, seeing the dark stripe from his cock somehow narrow as it passed through the sack, and turn into a kind of dark ridge, just slightly raised as it vanished into the cleft between his thighs. My own breathing was getting ragged.

I moved down each leg, kissing and massaging the front as I had done the back. I was struggling not to hurry. I needed him, but I wasn't going to rush. His knees, so soft from the back, were all knobbly in the front, the kneecaps moved a little as I massaged them, and then I was down to the shins, feeling the strong bone, and to the tops of his feet. And then back, up the shins. I wanted my prize. Back past the knees. I wasn't moving any faster, but I knew where I was headed. Nigel's breathing, his wriggling, increased in intensity. To his thighs. I was heading there, but I stopped to play with his sack, to find each oval ball, and to feel it gently, not squeezing and yet squeezing. And he moaned gently as I did. And then I moved my fingers to the base of the shaft. Just the lightest touch.

I hadn't thought he could get more aroused. His hands unclenched and he grabbed a handful of bed clothes each sided and held on to it. And his cock almost seemed to bulge. And that scent of musk, that boy smell, became overpowering. I wanted to bury my nose in it and breathe it for ever.

"Kiss it, Chris. Please kiss it." His voice was pleading.


"I can't stand it."

"Shh. Soon." And I moved my fingers up the shaft, caressing the shaft, feeling all the contours, marvelling at the feel. Like a steel bar, and yet pliable. And I felt how soft the skin was, and saw how tight and loose at the same time. And I moved to my prize. The index finger and thumb of each hand, either side of the tip, I pressed gently, and as he breathed in, a huge, shuddering breath, I kept the pressure there and moved my fingers downwards. I watched the skin at the tip seem to get thinner, and then open. It was as if the head pushed through rather than the skin pulling back. And there, pink and glossy, he was. Exposed. Beautiful. I looked at the head, at the wonderful shiny skin, at the tip weeping clear drops. At the arrowhead of skin joining the shaft to the head. I saw the different colour of the inside of his foreskin. The slight tightening where the part that was once the very tip compressed the shaft behind the head.

"Kiss it, Chris. Now. Please... "The merest touch of my tongue at the base. He shuddered. I drew my tongue the entire length of the shaft. "Ohhhhh"

"Shh." And I went down while I could still stand the pressure I was feeling in return, and nuzzled his sack. I pursed my lips and sucked, very gently, yet firmly, too, and one of his balls leapt into my mouth. Larger than I'd expected. Delicate. And my nose deep in the Nigel scent. I kissed my way back up his shaft, licking the arrowhead, and then that clear, salty drop at the tip. I had to turn round and straddle him to get the tip into my mouth. And I moved down onto it, picking it up with my tongue, and pulling it into me, hungrily.

It was inevitable. As I took him into my mouth he took hold of me and did the same. And I felt what I was giving to him, and shuddered with the pleasure of it, all the while inhaling the scent of him, strong and hot. I felt him moving his arms, tensing, trying to find something, but I concentrated on giving him slow, gentle pleasure. No furious pumping, but a slow, licking, caressing movement. The pleasure of feeling him squirm, silent except for moaning as I filled his mouth. The pleasure of his wriggles becoming more intense. And then a surprise, a gentle pressure between my legs as his fingers found me, and one intruded, so suddenly, so hot, then so, so, "aaaahhh." How it crept out I have no idea. My mouth was full, and I was concentrating

"Shh," was the muffled hiss from between my legs. And he pressed his finger in, and then forwards, and forwards and in, and backwards. Fire. I felt split apart by internal fire. Sharp, almost stinging, lashing flames, burning, both hot and cold. His mouth was there in front, but the feeling inside, exquisite, wonderful, as he probed me. I felt him withdraw and thrust again and again. It was all I could do not to grip his hand with my buttocks as he thrust his finger, now two, deep inside me, played with that spot, pushed, almost squeezed it, then withdrew and probed again. Better, yet not as good as his cock. Not as full, yet wilder the sensations. And concentrating on Nigel and what I was doing for him was impossible as he thrust into me fast, then slow, then fast again, keeping a rhythm impossible to replicate with his cock, only possible with a hand. Fire. So hot, I sucked his cock hard to stop from yelling. I felt the scream welling up inside me, felt the fire, the pressure, tried not to thrust into his mouth to choke him, felt my knees go weak, my legs vibrate, my knees close onto his sides as he fingered me, pressing forwards always forwards. It came form inside. My cock felt limp as it started. A huge, hot, almost burning feeling so deep inside, hotter, feeling him press suddenly hard and an immense suction on me form his mouth, feeling the heat explore from inside forwards, forwards, and hit the inside of my cock, feeling it on its way, fiery hot to the tip, and sting its way into his mouth. Once, twice, three times, more. Again, and the finger, pumping, pushing, probing, squeezing. The yell came. All the way. Up into my throat. I had to stop it, forced myself down onto his cock, sucked it, jammed it against the roof of my mouth.

"Unnnnnghhhhhhhhhhhhh. Uuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhhh. Mmmmmmmpppppppppphhhhhh." Almost contained, and his finger still there, excruciating, not stopping, his mouth milking me. His other hand on my back, stopping me from pulling away. Torture. Heaven. I knew. He would keep doing it until he came. Oh. How? No ability to concentrate. Suck. And the rhythm kept going, probe, suck, probe, suck, I was going to scream, or burst. Probe, suck. The fire, almost horrible, yet wonderful. Wonderful. I was opening for it, pressing back each time he drove it in. And hating it, and loving it. Hating it, wanting his finger out, hating it when it left me, needing it gone, wanting it back. Waves of fire shot all the way to the tip of my cock, and up inside me. And ice. Not just heat, but cold. Searing cold. And he started to lose his rhythm, and his back arched. I could feel his mouth on me, looser, then gripping, tight, hurting me as his back arched, his finger drive hard inside me and gripped me with fire as he came into me, came hard into my mouth, drove up into me from each end, and came again and again. Hot, sweating rivers, slippery form the cream and the sweat, scented with musk. Boy musk. Nigel scent.



On fire.

Collapsed, side by side, entwined, still. Not able to speak.

Crammed onto the single bed.

Nose to tail. Well almost.

I couldn't move. My legs were finished. Walking was out of the question.

Even turning round was out of the question.

Breathing wasn't exactly easy.

And he still had his finger deep inside me. And I needed it out. At once

So I had to speak. "Nnngh." Oh. Try again. "Nigghhh" Better. "Nigel!" Ahh.


At least he was having the same trouble. "Finger."


"Out! Need it out!"

"Urggh." But he pulled it out. And I wanted it back.


He managed to get his senses back. "Oh?" he said softly to my crotch.

"It feels empty now. But full, too. Er I think."

"Want it back?"

"No!" I couldn't. I did, but I couldn't.

"Enjoy it?" His voice was still muffled, coming from between my legs.

"I didn't mean you to do that. It was, oh it was awesome. Yes, oh yes."

"Me, too." He sighed. "Can you turn round?"


"Yeah. I can't move either."

I managed, though. To turn round. I mean I must have managed. Because I woke up while it was still dark needing the most enormous pee you can imagine. Didn't remember turning round. Nor anyone putting the covers over us. One of us did it, I suppose. But I woke up with his head on my chest, with the scent of his hair in my nostrils, and the curtain flapping as the breeze shook it.

The light was still on. The clock showed about twenty past three. I saw that when I'd finished untangling myself, and edged out of the bed.

He hadn't stirred when I got back. I looked at him, and wondered. How could someone so perfect love me? So completely perfect? He was all scrunched up, head sideways, not even on the pillow. All crooked, and all lovely.

I went to the light, intending just to turn it off. As I got to it, I looked at Nigel. It was a trick of the light, it must have been. But I saw his hair lit gold by the lamp, almost sparkling. I looked at his face. Pure peace. Eyelashes softly together. Eyebrows smooth. Forehead unworried. A slight smile on his lips. I kissed him, just softly, on his cheek.

He stirred. Damn, I didn't mean to wake him.

And turned onto his side, and snuggled down.

I didn't know what it was I felt just then. Overwhelming love. Fulfilment. Scared. All of those. But I hadn't expected the last one. Not to be scared. And I didn't know what of. I put it down to the past. To yesterday and the day before.

Another look at him. Scared went away. I kissed his cheek, the other one this time. No movement this time. And I turned off the light. No room in my bed with him, and probably not the wisest choice in case Mum came in early, so I got very carefully into, more like onto, the camp bed. Not comfortable, but usable. The beds weren't close enough for me to touch him. I took one pillow and hugged it tight. And got as comfy as I could on the hard canvas.

I don't know if it was his kiss that woke me, or the sound of rain hissing down outside the open window, My back was stiff, though.

"Hello, sleepyhead." Another soft kiss. Not urgent. Almost brotherly. "I've been watching you sleep."

"Not a lovely sight!"

"It was, you know. You looked so peaceful. Beautiful."

"I'm not."

"Don't argue. Even if you aren't to anyone else, which I doubt very much, to me you are beautiful. And I love you."

"You know, last night was meant to be just for you."

"Yeah, well," he grinned at me, "I couldn't resist it. I like it when you get excited."

"I loved looking at you, just touching you." I was feeling lazy, stiff back or not. "Is that rain?"

"It's pissing down."

"What time is it?"

"Early. Still before seven."

"What are we doing awake?" I was wondering about a few more years of sleep. But it felt good, just being with him.

"Dunno. I just needed you to be here with me. Conscious, I mean."

"Mmm." Our eyes met. Dreamy blue. I looked at the clock. It was a kind of silly thing now, but I'd made it. From a kit. You know, one where you pour plaster into a mould and then paint it and add the exciting electric movement. Only just before seven. But the house woke up at about seven, too. "We should get dressed."

"I suppose."

"Wouldn't mind a hug first though."

I got my reward. A soft smile. "Come here then. We'll fall through that camp bed."

"Put something on first. Mum or Dad might come in." We had neither of us seemed to have time to put pyjamas on before we fell asleep. I still felt strange. When we hadn't had, well not permission exactly, more agreement that no-one would know, it had seemed oddly easier to be together than when we were a sort of acknowledged item. Didn't make any difference to the hug, though.

I pulled my sleep shorts on, and sat down on the bed, the real one, not the camp bed, next to him, put an arm around him, and we sort of half fell, half squirmed backwards onto the bed. Which promptly gave out a loud 'Grrrrunnnkkk!'. "Shh!"

"It was the bed."

"Well I didn't think it was you, idiot."

"Shh, then."

"Shh yourself!"

Giggling in silence while wondering if the Grrrrunnnkkk from the bed has woken anyone, while breathing in the heady smell of him that morning, and wondering how he always managed to smell clean, was overpowering. I felt half scared someone would come in, half soppy and sentimental. And a third half starting to get aroused again. I was remembering dimly from the TV. 'Football is a game of three halves, Brian.' Suddenly it didn't seem so daft. I'd sneered at the time.

Lying there, in the half light from the drawn curtains, not moving, just side by side, on top of the duvet. Hardly touching. My hand on his left thigh, his left on my right thigh. Silent signals. Warm, even with the open window, listening to the torrent outside, to the downpour. Warm inside, too. Dreamy. Not sleepy, not even half asleep. Comfy. Mind adrift, wandering. Inconsequential thoughts. Almost dreamlike thoughts. Cosy. Peaceful. Complete. Yet so much to do. Tingly. Arousal sort of vanished. Always ready, yet suppressed in a way I didn't understand. We lay for a lifetime, there, in my room, hearing the world waking up.

A train, commuter train, heading for London. Rattled to us through the rain. Traffic. Just a buzz. We didn't live near enough to a main road to be worried by traffic noise. Cars swishing through the rain. Sounds of next door's radio from their kitchen. Capital Radio. Chris Tarrant. Safe sounds. An aircraft low and slow, heading for Heathrow. Familiar sounds.

The noise of the landing floorboards creaking. Mum. Or Dad. The loo flushing. I turned to Nigel, and whispered into his ear. "We should get up."

"Yeah," came the dreamy reply "Yeah, we should." He didn't move. Nor did I. Not for ages. "Do you feel it, too?"


"Well more than that, but yes, comfy."

I told him, then, all that was going through my head. Described the feeling as well as I could. The sweetness of being there with him. Having no need to talk. Just touching him lightly. Among all the old familiar things. Feeling so safe, and warm. Feeling so loved. Feeling so much love for him. I told him all that.

"Mmm. That feeling. Yeah. I've never felt like this before, Chris." He breathed out a long sigh. "Never."

I looked at him. He was smiling, yet his eyes were damp. And he looked so happy. "I didn't know it was possible. I didn't know." He was so beautiful. But it wasn't his looks. It was all of him. The person inside. I loved him so much I thought I would burst. And the house was getting up. "We have to get dressed."


"I keep feeling I want to call you something daft like 'darling', or, oh I don't know. But it sounds wrong when I say it in my head."

"Idiot!" And he hugged me. "I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing you tell me that you love me, though!"

"Nor me."

It took a huge effort to get off the bed. Just to do that simple thing. Gravity had conspired with love to keep us there. We got downstairs in the end. Not sleepy, no longer dreamy. Mum was in the kitchen. "Cereal and toast suit you?" She asked.

It suited us. I still felt awkward. She was easier than the previous day. To be with, that was. It almost got awkward when she asked us if we'd slept well. I had a pang of guilt. I knew I didn't need to, but I did.

"Not too bad, Mum. I let Nigel have my bed. I took the camp bed."

She looked, well pleased and disbelieving at the same time. Most of breakfast passed in silence. "I was thinking," she said, "that we need some information. All of us, I mean."

"Information, Mum?"

"Well, look, promise you won't get upset with me if I say something wrong?"

Oh. Oh. A lecture? "I'll, we'll try not to."

"Well," she continued, a little hesitantly, "I wanted to go into town to the library, to see if there was anything useful about, er, oh Chris, I'm not doing very well here."

"Do you mean about people like us?"

"Yes. No. yes. Well not exactly. No. Practical stuff. Keeping healthy. No, not HIV, you explained that, though I'm going to check for myself. I mean hygiene, keeping yourselves truly healthy. I just don't believe that parts of you are meant to go into certain other places." She was blushing furiously. Me, too. I didn't dare look at Nigel. "And I wanted to find out, somehow. If I could." She sighed. "Chris, I know I'm old fashioned and stuff. But I do love you. And I worry. And I need to know enough not to worry. About you, too, Nigel. For you I mean."

I was curious, a little. I hadn't used the library much. Just to get out books to read on holiday, that sort of thing. But not as somewhere to look stuff up in. "Do you want us to come with you?"

"Do you want to?"

Nigel answered for me. Voiced the things I needed to say. "I'd like to. Please. Yes. I think there are things we need to know. I don't see how we can find out otherwise. Not without getting some nosy doctor involved, at least."

I'd forgotten until then that he'd been very sore. I owed it to him. But I was embarrassed, too.

We settled it over breakfast. Well, the remains of the toast. We'd go into town. By car. All together. Mum phoned the Croppers, well Claire, to let her know where we were going. "Your mother's going to meet us there," she said to Nigel. "She'd had much the same idea."

After breakfast I managed to get a moment with Nigel. "I'd almost forgotten you were sore. Are you OK?"

"I thought I was having a baby when I went to the loo," he said. "But I've put some more stuff there. No blood. Seems to be a split, sort of. It's kind of clean sore, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it. Are you sure it's OK?"

"No. But I think it is. It feels easier, somehow."

At which point we were whisked out of the house and into the car and into town. It was still chucking it down. We parked in the multi-storey in the shopping centre. Mum got the pay and display ticket, and we took the lift down. Nigel and I kind of followed a couple of paces behind her. We cut through Marks & Spencer to the High Street. As we it daylight I saw someone I knew looking out from under an umbrella.

Someone with blond hair. With gorgeous legs.

Someone I needed to talk to.


And she was with someone else.

And they looked as though they were talking about me.

About us?

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