Date: Thu, 10 Jan 2019 15:50:20 +0100 (CET)
From: jonkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: AND SO TO BED - GAY - ADULT YOUTH

AND SO TO BED by Jon Kent


DISCLAIMER

Everyone should accept the laws of his country, reserving the right to
strive democratically to change those he disagrees with. Therefore, if the
laws where you live say that you should NOT be reading stories like these,
you are legally obliged to leave now and read no further. It does not
matter if these stories are fiction, made-up, only written to entertain,
instruct, engage, and inform. If for any reason, the law where you live
says you are NOT allowed to read them, you have to go. So off you go.  Live
a healthy and happy life, and come back, if you want to, when your laws
say.

And remember: these are only stories. They are made-up. They did not
happen. And the writer does not believe they should happen. The first
responsibility of adults is to protect children and their innocence. It
doesn't mean some adults won't enjoy reading stories like this, but it
doesn't mean they should go out and do things like this. Who knows? maybe
reading stories like this will actually stop them going out and doing these
things.

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ANDO SO TO BED

1 - Settling in

It's my first night in the Junior Boys' Boarding House. I'm lying in bed,
window wide open, listening to the September starlings' song. Tomorrow
morning, I'll be up by seven, strolling the corridors and dormitories,
shaking sleepy boys gently awake, reminding them it's showers by 7.30. On
the first floor, 50 younger boys aged 7 to 10, will stagger along, half
asleep to the showers, most of them naked except for the towels slung
around their necks. On the second floor, 60 boys aged 11 to 13, will need
firmer persuasion to abandon their beds and their dreams.

All of them will be naked. They have privilege of hot pipes in their shower
room where they hung their towels the night before. Some of the boys will
look young enough to still be downstairs; others will have sprouted enough
hair to demonstrate they are under the spell of puberty. They will squeeze
their cocks and scratch their arses absent-mindedly. Some tumescent, some
semi-tumescent. Morning, and an overheated building, do that for
them. Matron is shooing them along. They ignore her. They give me a "Good
morning, sir." I am their new Housemaster and they've grown up with the
protocol.

Not a Housemaster, Assistant Housemaster, but that means I'll be living in
the House and have more direct authority over them than any other adult in
the school, except the Housemaster and Headmaster. They know it's best to
keep on the right side of me but my cheery "Morning, boys" reassures them,
and several of them risk a smile back. In the House, there is no Stranger
Danger, and certainly not from a Housemaster.

I lie in bed and wonder what the fuck I've done. I've accepted the post of
Assistant Housemaster/English/PE teacher. They've let the Fox into the
Chicken Coop. I'm the Fox and I'm wondering if I'll be able to keep off the
chickens. In taking the job, I promised to keep hands off. Even as I made
the promise to myself I knew I wouldn't be able to keep it.

2 - Joseph

Joseph is 12, tall for his years, not heavily built but with the elegant
muscularity of a gymnast. Deep chest, narrow waist, rounded buttocks, long
legs, and a face that is already more handsome than cute. He effortlessly
dominates those he admits to his group: what Joseph says goes, what Joseph
wants he gets, and what Joseph wants now is a massage.

"You owe me a massage, Mr. C.," Joseph says in that cut-glass accent of
his.

For several weeks, I've been giving Joseph massages my study room. He
stretched his elegant body along the carpet while I massage his neck, his
shoulders, his back, my hands sliding lower and lower until I reach the
globes of his buttocks. Squeezing, kneading, massaging, manipulating the
firm flesh beneath my fingers. Then turning him over to let me palms slide
under his sports vest, massage his chest, brushing on his nipples, before
letting my palms slide over the flatness of his belly, edging just under
the tops of his trousers, jeans or shorts. Always drawing back just before
the line of no return is reached, but pulling the skin with me so he feels
the tightness on his pubis. Drawing back because once a line is crossed
there is no return.

Joseph has had enough, he wants more, and he wants it this afternoon. He
stretches out on the rug by the couch. Strong eyebrows over large, wide-set
eyes. Thick golden brown hair flops over one eye. He looks up at me, into
my eyes, fearlessly, and whispers: "I like having a hard-on."

None of the boys in the House has ever used this word in front of me.  Now
Joseph, looking into my eyes, states a simple truth: "I like having a
hard-on."

I know the moment of decision has come.

I slide to the carpet and kneel between the legs of the beautiful boy who
has just whispered, "I like having a hard-on." His hard-on is obvious. I
run my fingers its length. The line has been crossed. We both know there is
only one place left to go. Joseph stretches out on the Persian rug, flicks
back his hair, cups his head in his hands, and then sighs as if to say "at
last". Has he had sex before? I doubt it. Does he know what to expect? I
doubt it. But he trusts me. Lying there, he seems so vulnerable, so young,
so innocent, so anxious, so determined, so available.

The bulge is clearly discernible through well-worn jeans. My fingers trace
the denim on either side, fingers that have massaged his chest, shoulders
and neck for half an hour, fingers that have kneaded and moulded his back,
fingers that have clenched and unclenched on his denim-guarded buttocks. My
finger tips trace the innocent, satin skin of his stomach, the line where
denim meets. skin, where snow white cotton peaks out from under the
slate-blue jeans.

My right palm slides over his stomach, down over his belt, onto the bulge,
and presses against the flesh, hot and hard beneath the denim. Even then I
could stop, I could draw back, I could retreat into my role as teacher,
master, mentor, man to the boy. I look into Joseph's eyes and see the
storms of desire, gold-flecks amongst the hazel.

I hear his sigh.

My thumbs flick open the buckle of his snake belt. My thumbs grasp the
edges of his jeans and worked them down over his hips. Joseph raises his
hips high as I work his jeans down his knees.

His underpants are those I'd expect a six-year-old to wear. I am surprised.
Joseph is the most sophisticated boy in the House, but perhaps this is the
impression created by his accent and self-assured carriage. His underpants
are purple with small yellow ducklings printed across them. The outline of
his stiff cock makes it obvious the boy is not six years old. And, as I run
my lips its length, I feel it stiffen and harden even more till it
stretches the think fabric even as I soak it with my spit.

I feel the boy's fingers wriggling near my face. I realise what he is
doing. He is pushing down his underpants. He is impatient to feel skin
against skin, flesh against flesh, my lips against his pulsing penis. I
raise my head to let him free himself, open my mouth and let him slide
in. My head begins to bob above his tummy. My lips tighten and slacken as I
draw him in, draw him deep, then let him slide almost out. Joseph raises
his hips, lets them fall, raises them again. The boy is fucking my mouth;
it is instinctive; his hips rise and fall from the carpet to press deeply
in until I'm able to swallow his balls too, hold his complete genitals in
my mouth, pressing gently but insistently on the flesh.

As he rises, my hand slides under his bum. At first I'm not sure how far he
will let me go, but as he pushes rhythmically into my mouth and throat, I
realise he doesn't care what I do - at least till now. My fingers edge
between his cheeks, feeling the heat increase until the tip of my middle
finger is against his anus. For a while the muscle resists, then with the
equivalent of a sigh, it surrenders and opens, and my finger slips in to
the first knuckle. I'm tempted to drive it in deeper but I don't want to
hurt or scare him. Gently, gently, until he gives himself to me because he
wants to, because he needs to - until there are no boundaries.

I find I'm on my back. Joseph is fucking my mouth. His increasing intensity
tells me he will orgasm soon,. I wonder if can cum. You never can tell at
their age. He may be ready but I'm not. I raise my head, I let him slide
from my mouth, he tries to slide back in but I close my lips. I hear a
little grunt of frustration as I slide away from him, turn alongside him,
then gently edge the boy over onto his front. As he turns, he looks at me
questioningly out of those wide hazel eyes. I raise my eyebrows and he
turns over, resting his face on his elbows. His jeans and underpants are at
his knees his bum in the air.

The boy is not sure what my intentions are, and, to be honest, neither am
I.

I'm acting on instinct. I prise open the cheeks of his buttocks -
millimetre by millimetre. I want him to feel the air on his hole to realise
he is intimate with me in a way he's never been with another person
before. There's the thrill of discovery, the thrill of the forbidden, but I
don't want to scare the boy, so I'm giving him the chance to clench his
buttocks and warn me away. But he doesn't, and I can see my goal. It's a
tiny starfish, slightly discoloured at the centre of ivory-cream skin. I
press the tip of my middle finger against it, draw the tip back and forth
on the miniscule serration, and move my face closer. Can Joseph feel my
warm breath on it? Would he feel the tip of my......?

The tip of my tongue is touching the tiny centre.

I have gone too far. There is no way back now. I know the male teachers
around me might understand the attraction of a 12-year-old boy. Fondling,
naive kissing, even mutual masturbation might be acceptable - even if it
meant instant dismissal - but my adult tongue licking his juvenile anus?
No, far too far. For them that's dirty, unnatural, unforgivable. For
Joseph? I don't know. His rhythmic breathing tells me nothing.

Panic strikes.

With as much dignity as I can manage, I raise myself from the floor. Joseph
rolls onto his back. He looks up at me, questions in those mesmerizing
hazel eyes.

"Must be nearly Prep time," I gruffly announce. I reach down to give him a
hand up, then kneel to draw up his underpants and his jeans. I try not to
but I can't help myself. Before zipping him up, I lean forward and kiss the
erection below his underpants. I'm rewarded with a smile.

"Can we have football after Prep?" he asks.

"Yes, I don't see why not. Go downstairs, ring the bell for Prep. Pass the
word: football after Prep."

Joseph grins. Leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. Then turning, slips
out of the door.

I collapse on the sofa. I realise I'm trembling, shaking, sweating. I'm not
taking Prep., so there's plenty of time before I ref a House football
game. Time for a shower. Time for a G&T - make that a double. Time
for... my erect cock is aching. The quicker under the shower the better.

But he kissed me. The boy kissed me.

I spend the next few hours in ecstasy and dread. I've crossed the
line. I've undressed a 12-year-old boy, I've sucked his cock, licked and
kissed his anus. Whether any of it had been at his invitation is neither
here nor there, at least in the eyes of the school and of the law. He is a
boy, a minor, and he is in my trust, and, according to them, I've betrayed
it.

But, oh, the ecstasy.

After the football game, after dinner, after free time, showers, bed time,
I sit in my room playing images in my head over and over. Those wide-set
hazel eyes. The curve of the eyebrows. The auburn hair. The perfect nose,
the perfect skin. The elongated, slim but powerful body. Nipples like
raisins. The smooth flow of the torso, curvature of the tummy, and the
bones of those hips as they slide down to the flat pubis - hairless,
smooth, silk, with Joseph's erection straining towards his belly
button. Three to four inches, the solidity of the shaft, the foreskin that
slips so easily back over the slick head with its single eye demanding to
be kissed.

But, oh, the dread.

The knock at the door. The polite request: the Headmaster would like to see
you in his study, please. The long walk down to the main house. The
shame. No, not shame, that would be a lie. The embarrassment. The
humiliation of sitting there thinking, "I did it because I wanted to. I did
it because I couldn't resist the beauty, and, yes, the sensuous sexuality
of the boy. And, yes, I would do it again. I'd like to go back to the
House, call Joseph to my room. Suck him silly. Kiss, lick and suck his
anus. Then fuck him silly. And send him and me to bed happy."

It would all be so polite, so pleasant, so civilized, almost sympathetic,
for how many men in boys' school would like to fuck at least some of the
boys, night after night. What a selection! What paradise! That's what often
made them such great teachers of boys - the unspoken, unadmitted, even
subconscious bond between man and boy. The boy wants sex, and doesn't much
care where he gets it; the man wants sex, and he cares where he gets
it. That's why he puts up with all those long years of isolation,
incarceration, separation from the adult world.

To share the lives of the boys, forever and ever, Ah boys!

I was wondering if, like Mr. Chips, I would pass away as a stream of boys
passed before me, tipping their caps, smiling, and saying: "Goodbye,
Mr. C. Thanks for the fuck," when the knock came at the door.

They say your heart leaps into your mouth; it doesn't; but it fucking well
feels as if it has.

It must have been around 10.30, bit late for the Headmaster, or his
emissary to be calling. Why had he waited so long - to let me sweat it out?

"Come in."

Joseph comes in.

He's in his pajamas. Off-white with blue vertical stripes. They're a bit
frayed and battered. They don't cover his ankles. He's the tallest boy in
the House. The rope belt hangs down over his crotch, the tassels bouncing
against an erection. Few of the boys keep on their underpants at night.

"Well, Joseph, it's good to see you. But it's a little late to come
calling."

The boy took two steps forward. I'd never noticed how big his feet
were. Shapely but big. Where were his slippers? He could catch splinters in
the corridor. Such are the concerns of a Housemaster (assistant).

"Got a headache, sir. I can't get to sleep."

The boy has my sympathy.

"Isn't Matron in?"  (I knew she wasn't. It was her night off.)

"It's her night off, sir. She won't before midnight. And she'll be..."

His voice tails away. We both know how Matron will be on her night off.

"Okay," I say. "I'll make up a Lemsip for you."

"It's not that kind of headache, sir."

In recollection, what amazed me about Joseph was his ability to look right
into one's eyes and maintain the contact even when he knew I knew what he
meant.

He takes two steps forward. He's standing inches from me. My eyes are level
with his chest. I reach forward and undo the tie of the pajamas. They slide
to the carpet.

His erection, his stiffy, looks as if it's aching. I slip one palm
underneath his balls - unlike many boys in the House his balls have fully
dropped and swing in their sac - lean forward and run my tongue up and down
his shaft. I can feel it throb beneath my lips. I slide my lips over the
head, push down the foreskin, and run them round the glans. I run my free
hand over his pubic area - flat and smooth as ivory - across his tummy, up
his chest, to tweak each nipple in turn.

I feel the boy's hands either side of my head, pushing himself deeper into
my mouth, and regulating the speed at which I'm fellating him. As I've
mentioned, Joseph found it easy to take command. My other hand slips round
his bum so that I can squeeze those luscious cheeks. His legs begin to
tremble, and I wonder if he'll be able to ejaculate semen into my mouth, my
throat, my stomach.

"Can you do some of the other thing, please, sir?"

For a moment I'm puzzled?

The other thing?

Reluctantly, I feel him slide from my mouth. I look up. The boy is
blushing. This was another first. I'd never seen Joseph blushing before. He
turns his back to me and bends over. He pulls his cheeks wide open. He
turns and faces me.

"Oh, the other thing."

"Yes, please, sir."

I stand up, shift my erection to a more comfortable position, take Joseph's
hips and turned him round, give his back a gentle push, and he is bent
double, resting his head on the back of the couch. I slide to my knees and
urge him to open his legs wide. I open his cheeks as wide as I can without
causing him too much strain.

Every boy in the House has a shower every night before bed. Few sights are
more stimulating that twenty or boys, naked, dripping, soap-sudded,
cavorting in the showers - no cubicles, everything open to all. Laughing,
making jokes, pointing at each other's 'willies' - "Look! Tim's got a
hard-on!  Look!  Robert is getting hairs! Look at Robin! Bet he'd like a
bum-fuck!"

But no matter how much they scrub and soap, they still smell -
hamsterish. Like a freshly cleaned hamster cage, different soaps adding
personal scents to each boy. There are times I have to leave the shower
area as I feel myself getting light-headed as well as randy as an in-heat
jack rabbit.

I could have kneeled in front of Joseph's arse till morning, just gazing in
awe and wonder, but my tongue wanted more. Again the thrill of running the
tip of my tongue over the brownish anus. I wonder how a big turd can escape
from anything so small, so beautiful. I peel open those tiny lips and my
tongue tip worms inside.

The smell hits me. No, not smell, that's too crude a word. The scent hits
me, envelopes me, literally makes shivers down my spine.

Joseph's anus is greasy, as if he hasn't wiped himself properly, and I'm
surprised how easily my middle finger slips inside him. He grunts and
pushes himself backwards, sending the message I want. This affair started
with body massages, now I can reach up into his rectum massage its walls
with my fingers. I do. This increases the smell tenfold. For a moment I
slip out my finger and hold it under my nose. A boy's most powerful
aphrodisiac.

"Get it in again sir... please, please."

Can I get my finger deeper in his rectum?

Can I locate and massage his prostate gland - tiny as it might be?

I finger-fuck the twelve-year-old faster, harder, the slippery mucus
letting me finger-fuck him even faster, even harder.

Joseph's legs tremble, shake as if he has the palsy, and he falls forward
face-first onto the couch, his arse bobbing backwards and forwards on my
finger. The boy is cumming. I get my free hand round his front, my fingers
round his hard-on, drive his foreskin back and forward over the head, whip
him round, open my mouth and let him spurt into my open mouth.

I slide my finger from his bum, stand up, and look down at the sight of a
twelve-year-old boy in a pyjama top crumpled on my couch. For a moment I'm
sick with worry. Then Joseph rolls over. Hauls his pajama bottoms up and
throws himself backwards onto the couch. Red in the face but
laughing. Laughing.

"Did I cum, sir? Did I cum?" he asks excitedly.

"You certainly did, Joseph, and you taste yummy!"

There's a look of pride in his grin.

"That was great, sir, that was great."

There was a silence, but it was my silence, not the boy's.

"May I have that Lemsip now?" he asked. "I really have got a teeny weeny
headache. I didn't just come here for the... massage." He laughs again.

I make a Lemsip for Joseph, and a gin&tonic for myself.

We sit together on the couch, sit and sip and chat and gossip - mainly
about the hockey tournament on Saturday (Joseph is Captain of Hockey) but
also about..... oh, I can't remember. What was important, and still amazes
me, is how self-confident, self-assured but not cocky, good-humoured the
boy was. Not a trace of shame, not a trace of regret. If there was to be
any of that, he was leaving it to me the adult.

Around ten, I grew firm.

"Bed, Joseph, and no argument. Get your sweet little ass - " (the boys
loved Americanisms) "out of here and into bed. And no playing with
yourself. Too much of that and you'll go blind. Not much use having a
hockey captain who can't see the puck."

Joseph rises. Stands over me a moment. Leans down and kisses me on the
lips.

"Thanks, sir. Thanks for the Lemsip. And thanks for the... massage."

One more smile and he's gone.

Now here's the thing.

There was sex yes, but not as often as you might have anticipated.  Nothing
else changed in our relationship. Joseph remained friendly and fun, kind
and considerate, a leader amongst boys. We settled down to the routine of a
boarding house, which, on a day to day basis, ran itself on automatic
pilot. But I did discover why Joseph wasn't as regular a visitor as I
guessed he might be. And here's why.

3 - Ben

It was a lazy Sunday morning after church. An exeat weekend when the
majority of boys, including Joseph, were up and away. I was stretched out
on my couch, Ben stretched alongside me. I ran my fingers under his
T-shirt, marvelling at the satin smoothness of his skins and the lightness
of his bones. Like many boys at 11 years old, Ben felt unbelievably light,
as fragile as a bird or a kitten, though in truth Ben was a tough little
rugby player with the face of an angel - a peaches and cream English boy
angel.  We were passing the time before lunch. I gently open and closed
Ben's legs, watching the bulge beneath his sports shorts grow.

"With Robert, defo. Toby, too. Not so sure about Jason, but I know Joseph
will get round to him."

"And you?" I smiled. "Has Joseph got round to you yet?"

"No," said Ben, an indignant note in his voice. Joseph and I have been at
the same schools since we were five. His mum and dad are abroad. He stays
with us a lot of the time. Joseph and I don't..." Ben paused and gave the
matter some thought. "It would make things too - complicated."

"I see," I said, and I did.

Small fingers tugged at my zip.

"Before lunch?" I laughed.

"An aperitif," laughed Ben, whose parents owned one of the most renowned
restaurants (two Michelin stars) in London.

I swung my hips round to make things easy for Ben. He slid down my body. I
knew he would take his time. Life is good, I thought to myself. A lazy
Sunday morning. only half a dozen boys in the House. Ben liked to take his
time. He would nurse my cock with his fingers, lips, mouth, taking me to
the edge again and again, before racing to the finish line and I would
spurt again and again into his mouth. I wriggled my down the back of his
shorts, his underpants, to let my middle finger tip caress his
starfish. I'd ease my finger deep inside him, then find a rhythm to match
the boy's.

Yes, life was good.

What I remember about Joseph is his voice. Though not broken, it seemed
deeper and richer than the boys around him, and his diction was
flawless. Completely natural, completely flawless. It was this voice I'll
always remember: "I like having a hard-on."

But before we pass on, let's describe Ben's approach for the record.

Peaches and cream.

When I think of Ben, and I do, I think of 'peaches and cream'. I'm looking
at a photograph of him as I write. The brown hair with its fringe. Creamy
skin tanned by the early summer sun. Freckles - lots of them. Eyes denim
blue. Straight nose. Curved lips. Wearing his beloved rugby shirt. Broad
shoulders. Light blue silky shorts. Sitting on my study couch. A tennis
racquet on his lap.

That's what he was wearing the day before when he knocked on my bedroom
door. My living quarters were on the second floor of the House adjacent to
the dorms of the older boys. My bedroom and bathroom were on one side of
the corridor; my study and sitting room on the other.

The knock on the door.

Ben has Ben playing football on the huge lawn that swept down to the
lake. A hot, sunny day. He is wearing his rugby shirt. His sweat has turned
it dark blue. His face is awash with sit.

"Please, sir, can you towel my back?"

I step aside. Ben steps inside. I close the door behind him.

I'm usually reluctant to allow boys into my bedroom. There's always the
danger of gossip. But it's half an hour before lunch. The House is entirely
empty. The cleaners have gone. Matron has gone to town.

Ben has no towel with him. Neither of us comment on this.

I take a beach towel hanging on the door. Ben turns to the bed and stands
facing away from me. With a huge amount of tugging and pulling he managed
to get his rugby shirt off. It falls to the fall. I start towelling his
shoulders - they are broad and accentuate his narrow waste. I begin just
beneath his hair which badly needs cutting and gently, rather than roughly,
rub him dry. I move the towel down his back. He raises his arms and clasps
his hand over his head. His armpits are nakedly beautiful. I want to kiss
them but manage to restrain myself.

The towel and my hands work their way down to his silky blue shorts. His
hands come around and push his shorts half way down his bum. The crease is
also hugely kissable. I dry them gently. He pushes his shorts down further
until over his bum they slide down to the crooks his knees. I slip to my
knees and urge his legs open, then slide the towel up the inside of his
legs deep into his crack. Down the right leg the towel slides, up the left
leg its slides. I drop the towels and repeat the action with my fingers
until they are brushing his ball sac.

Ben turns round.

He is fully erect. Ben is eleven going on twelve and he is a well-endowed
boy, though no sign of pubic hair yet. I curl my right hand round his hard
on and begin, gently, to masturbate him. His foreskin is loose. I edge it
down as far as it will comfortably go. I run the small finger of my left
hand round and the bottom of the head of his erect penis. An incredibly
sensitive area in all young boys. I look up. Ben's eyes are closed. His
head thrown slightly back. His lips twisting. Tiny moans escape them. I let
his hard-on slip into my mouth.

At first I suck. Then gripping each cheek, I urge him to fuck my face. The
action is instinctive and his thrustings need no encouragement from. Face
fuck becomes skull fuck as he puts his hands round the back of my head to
urge it backwards and forwards as hard, fast and deep as he can make it. He
is eleven going on twelve and he doesn't last long. His legs are
shaking. His moans are louder. His thrusting more and more aggressive. Two
or three little squirts hit the back of my throat. I hold him steady in
case his legs go from under him. After thirty seconds or so he becomes calm
and releases my head.

What now?

The blame and shame game?

Nothing of the sort.

Ben dives onto my bed - it's a double - lies and his back and spread-eagles
himself.

"My front's still sweaty but you can fuck me if you want. I think I'll be
good at it."

I'm taken aback by the boy's confidence and self-reassurance.

As I towel his front, I say:

"Ben. Have you been fucked before?"

He gives me a horrified look.

"No, I haven't..." then adds "sir".

"I'm not a dirty boy, but I know what men want to do to boys. So, if you
want to do it to me, do it. I promise I won't scream or anything. If you
try to seduce me, I won't try to stop you."

It's a bit late for seduction, and I'm not sure who had seduced whom?"

"Ben, it's ten minutes to lunch." I continue drying him. "Go to your
dorm. Get fresh clothes and be in the line-up in nine minutes. If you're
not in the line-up when I get there, I'll give you a good .... "

"Spanking!" he yells.

"No. Not a spanking. But I'll think of something. Now scram, vamoose
skedaddle."

And skedaddle he does. And eight minutes later when I stroll out to take
line-up, Ben is standing there, fresh as the morning dew, looking like -
peaches and cream.

Did I fuck Ben?

Yes, I did.

On his twelfth birthday.

Did he fuck me?

Yes, he did.

But that's later on in the story.

Don't fret.

We'll get to it.

Life in a junior boys' boarding house is highly-organised. School days
follow each other with regularity on the lines: Wake up at 7am, Get up at
7.30, Showers till 8, Breakfast till 8.30, Inspection till 8.45, Line-up
8.55, School 9am. Morning break. Lunch. School till 3pm. Free time or clubs
till 4, Prep 4 till 5, Dinner 5.30 to 6, Free time 6 to 7.30, Showers 8 to
8.30, Lounge around House till Bedtime which varies depending on age. All
lights out 9.30pm.

Saturday morning: School 9 to 11. Free time to early lunch. 12 to 5 Sports,
Matches - Home or Away, Time in Town (Housemaster available in town). 5
onwards - up to Assistant Housemaster to arrange - me. My Saturday evening
treat: a movie on the big screen in the House lounge. Showers first. Then
make toast and beans. Sprawl on the couches and carpets in the lounge. 40
to 50 boys in pajamas - scattered everywhere, lots of bums in the air,
uninhibited farted. Remaining boys can divert themselves around the
House. A Boy Lovers' Paradise.

"If you try to seduce me, I won't try to stop you."

Seducing a boy is the most thrilling, most arousing, most panic-provoking
venture a live-in Housemaster can undertake. A misreading a false step, and
the least that may happen is your job gone, your reputation, and your
chances of getting a similar post in any other school. That said, how many
Housemasters can resist temptation?


4 - Toby

It's a warm Saturday afternoon in late September. A gentle breeze ruffles
the lake. You hang out your second floor window drinking in the scents of
summer. Voices carry on the breeze to tell you that the town coach is
pulling out of the school grounds. The boarding house is yours and yours
alone.

Not quite.

Finger nails drum at your door. You sigh and call, "Come in."

The door swings open. It is Toby. Still in his cricket whites. You'd
forgotten the Under-13 cricket practice was on in the morning. You're no
cricketer. Tennis is your love; tennis and boys.

"Waiting for mum, sir," says Toby with a confidence showing how comfortable
he is to be here with you. "May I wait here, sir?"

"When do you expect her Toby?"

"Not before 3 at least, sir. Mum's absent-minded. She's probably forgot I'm
here."

Toby doesn't feel the need to give you further explanation. He has the
self-assurance that beauty brings. Besides, he knows you like him; after
all, Toby is the top pupil in your English class. Certain for a
scholarship. Confident but never arrogant. For all the certainty that
beauty, sporting prowess and academic ability bring, Toby is rather
lonely. Lonely because he has no father; a mother and two sisters, but no
father.

"Make us some lemonade. There's a good lad," you smile. "I need to get out
of these whites."

Toby makes for the refrigerator. He knows where the lemonade us, knows
where the ice is, knows where the glasses are. All the boys do, boarders
and non-boarders. You are known for your open-house; you are strict when
you have to be, but otherwise you are open, easy-going, friendly. After
all, there's no reason for you not to be. You are in paradise and you know
it.

Ninety-nine boys. Ages, 8 to 13. Two floors. Average: 6 boys to a dorm. And
you are the Assistant Housemaster. You live in. The Matron lives in. But
you're the man of the house; the boys are in your charge, under your
orders. It is you who gets them up in the morning, watches them shuffle
sleepy-eyed to the showers, watches them as they strip and hang their
pajamas on the brass hooks, watches them as they stumble like blind baby
mice under the spitting shower heads, gasping until the cold water turns to
a warm embrace that enfolds their naked, vulnerable bodies, the water
coursing...

"A splash of vodka, sir?"

"Excuse me?"

You're standing in tight white underpants and white socks, your tennis
shirt and shorts carelessly discarded. Toby does not bat his lovely
eyelashes; you are all men and boys together. You reach for track-suit
bottoms and a fresh T-shirt.

"Vodka, sir. In your lemonade, sir? In MY lemonade, sir?" The emphasis on
the 'my' makes Toby's request half comic, half serious.

"Neither," you reply. "Do you want to get us both into trouble?"

"But there's nobody here, sir, just me and you. We can do whatever we
want. And I nick my mum's vodka at home. She never notices it. Vodka hardly
smells."

"Well, getting you drunk isn't something I want to do, young man. Lemonade
will do. Now park your arse over there while I get dressed."

It almost slipped out. "Park your 'lovely' arse," almost slipped out. The
quicker you are into clothes the better.

Toby settles down on the three-seater couch, buttermilk with thin brown
stripes. The boys love it. Four can share it, sprawl across it, fight for
possession, and treat it and the room as if it were their own homes, their
own rooms.

You settle down on the carpet in front of the boy. You are comfortable, he
is comfortable. Outside all is stillness, even the songbirds are drowsed by
the late afternoon sun.

The conversation is fitful, desultory, haphazard as if being together were
enough. Toby finishes his lemonade, lays it aside and picks up your new
calculator.

"What's this?"

You lay aside your drink and reply, "It's my new calculator. But it's also
a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a translator. It translates English into
French, German and Spanish."

"Cool," smiles Toby and begins to explore the possibilities.

You are sitting directly in front of him. He is tall for his age, and slim,
the kind of slimness that is elegant. Toby is elegant. Longish
face. Wide-set blue-green eyes. Eyebrows are brown slashes counterpointed
by the rosy pink slash of his lips. His skin is flawless, creamy porcelain
kissed by the sun. His skin is translucent. His cricket shirt is open to
the third button and you notice how translucent the skin is; you can see
the blue veins beating in his neck. His long legs, white flanelled, are
crossed at the ankles.

You reach forward and idly draw his knees together and apart, together and
apart, together and apart. You watch the creases of the fabric in his
crotch and you wonder about the skin below; how pale, translucent and
fragile it must be. You realise what you're doing and stop.

"Don't stop, sir... that's nice."

You look up. Toby's eyes are fixed on the small screen of the calculator.

Together, apart, together, apart... you recommence the rhythm.

The white fabric across Toby's crotch has tented, or are you only hoping
that it has? Lazily, with a sigh, you run your thumbs along the inside of
each thigh, moving towards the tent. Toby widens his legs and keeps them
open. He doesn't look at you.

"You have beautiful skin," you hear yourself whisper.

There is no reply, but the boy shifts along the couch as if making room for
you. You slide from the carpet to the couch. You sit alongside the boy. You
lean your head on his shoulder as if to share the calculator. You drink in
his smells: sweat and milk, that's what you're reminded of, sweat and
milk. You reach across and push the slash of straight brown hair from the
boy's eyes.

You reach down and slip open the fourth button on his white shirt, then the
fifth. You tug the shirt gently open on both sides. Toby shifts to make it
easier for you. You are fascinated by the translucency, the fragility of
the boy's skin. Creamy ivory. His nipples are tiny pink starfish reminding
you this boy is barely into puberty.

You run your fingertips over his nipples; they are hard little nubs; your
fingertips pass over the skin of his chest, his tummy, the stretch of white
skin above the belt of his cricket flannels. A bead of sweat is hidden in
his tummy button. You retrieve it, bring the moisture to your lips, and
lick it away.

You want to explore further, but your erection is uncomfortable. You need
to straighten it. You rise for a moment, and...

And Toby reaches out and traces the length of your erect penis between the
thumb and first two fingers of his right hand. You look down at him. You
blush. You're about to push his hand away when he pushes his face hard
against your erection. He moves his face side to side; his nose fences with
your hard-on.

You hear a whispered, "Please, sir, please."

Half in terror, half in desire, you place your hand on the top of Toby's
head, run your fingers through his thick straight lustrous brown hair. Toby
has one hand on your buttock, pulling you towards him; the other hand is
measuring your erection in tiny squeezes. You can feel your hips begin
reflexively to push your groin into the boy's face. s.

It is becoming more and more difficult to think.

Then Toby's hands and fingers are on either side of your waist, edging down
the track suit bottoms, and again comes the whispered, "Please, sir,
please."

The track suit bottoms have built-in underpants. They are coming down,
too. In a few moments you will be naked, exposed, your arousal impossible
to deny.

Toby is kissing your pubic hair.

Running his lips side to side along the hair, all the time sliding down the
bottoms inexorably. The head of your stiff penis bobs up as if for air; you
can feel the hot flesh against the cool of the boy's cheek. Then, as more
and more of you is exposed, you can feel the shaft pressed the length of
one side of the boy's face.

A sudden jerk and the track suit bottoms are below your knees.

You want to step away. You want to kneel and pull the boy's trousers and
underpants down to his knees. You want him to be equal, to share
equally. You know that this elegant boy will have an elegant penis, that it
will be as hard as a boardmarker, hot, hard and tasting of heaven.

Toby is tasting you. Licking the length of your erection while one set of
long cool fingers gently kneads your scrotum.

How can this boy, so young, know so much?

Now the boy is taking you in, sliding the length of you deep into his
mouth, towards his throat. You are not hugely endowed. You are a
respectable 7 and something inches, but your penis is thick.

The boy settles for half your penis and begins to bob happily up and down
on the shaft. You feel his warm saliva running along its length. You look
down and see the boy is squeezing the tent in his crotch. You should be
doing that for him but he refuses to allow you to manoeuvre; Toby is in
charge; you are there for the ride; go with it.

You won't be able to go with it for long. The boy's mouth is warm and wet,
his lips tight on your shaft as they slide its length again. You can feel
the pleasure across your entire groin.

Suddenly, almost without warning, your hips begin to buck; they are beyond
your control even if you wanted to exercise control. And the boy below you
is bucking, too. You squirt and spurt uncontrollably. You haven't cum like
this for a long time; your body and brain are making the most of it.

It's all too sensitive. You pull back. Frantically try to control your
senses. You look down. Two lines of semen drip from Toby's lips and
chin. Another two are splatted across his chest. A large gob of semen
obliterates his left nipple.

The boy's eyes are glazed.

He's licking the semen from his lips.

With his fingers, he rubs the semen on his chest into his skin.

You look down.

The tent is gone, but there are stains across his groin. Wet stains from
within the fabric rather from without.

Toby is grinning.

"Shit," he half-whispers. "I didn't know it could be as good at that."

He looks at you. You look down at yourself. Your dripping, semi-tumescent
cock is hanging over your track suit bottoms.

Damn, you wanted to wear them for tennis later.

Toby stands up.

"Sir, sir, could you do me a favour? I'd better take my cricket stuff off
here. Change here, I mean. Can you throw it in the school laundry, please?
Mum's not dumb. She'll know what this stuff is." He points to the stains on
his shirt, his trousers. "Sir, sir, are you listening, sir?" The boy is
stripping already. "You, too, sir, you, too."

You pull yourself together.

"Yes, you're right.

"Hey, maybe we should take a shower, sir. Together, sir."

By now, you're both naked. You were right. The boy's penis and balls are
beautiful. He is beautiful. Every square inch of his body and soul is
beautiful.

You join his laughter.

"A shower, yes. Together, no. We don't want people to think we're a couple
of perverts."

"I'm too young to be a pervert," he laughs. You smack his bare bum as you
head for the showers.

In the showers, separate showers, you can't resist asking: "Toby, have you
ever done anything like this before?"

"Oh, no, sir. I've seen stuff in magazines, and Ben had a porno movie, but
I've never actually done stuff. Well, not with another person, I mean."

You can't resist asking the obvious: "But why me, Toby, why me?"

A prolonged silence. You begin to doubt if the boy can put it into words,
but he tries.

"I'm not sure. But I knew it would be okay with you. I mean, if you wanted
to, it would be great. But if you didn't want to, you wouldn't go all 'tut
tut' on me. You don't think I'm... weird or queer or anything like that,
sir, do you?"

You step from your shower to his. You take the boy in your arms. He looks
up into your eyes. You recognise the question. You pull him into you and
lower your lips to his. He kisses you hungrily, almost desperately,
open-mouthed, seeking to devour and be devoured.

Ten minutes later, Toby is leaning against the ceramic tiles, his back to
you, and your driving your cock deep into his arse. You've had to squat
slightly to get your cock in but now you're driving it up and into
him. "Oooof... ooof..." goes the twelve-year-old, a face cheek flat against
the wall, the water splattering is hair flat, your free hand masturbating
him as your thrust as deeply as you can.

You came only fifteen minutes ago, but you're going to come again, and feel
that Toby is too. You both cum together, joined as deeply as man and boy
can be. You spurt into him. He spurts against the ceramic tiles. He
turns. You hold him in your arms as the water relentlessly beats down on
him.

Within minutes you are both dry and dressed. Sitting on the couch, you
sipping vodka and lemonade, Toby sipping his lemonade.

"Thanks, sir," he smiles. "That was one of the best."

"One of the best?" you query.

The boy blushes.

"I fibbed a little. I've been fucked before. I really like it. Actually I
love it. Your sperm are inside me now. I love that."

"Who...."

I stop myself.

Don't ask. Don't tell.

"Can we play pool in the pool room?" Toby asks.

"'Corse we can?"

"Winner gets to..." Toby grins, not bothering to finish the sentence.

I decide to let Toby win.

Sunday afternoon is genuinely hot

You seek the shade of your sitting room and stretch out on the buttermilk
couch with its thin brown stripes. You close your eyes and play back what
took place with Toby. You saw the boy this morning; he smiled shyly as he
passed; you nodded and returned the smile. But this is not exceptional; you
smile at everyone, and most everyone smiles at you. You hum happily to
yourself and stroll on to your next class.

You lie back, close your eyes, and remember the touch of Toby's skin on
your lips. Ah, those butterfly kisses.

Rapping at the door. Brief but insistent. The door flies open. In bursts
Ben. As always Ben is in a hurry. As always Ben is on fire.

"Wimbledon, sir. On the radio. HE's playing! Oh, do let's listen,
sir. Where's the radio, sir?"

"Ben. Calm down." You swing yourself reluctantly from the couch. "Sit
down. Shut up. I'll get the radio. It's in my... the other room."

You almost say 'bedroom'. Every boy in the House knows it's your
bedroom. But there's a silent agreement, an understanding, a conspiracy
that no one shall call it by that name, so your bedroom is 'your other
room'.

"No time, sir. HE's playing NOW!"

5 - Ben again

You follow Ben into the other room. He is stretched full length on your
bed, face down, head resting on his arms, your small radio on the pillow by
his cheek. You notice he is in his tennis shorts, shirt and socks. He's
already kicked off his trainers; how considerate, how thoughtful. You
remember the U-13s have a match this afternoon, a match against
St. .....'s. You remember that you are umpiring two of the doubles
matches. How could you have forgotten? Must be the heat, or Toby, or both.

"Sit down, sir, sit down," urges Ben patting the space he has left for you
at his side.

You pull your attention away from the sheer physicality of the boy and
comment, "That's not Wimbledon. That's Radio 1."

"Yes, sir, I know, sir. Wimbledon's not on till 3 o'clock, but I got bored,
and anyway I've got a bit of a crick in my back, sir, low down, sir."

"Then see Matron," you advise.

"Matron's day off, sir. Thought you could help, sir."

Do you detect a slight giggle, a note of triumph? Hard to say since Ben's
right cheek is pressed into the pillow, his voice muffled. There is a
pause. Then...

"And you helped Toby yesterday, sir. You helped him lots."

Despite the heat, a cold shiver runs through you.

Toby and Ben are best friends. Their mothers share the school run. They
live in the same part of town, neighbouring streets if memory serves you
well, though Ben is a boarder and Toby is not.

"It's my back, sir. Be a sport, sir."

Radio 1 is playing Queen. "Another one bites the dust..." You can't
remember the name of the song; you don't think much of Queen, but Ben is
humming along happily.

"Be a sport, sir. Just a little massage. I'm playing in the first match
this afternoon."

Behind you the door is closed. The House stands empty, listening only to
the memories of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of boys who have graced its
Spartan dorms.

You run your right hand under Ben's tennis shirt. His skin is warm and
moist to the touch. Your fingers trace patterns in the moisture. You need
and squeeze the flesh across his shoulders, his upper back. Your fingers
run the length of his spine. You try to be business like but the flesh is
warm, moist, and so alive. You can hear your own gentle breathing and Ben's
occasional sighs. You could sit here like this, doing this, forever.

"It's lower, sir. Lower, sir. Please, sir."

You let your hand slide down to the boy's slim waist. You can almost span
his waist with one hand. The edge of your hand comes into contact with the
boy's tight white tennis shorts. The shorts are filled, stretched by two
spheres of living flesh that make you ache just to look at them.

"I'll help you, sir. Let me help you, sir."

And Ben raises his bottom from the bed, raises his hips, slides his hands
beneath, slips open the buttons, pushes the shorts to his knees, and
collapses into the quilt again. Those spheres of living flesh lie below a
millimetre of pure white cotton that leaves little to the imagination. But
the imagination is enough to make your cock harden and lengthen until it
begins to ache.

You run the fingers of both hands along either side of the elastic band
that keeps the boy's underpants in such a tight and loving embrace. Ben
raises his hips from the bed. There's nothing for it. Slowly you ease the
boy's underpants up and over his buttocks, then tug them down to join his
shorts around his knees. You begin to knead those beautiful buttocks,
marvelling at the warm flesh in your hands, flesh that becomes even warmer
as your fingers part his buttocks to expose his most secret, his most
intimate place.

"That's it," whispers Ben. "Around there. That's the place."

Absorbed, you part his buttocks, your fingers pressed against the inner
flesh of each one. You expose the small hole at the centre of his
being. You remember what another man in another time in another place did
to you, and you know it will give the same pleasure to Ben.

Your part his buttocks again and again, slightly wider each time; each time
letting the length of your thumbs slide down until they feel the heat at
the centre of the boy's being. At last your thumbs are parting Ben's anus
ever so slightly; you wonder what Ben is thinking, what he is feeling. You
know what you want to do.

The small pucker is ravishingly beautiful; there's no reason why it should
be when you consider its function; it simply is. You adore it. You want to
lower your lips and kiss the flesh around it; you want to smother it with
kisses, tiny butterfly kisses. But not now. You have no idea what Ben is
thinking or feeling, and the last thing you want him to feel is disgust.

Suddenly Ben's giggles and turns himself, throws himself over. His tennis
shirt has ridden up his body. He is exposed. He is fully erect. He is
uncircumsized but the head of his young dick is hard and purple, thrusting
its way out of the hood of flesh that normally conceals it.

"Shit, sir. I can't play tennis like this, can I?" A smile lights up his
face. "It's your fault. You got me like this. You've got to do something
about it."

You are surprised by the size of Ben's cock. It must be around 4 inches
long and at least 2 inches round. There is a straggle of fine blond hair at
the base and sizeable patch in the pubic area. The boy's balls are the size
of walnuts, the sac itself marked with the lines of late puberty. The shaft
is pale though the head itself is purple with engorgement. Two blue veins
circle the length of the shaft, entwine and fade into the scrotum. The heat
from the boy's penis is palpable, and you imagine you can feel the faint
beating of a pulse beneath your fingertips.

You stroke the boy's cock, bringing the fleshy hood over the head again and
again. The little eye opens on the downstroke, closes on the upstroke. You
can feel him harden and lengthen beneath your touch. You feel how the
muscles in his groin push and contract in time with your stroking. You look
at the boy's face. His head is thrown back on the pillow, matted hair
across his forehead, eyes closed but fluttering beneath the lids, face
flushed, lips slightly open.

You lower your face to the boy's straining shaft, circle the head with your
lips and apply gentle but insistent pressure. Little moans escape the
12-year-old. Your tongue probes at the weeping eye and you taste the boy's
early seminal fluids.

Sweet, nothing salty.

You suck and work the shaft. The boy's legs, one straight, one drawn up in
a half circle, open wider as if in invitation. You slip your free hand
between his legs, beneath his sac, along the crack of his buttocks until
you find his anus, and with the flat of your middle finger you rub back and
forth across the little lips. You are surprised by the heat and slickness
of the area, and, as the boy begins to writhe on the bed, your press your
fingertip against the opening and let half your finger slide in.

You begin to fuck the boy with your middle finger as you speed the rhythm
on his cock. You take in the full four inches, feeling the head touch the
back of your throat, feeling your lips against his pubic hair, feeling the
slickness of your own saliva and the pre-cum run down the shaft.

Ben is no longer in control of himself. He is pushing hard off the bed,
raising his hips to push his cock deep into your throat, then lowering
himself to drive your middle finger into him as deeply as possible.

With a sudden convulsive thrust, he raises himself, drives deeply into your
mouth and throat, and holds himself there, as he spurts again and again
inside you. Five, six, seven little jerks. Then he falls back onto the bed,
his face buried in the pillow as if ashamed at his own uncontrollable
pleasure.

You hold him steady in your mouth for a full minute as he slackens and
softens. You let him slip out. His penis remains semi-tumescent. Gently you
lick the head, squeeze gently and lick again. It wouldn't do to have his
tennis whites stained during the match.

You edge up the bed and place your head on the pillow. You are worried. How
will the boy feel now that the drive of desire has been satisfied? How will
he feel about himself, about you?

Ben's eyes flutter open. They are glassy. Then he raises his trademark left
eyebrow and grins.

"Thanks, sir. I think I'll play really well this afternoon... now that
I'm... now that I feel so... relaxed."

Your faces are inches apart. You want to kiss Ben but something tells you
that Ben is not a kisser, not a romantic like Toby. Ben wanted sex and came
where he thought he could get it.

"Ben," you begin. "You mentioned Toby..." You're not sure how to continue.

"Oh, don't worry, sir. Toby and I've never done anything, together, I mean,
but you can bet we're going to, now." The boy's grin widens.

That afternoon Ben wins both his singles. Toby arrives in time to see him
close out his second match. After tea, the two friends stroll off
together. You are slightly rueful, slightly lonely, but happy for them, and
you feel that whatever happens, things aren't going to be the same.

You wander by the lake as the light fades. You ask yourself what you think
you're doing, once again risking everything. You try to face the fact that
you seduced Toby and Ben, but seduction doesn't seem to fit the facts. You
recall your own seduction, but how could it have been seduction when you
chose to stay, you chose to let it happen?

You didn't say no; you didn't protest; you didn't jump from the car even
when it was stopped, even when he parked below the great oak tree, even
when he laid his hand on your knee, even when he said you were "such a
handsome boy".

You were scared, yes, but you were also thrilled that this man, this
grown-up man wanted you as much as you wanted him. It was you who'd gone
walking in the park, on your own, towards the spot where 'the queers all
meet up'.

That was well known at school; that was a standing joke; softer boys were
teased about 'going up the park for a bit'. You were never quite sure what
'a bit' was, but whatever it was, you wanted some of it.

So when the car pulled up beside you, and he leaned out, and he asked for
directions, asked if you'd show him the way, you got in, you let him pull
away, you let him park under the great oak tree. Don't say you didn't
know. His eyes undressed you, his hand brushed your thigh, his fingertips
caressed your thigh - "such a handsome boy".

Only an idiot wouldn't guess what he wanted; and you wanted it, too. You'd
wanted it for such a long time, but only now could you put a name to
it. You wanted 'him'.

Oh, you could have messed around with other boys at the school. It was,
after all, an all-boys' school. Older boys, boys your own age, even younger
boys had 'made a pass at you', but they weren't what you wanted. You wanted
him; you wanted a man; you wanted a grown-up man. You didn't want to be a
queer, you didn't want to be a poof, but you did want a man; you wanted him
to hold you, hold you tight, crush you to his chest, drink in his smell,
feel the brush of his unshaven chin against your cheek, feel his smokey
tongue force its way into your mouth, feel his hands...

So when he parked the car, under the old oak tree, the warmth of summer
seeping from the leather, when he ran his fingers across your thigh, your
knee, your crotch, you couldn't help it, you blurted it out, like the boy
you were you blurted it out:

"You can play with it if you want to..."

The words make you smile now.

The words take you back to another 'now' in another Boarding House.

The 'now' of Dean.


6 - Dean

Dean, you shatteringly honest little muthafucka, where are you now? Married
with a mortgage and four, no, five kids, and as happily honest as you were
back then.

Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom in the boarding house for the Senior
Boys. The boarding house is an old, dilapidated extension of the manor
house that holds the main school here, somewhere, as the used to say, in
the south of England. Manor House is a private school, an independent
school, a rip-off that 'caters for' the sons of professional families from
all over the world. I sometimes sit in this room and wonder how the fuck I
ended up nowhere, at the back of beyond, right slap bang in the middle of
nowhere.

I love it.

Being Housemaster to the Senior Boys is a dawdle. We came to an
understanding early on: they do not drink alcohol before my very eyes, they
dispose of the bottles off-school, they do no fug up the place with the
smell of tobacco or cannabis, and they must not take the slightest of
anything that happens in my rooms. Someone said 'Happiness is a warm
gun'. So it is, as long as it isn't pointing at someone's brains. My gun
didn't point at theirs; theirs didn't point at mine. Result happiness for
all.

We, of the Senior House, had little to do with the Junior House, who,
anyway, had their own resident pedophile. Even I was staggered on the few
occasions I visit the juniors to find their Housemaster stretched out on a
mattress in his bedroom surrounded by small boys, drinking in his tall
tales, eyes watering at the incense, if it was incense, that hung in the
room. Dean bunked in the Junior House but otherwise spent most of his time
in class, on the sports field, or in the Senior House, where he had several
friends and was accepted by everyone, though not permitted drink or dope in
which he had no interest. Dean is 14 and has pubic hair; ipso facto, he is
of no interest to his housemaster. He interests me.

Dean is sitting in my study-bedroom. It is late September, a Sunday
afternoon. We have been out on the soccer field. Dean is my goal
keeper. I'm taking pot shots at goal. I'm expert at hitting the ball above
his head so he has to rise and tip it over the crossbar. As he rises, he
reveals an expanse of skin kissed by his long hot summer in Turkey, where
the family have lived for a few years. His skin is so beautiful I'm
paralysed by the need to see, touch and kiss it. Does Dean suspect? At the
time I would have said no - now I'm not so sure. Did I seduce Dean or did
he seduce me? I hope it was mutual seduction.

We've been playing cassette tapes to each other. Dean is dressed in his
denim 'uniform' - jeans and battle top studded with badges. He loves my
company and I love his. Our conversation wanders across the continents; his
father is CEO of a major Turkish-Canadian company; Dean has lived on four
of the five continents. Our conversation strays to what the boys in the
Junior House do, and Dean takes us on to what they do at bedtime - how
horny they are, who jerks off in bed, who is shy and goes to the toilets,
which boys their housemaster fancies most and which has probably 'had'.

"Sometimes I get so horny, I wouldn't care..."

Dean leaves the sentence unfinished. His eyes drop to the bulge in his
jeans. He tells me about the manager of the London hotel where he stops
overnight before flying home to Istanbul.

"The guy's a homo," laughs Dean, "but I don't give a shit about that. He's
always giving me treats. I'm not stupid. I know he's trying to seduce
me. What the fuck. I just wish he'd get on with it." The boy squeezes his
legs together - "You know how it is."

"Look," I say, "don't do anything stupid. You don't really know anything
about the man."

"I know," Dean smiles, and pushes his hips towards me. I gulp, yes, I
actually gulp. I lean forward and let my fingers run across the tight denim
of his jeans. The palm of my hand slides towards his crotch, my fingers
define the shape of his erection. Pull my hand away.

"Continue."

It is not a request, it is an imperative. And a strange choice of word. Not
"Go on," or "Please," but "Continue."

Moments later, I am kneeling between the boy's legs, his denims are wide
open, his boxers pushed down his knees. I am holding his thick cock which
bends slightly to the left. His cock is around six inches in length, very
thick, set in a bush of thick, silky, dirty brown and golden hair. His
balls are big and press the column of his cock up towards me. His foreskin
is loose and slides back over the slick, wet head. The smell is
intoxicating... sweat, urine, pre-cum.

I slide my lips down the shaft. Tighten then. Begin sliding my lips up and
down, taking almost all of the boy into my mouth, my throat, till my lips
brush his pubic hair. I hold there for a few moments, raise my lips, then
thrust them to his base again. I feel his hands grip my shoulders - and
tighten till it hurts. The boy lasts all of thirty seconds. Then his legs
are shuddering, shaking, as his arse lifts from the chair. Two - three -
four thick spurts hit the back of my throat. I gulp him down. He pushes my
mouth away from his cock. I look up. His head is thrown back, eyes
closed. Gently I lick away the last of the cum before it drips on his
jeans. He looks down at me. He is laughing:

"Wow! Fucking wow!

"Did you like that?" I ask.

He grins at the stupidity of my question.

"Look at that."

He shows me his hands. They are still clenched in tight fists. He is
breathing heavily.

"I never thought..." he begins.

"Shit, this isn't comfortable," he continues.

Dean stands, hobbles backwards and lets himself fall onto my narrow
bed. His legs are raised for me to yank his denims off. I push his shirt up
past his nipples. He is a well-built boy with skin like old ivory, hot to
my lips as they brush over his body, chest, nipples, stomach, thighs. He
pushes himself towards me, eager for what...

"Do you want to...?

Dean doesn't wait to hear the question; he knows what it is.

"I can come three or four times in a row," he laughs.

I bend over him again. I lower my head. Then, on impulse, I roll him over
onto his front. He lays his head comfortably on the pillow. I slide down
his body and prise open his buttocks. I breathe in a rich, pungent
smell. Dean hasn't showered yet. I use my thumbs to prise his cheeks
wider. Creamy skin gives way to the light brown circle round his anus. The
skin is wet, slippery, sweaty. I use my thumbs to dig deeper. I see the
deep pink within. I lower my lips, fasten them round the hole and begin to
suck.

Dean grunts and jumps. He turns his head to me. He is frowning.

"I've never been fucked," he whispers.

"I don't want to fuck you," I say.

"Then what're you doing? I haven't even had a shower."

I can see how embarrassed the boy is. I lean forward and kiss him on the
forehead and whisper, "Dean, every little bit of you is beautiful to
me... and I mean every bit. This is called rimming."

He looks confused. I turn him over. He settles on his back, his head
nestling on the pillow, eyes closed. I push his shirt up to his neck and
make love to his body. He has prominent nipples; I nurse on them for a
while. My lips slip down to his genitals; my mouth engulfs his cock. He is
as hard as the first time and comes within thirty seconds. He groans and
stretches. Opens his eyes.

"Give me ten minutes and I can cum again," he tells me.

I laugh and say, "Get your clothes on, you dirty little fucker... I can
hear the boys coming back."

"Fuck them," laughs Dean, and then with a grin adds: "No, sir. Fuck me -
next time."

Later we talking things over. Throughout our year together, Dean and I are
always able to talk things over together.

"I've never done anything like that before," he says. "I just wanted to do
it with you. Fucking horny, I guess. I'm not a homo. At least I don't think
I'm a homo. I don't want to do stuff with any of the boys in the dorm, or
with any of them..." He nods in the direction of the Senior Boys beyond the
door. "Or with any of the other teachers. Just with you. I don't know why
it's this way... it just is."

For the young that's the way it is. Things just are or they aren't. And
Dean says something I've never forgotten:

Saturday night. The block is empty. Everyone is at the disco. My door
opens. It's Dean. He comes in and sits legs-spread wide on arm chair. His
erection is outlined against the denim. I can smell alcohol.

"How would you like me?"

I show him how.

We are on the bed - naked.

Dean grins down at me, flicks the hair from his eyes, and presses my
shoulders down into the bed. He sits still for a moment, straddling my
groin, a knee on either side, then eases himself down a millimetre more. A
millimetre more of my rock-hard shaft penetrates his sphincter muscle, the
head of my cock pops into his anus.

"Ah, ah, that's better," the boy gasps.

I'm glad he's had some vodka.

"I'm fine, but take it slow," I whisper. "You could easily tear my foreskin
before I get deeper in."

Dean laughs: "Not with the amount of Nivea I put on you and up my bum. I
must've used the whole jar."

And he did.

Lathering huge swathes of cream around my erection, fascinated by its
shape, texture and the heat it gave off. "Shit, it's a big one, sir. Do you
really think I can get that inside me? Mind you, I've done shits as big as
this, so it should be okay." Ah, the delicacy of the
fourteen-year-old. "And you did a good job on my hole before you even
started with the cream," he adds, "but don't think I'm gonna lick you back
there, you dirty bugger. Ooops, sorry, sir."

I you laugh along with Dean who eases himself down another half inch or
so. He leans forward with his elbows on my chest, wiggling his bottom to
keep the movement going. He brushes the tip of my nose with his.

"Does this make me a homo-sex-shual, sir?" He makes the word 'homosexual'
into a joke. "Play with my balls, sir, please, sir."

"No, actually, I don't think it does."

"Explain."

The movements of the boy's bottom, the friction on my shaft, the heat of
his rectum combine to keep me gloriously hard.

"Well, because you've never shown any interest in any of other boys at this
school, or from anywhere else for that matter. Usually when you're horny,
and I've learned to spot when you're horny, you talk about girls, about
women. In fact, this whole thing's come as a bit of a surprise to me."

"Then why am I doing this?"

He asks the question, he grunts, twists his bottom downwards and grunts
again.

"You're doing this because... well, because you can. Because you're 14,
your hormones are going crazy, and because, well, because... I'm
available."

"There's more to it than that."

Dean pushes down hard; it's almost an act of punishment.

"Lots of the boys in JD are doing it. They're not actually fucking each
other, but wanking and sucking, there's lots of that. In our dorm we've got
a competition; it's called 'Last One's a Wanker'. That means the last one
to cum, to shoot his stuff before lights out is a wanker. And if you take a
shit after lights out, you can sometimes hear a couple of guys in one of
the cubicles, and they ain't taking a shit together."

Dean pushes down again.

"Hey, I'm sitting on you. You're all the way in. I can feel your hair on my
bum."

"Sit still for a few minutes. Let your rectum get used to it. How does it
feel?"

"It feels like I've got a huge log up my arse. But it's a nice full
feeling. Wonder how far up inside me you are. Must be nearly eight
inches. Work on my cock a bit more, sir."

Dean begins to rise and fall, levering himself up on his knees, then
sinking back down again. He is sweating, beads of perspiration dot his
shoulders, hang from strands of hair. Open-mouthed, he throws his head back
and shakes it from side to side. The friction on my shaft is wonderful. As
Dean rises, I push up and into him.

Higher he rises, and slips down again, higher and down again. I know his
arse-hole is splayed open. We can both hear the cream and other juices
squelch and fart between us. Higher he rises, and falls, again and again,
faster and faster, until he is sliding almost the full length of my shaft,
keeping only the head locked inside his stretched and stretching
anus. There are no words now; just deep concentration; deep ecstasy. I
match his movements with a faster rhythm on his distended cock; I'm jerking
him off ruthlessly now; matching his ecstasy to my own. I'm glad the music
is loud, glad the house is empty, the boys off to the disco, or hidden in
the upper attic with their whisky and cannabis.

Dean is lost to me now; rising and falling, forcing me in deeper and
deeper. He is going to cum soon; I know because of the speed he is working
my shaft; control is gone; I surrender myself to the ecstasy. I should stay
silent but I can't; I grunt, I moan, I mutter obscenities; I mouth Dean's
name: Dean... Dean... Fuck... Dean...

I'm spurting now. Deep inside the boy. Dean's spurting, too. His semen
fires and arcs its way to land on my nose, my lips, my chin. "Come
together, right now, over me."

How long has Dean been lying across me, slumped, almost unconscious? For a
moment I'm worried. Then his eyes flutter open.

"Fuckin' hell. This is a lot better than the disco. Can we do it again?"

Like a virgin, fucked for the very first time.

And you do it again. But not then, not that night. Half of winter remains,
all of Spring, and half of Summer. And I was right about Dean. Dean doesn't
want to fuck. Dean wants to be rimmed. Dean wants to be fucked. But that
doesn't matter; that really doesn't matter at all; because I've learned -
take happiness where you can find it... that's what the young do, that's
what makes them happy.

It's amazing how quickly boys find pleasure in their bodies, and in the
bodies of other boys and men. And what they want to do as taboos breakdown.

Only two sessions later, I am lying naked on the bed. Den is above me
naked, a knee on either side of my head. I'm sucking his cock. He man
oeuvres himself upwards so that his arse is above my face. He pulls his
cheeks open to give as much access to his hole as he can. I lick his pretty
rosebud. "Suck on it, suck on it," he whispers. I purse my lips and fasten
them to his anus. He uses fingers to strain his hole open. I suck his
juices. I work my tongue in as deeply as I can. He is still very tight but
I push and probe until my tongue is half inside. If only my tongue were
long enough, I could lick the insides of his rectum.

He moves his body back and runs the head of his erection along my lips. I
open my mouth ready to suck him again. He doesn't push his dick in. Instead
he is masturbating. He wants to cum in my mouth. He wants to see himself
cumming in my mouth. And I want to see his cumming too. He speeds up and
keeps his cock just far enough so I can see his purple, engorged head. From
the head there are spurts of cum, lots of it. His cum flies from the slit
into my mouth, onto my tongue and I hold it there until his fingers and his
body stop jerking.

Dean surprises me. He slides down my body resting on mine until we are face
to face. He begins kissing me, open-mouthed, and we exchange saliva and
cum, catching cum on our tongues and sliding it back into each other's
mouth until it slides down our throats. Later, Dean explains he just wanted
to try it. He liked it... and it became a regular in our sexual repertoire,
each taking turns. The boy has come a long way from saying "Continue" to
sucking his cum out of my arse.

The last time I saw Dean was lying with a bunch of mates in the park in the
centre of town. They were passing round a joint. Dean had his arm round his
latest girlfriend. I wondered if he had shit out last night's sperm. I gave
them a smile and a wave and continued me walk to the station. Dean waved
back.

I got out of the school. Out of the town. Out of Dean's life. I got into
the train. The last I remember is Dean's wave and his smile. I've got lots
of photographs. I've still got Dean. I always will.

7 - Fabian

How can I convey the immediacy of Fabian?

Fabian is 12. Fabian is cute. That's not a word I use often but there's no
other word that quite fits the bill. Fabian is cute, close to being
girl-pretty, but there's enough of the boy in Fabian to keep that epithet
at bay. Fabian has thick dark hair. Sometimes it's shaggy. His mum hacks it
a bit but there's not much she can do to stop it being the kind of hair you
want to run your fingers through, and flick away the hair that hangs over
the boy's left eye. On cold mornings his ivory skin glows with a red
flush. His lips are bee-stung. He has thick eyelashes, double eyelashes
that some say are wasted on a boy. His features are regular, teeth straight
and true, though they could use regular brushing. His shirt is usually
grubby, his school uniform unkempt.

Fabian is a scholarship boy. He isn't a boarder. He lives in the town with
his mum. He went to the local junior school, won a scholarship and joined
us in September. I was asked to 'take an interest in the boy' and was taken
aback by the confidences he shared with me. Perhaps that's why we got
closer as the autumn rolled on.

Fabian's family are poor and weird. The day that Fabian was born, so he
tells me, his father announced he wanted to be a woman and be the mother of
the family. He put on a dress, a wig, and a few years later had "the
operation", as Fabian puts it. He left the family when Fabian was seven,
and access to the family is now barred. Fabian has a step-dad who seems to
be a rotten shit. A few days before Christmas he came into the boy's
bedroom and announced: "Know what you're getting for Christmas -
nuthin. Well, not nuthin, cos you're gonna get a surprise but you won't
like it."

It's easy to see that Fabian is upset and shaken. His step-dad doesn't
physically abuse him, says Fabian, but he's just rotten to him. The boy
doesn't want to tell anyone else about his home life, just me, and he
swears me to secrecy. It is clear he wants to be with someone, and the
someone he wants to be with is me. It all rattles around in my head; Fabian
is a lovely boy, I am attracted to him, but, as they say, there be dragons.

A few days before the half-term break we are walking home. Did I mention
I'd rented a flat in town - my escape pod when the House gets a bit
claustrophobic and when I wanted guaranteed privacy. Fabian has ambushed me
at the top of the path. It's no big deal, everyone knows this is the way I
stroll to and from school.

We reach the centre of town.

"I know where you live," says Fabian.

"I suppose you do. And you live in Harley Street, which is... just over
there." (We live about half a mile away from each other.)

"My house is empty till 7," says Fabian. "I can't even watch TV."

I know the family has to hide the TV when the TV licence detector van is in
the area. They have no licence.

"And the house is cold." He pauses. "I'd like to see your flat. My mum
won't mind. She says you're the best teacher in the school. She'll be ok if
you're looking after me. Please, sir."

I sigh and say come on then. We cut through the alley and within four
minutes we are home. On a sudden impulse, I grab him and throw him on the
couch in the living room. Then I tickle him. His laughter is like silver
peals. Our bodies touch, our faces centimetres apart as I wrestle and pin
him down. His eyes are shining. I feel myself stiffen.

I excuse myself and head for the bathroom behind the utility room.

"Back in a mo'," I hear myself whisper.

I am standing in front of the toilet, holding myself, watching the piss
splash down into the bowl. There is a shuffle of feet and Fabian is
standing behind me.

"Can't wait," he whispers.

He prises open his buttons, and fishes himself out with a struggle. I hear
him tinkle into the bowl. I try not to look but I am only human.

Like me, Fabian appears to be semi-tumescent, his penis is surprisingly
long and thick, he has pulled back the foreskin. The skin is a brownish
ivory, the head a purply cream, the shaft is true and straight. Like the
rest of him, Fabian's penis is beautiful.

"You've got a big one," he says.

"Pardon."

"You've got a big one," he repeats, "much bigger than mine. Look."

I am taken aback. Fabian sounds so confident, so sure of himself, and there
is a smile in his voice. "I bet I could hardly get my fingers round yours."
I am stunned, even more so when his fingers close around the shaft of my
cock. They feel so warm, they feel so right. As the last trickle dies away,
he shakes it for me. he is finished, too, but he makes no attempt to slide
his back into his trousers.

"Can I? Please, please?" he asks, and before I can work things out, Fabian
is seated on the toilet, holding my stiffening prick only inches from his
face, from those red lips. "Please, please?" He opens my belt and gently
eases my trousers to my knees, then draws down my underpants, making sure
my cock is released from the opening. I am so hard now that it
aches. Fabian pushes up my shirt so it is round my waist. He leans into me
and presses his face against my erection. I am absolutely stunned,
absolutely horny.. Fabian is masturbating me now, openly masturbating me.

"My daddy liked this," he says. "My real dad, I mean. And I like it." He
leans forward and slides his free hand between my legs, between and under
till his fingers are deep in my crack. "I'll stop if you want," he
whispers. "Just tell me what to do. I'll stop if you want, but I don't want
to. Really I don't."

"We can't," I stammer. "I mean I can't." Inside I'm struggling. I know I
can't win unless Fabian helps me. I'm a fish caught on the hook of his
beauty, his maleness, his willingness. Help me, Fabian.

He stands, turns round, his grey school flannels and Y-fronts at his
ankles. He bends over the toilet pan and thrust his rounded arse towards
me. I hear his voice: "You can do what you want. Have a look. My dad liked
doing me there. Have a look, sir, I'm really clean back there. Please."

I lose the struggle. I kneel down behind him. Press my fingers against each
side of his cheeks and prise him open. His ivory skin shades to the
lightest brown around his puckered hole. I try not to, but I do... I lean
forward force my lips against his anus, my fingers pulling it open as wide
as I can.

"Yes, yes..." his voice comes from far away.

I realise I want to see him open up. I want to see his hole dilate. I want
to see... to taste... to feel...

A time-shift of maybe twenty minutes. Fabian and I are lying on my double
bed. The bed lamps are dim, the music low. We are both naked. He is cuddled
deep in my arms. I can see my hardened semen glisten on his chin, his neck
and his chest. I can feel his hot hard penis press against my stomach. I
never intended any of this, but here we are. I am immensely happy and
immensely terrified. But Fabian, well, if boys could purr, Fabian would be
purring.

There is movement and the boy is scrambling up my body. He sits astride my
chest. He grins down at me. His hair is thick and dark. There are shadows
of the future across his pubis. My hands are around his buttocks. I gently
urge him further up and forward till his erection is touching my lips. I
flick out my tongue and tease the head of his cock. He is very excited and
his foreskin is all the way back. His boy smells are intoxicating. I pull
him further forward and hear him sigh as he sinks, penis, balls and
everything, into my hot hungry mouth. He begins to hump my mouth. He is
face-fucking me. The expression is crude but that's what he is doing.

Fabian is slim. I wonder if he did this with his father when he was
seven. How small and slim was he then? If his father was 'a woman' what
else did they do together? Did he/she get Fabian to fuck him/her? How far
did the operation go? If the boy fucked him/her, in which orifice did he do
it? Did his father fuck him? It is all wonderfully weird. I am working it
out when I hear Fabian meow like a stricken kitten; his body arches; and he
is cumming into my mouth with surprisingly strong spurts. His semen is
hot. Hot little squirts that make me gulp to get it all down.

The boy collapses across me as I ease him down my body. I cuddle him and
pull him under the duvet even though the room is warm. It is shelter we are
seeking, not warmth. Shelter from public opinion, from outraged adults who
would flay me alive, and Fabian, too, if they knew.

I feel Fabian's warm breath against my chest. There are so many questions I
want to ask him, but I realise he is sleeping. I sigh. I try to keep my
life simple and uncomplicated outside school, and "Here we go again."

Once a week I walk Fabian home and we always stop off at my flat.

"Kiss my bum, sir."

I have always been anal. I don't know why. One of life's mysteries, one of
life's little tricks. My fingers parted his cheeks, enough, just enough to
see the pink wink of his pucker, so sweet, so vulnerable. A sigh rose from
the pillow. Fabian spread his legs so that one of the dangled over the edge
of the bed. It was hot in the room, in there, in that little furnace. The
smell of cream and sweat and pure boy. I pressed harder, manipulated more
openly, leaned closer into him.

I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the hollow of the boy's back into
the crack between his cheeks. How far to Babylon? Can I get there and back
again? Fabian's hands came round to pull his buttocks wide apart. "Please,
sir." His whisper was hoarse, a whisper from a voice on the edge of
breaking. My tongue ran along the inside walls of his buttocks. My tip
touched his anus, pinky brown and sweetly puckered. A magnet. It drew my
tongue to its very centre. I stroked it with my tongue, pushed and probed,
lost in a universe that had always been calling me name. How long? I have
no idea.

Fabian swirled on the bed, grabbed me and pulled me to him. He pulled me
onto him and kissed me full on the lips, his tongue pushed at my lips
frantically, I surrendered, opened, and let him invade me. I fenced back
the invader, attack, retreat, attack again. His saliva poured into me in
retaliation for mine. The flood gates opened. He kissed my mouth, my lips,
my face. His hands pulled and tugged at my T-shirt while I jerked his up
and away from his shoulders. Chest to chest, belly to belly, we were glued
to together by the heat of the room, our bodies and our own sweat.

I was caught in a maelstrom. Fabian jerked at my track-suit bottoms, my
slip, and pushed them down my legs. He flopped around like a landed fish
until we lay head to feet, faces jammed between each other's legs, sucking
life from each other. Me on the bottom, Fabian on top, his legs straddling
my head to give him as much leverage as possible. Frantically, he drove his
cock into my throat until I felt the silk of his new pubic hair against my
lips. He jerked the base of my cock and sucked halfway up and down the
shaft.

I tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he grabbed my bum and forced
me as deeply into him until I was skull-fucking him. My hips jerked and
heaved in time with his own; we emptied our balls into each other
simultaneously. I felt the semen was being sucked out of as much as I was
squirting it. We flip flopped around the bed; it bounced several inches
across the room; we held on for dear life until the earthquake pitched,
passed, the turbulence passed, and peace fell over the kingdom.

Fabian struggled up the bed and wrapped my arms around him. He grinned
directly at me, hair matted across his forehead.

"Wow, fucking wow! Shit! That was the greatest!"

We lay for a short time, then he whispered again, "May I go exploring now,
daddy?" I nodded. Down the bed he scrambled, heaved at legs until I got the
message, and turned myself over. The chance to bury my head into a pillow
and simply feel. Fabian's long fingers pulling me apart, his smooth cheeks
against my own, his finger tips pulling me gently open, and his tongue
probing, inching, penetrating me. My sphincter sighed and gave up. I turned
and looked quizzically down the bed: "Are you sure...?" Fabian looked with
I hesitate to use the term, a shit-eating grin on his face. Then our
intrepid explorer dived headfirst into the Dark Continent.

A week later, we are sharing a shower. Fabian is pissing on me, holding his
foreskin tight and squirting over my stomach and legs with the little hose
of his cock. He has read about Golden Showers; he wants to try one, wants
to try everything. Later that session I am sitting on the toilet trying to
take shit while the twelve-year-old sucks me off. It is damned near
impossible; try it and see. It's Fabian's idea. I am dubious but he talks
me into it. Later we are in bed again, in the 69 position, trying to make
each other come, but only by tongue-fucking each other up the bum. I can't
come that way but Fabian explodes with a series of screams that have the
pigeons fluttering from the window sill.

Am I ashamed of all this?

I have tried hard to be ashamed but I just can't make it. After all, it
seems to be something Fabian needs, and if not with me, with whom? Because
I would not put anything past the boy, and I know what it's like to be
standing in a bus station toilet on a wet and windy miserable afternoon
being sucked off by a strange man, hoping, praying he will not bite my dick
off, or force me to suck him, if I don't choose to, or murder me and hide
my mutilated body, etc. etc.

I walk him home. His mother's at the door. She waves to us. Fabian grabs me
and gives me a big open kiss full on the mouth. I am literally
gob-smacked. Then he dives into his mother's arms. "Told you I'd do it,
mum. Told you!" His mother comes towards me, smiles, says: "Ignore him,
he's an idiot, but he's won a quid from me."

Then she grabs me and kisses me.

"There, I've got my quid back!"

During my year in residence at the boarding school, sex was probably the
least essential element in my relationship with Fabian. That's the way it
should be. Those who give themselves the name of 'boy lovers' should have
this in common: loving all of the boy is so much more satisfying than the
silly, self-defeating exclusive focus on genital areas. Oh, don't get me
wrong; that side of being male is wonderful, but taken in the context of a
whole relationship, it is only part of the whole, the rays of sun that
light up an already breath-taking landscape.

It is the same for 'man lovers', those boys, who like Fabian, want a man in
their lives, a whole man. For if you look at those boys you will find they
have something in common: they are missing a significant male figure in
their lives. Absent fathers, inadequate fathers, insignificant fathers
won't do. Boys are hungry for role models, and the only role models who
really matter are the men in their lives because finally that is what they
have to become - men.

Don't get me wrong. Many of the sweetest, strongest, most tolerant,
independent boys I have met are those from single parent families where it
is mum who has raised them; it is mum who has passed on to them so many of
their caring qualities, their ability to listen, their ability to feel,
their ability to share emotions; it is mum who has allowed them to develop
their female side. But in the end boys have to function in the world as
men, and if they have no men as guides, mentors, role models, they will go
out and find them.

8 - Me

I knew what I wanted and I remember the first time I went out to find it.

I was 10.

I was late out of school. I'd been kept in back in detention by some
sadistic bastard who'd driven away in the falling darkness while I ran
along the lane in the pelting rain towards the bus station.

The bus had gone. Half an hour to wait. Rain bouncing like hailstones on
the tin roof of the shelter. Only the station toilets sent out a beacon of
light in the gathering gloom. I made my way into its shiny-tiled comfort,
only half needing a piss, but at least it would pass a few minutes.

There were two urinals with a tiny partition between them. I stood at one
fishing my penis out of my thin grey flannel shorts. It was half hard and
pleasantly warm.

The door swung open, then closed. A man took the urinal next to mine. I
kept my head down. I tried to focus on the wet tiles, but my eyes betrayed
me and slid to the left. Wow! He was big, and he was making little effort
to hide himself. I jerked my eyes away, they slid back, the piss was
squirting from him in a continuous flow. It was beautiful. Shit -was I sick
or what? Between my own fingers I felt my own dick thicken, harden and
stretch to a fullness through which I could never hope to piss.

The man half turned to me. He edged me backwards, I hardly resisted as he
edged me backwards into a cubicle. The back of my knees bounced against the
toilet seat. Reflexively I sat down.

I risked glancing up. The man was about thirty years old. Dark haired,
strong eyebrows, straight nose, cheekbones, good-looking. Good-looking!
Yes, he was! And wearing what looked like an expensive jacket.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to do."

His voice was low but not whispered.

His voice was dark and warm.

I risked a look at his penis, his cock, his dick. Shit - it was huge. Hard
and huge. It looked tanned, the head sticking out from the foreskin looked
a mixture of brown and purple. And, like him, it was beautiful. ...anything
you don't want to do. That meant to anything you want to do. And I knew
what I wanted to do.

I raised my hand and fitted my fingers round his shaft. Shit! My fingers
hardly touched. It was hard and soft at the same, warm, satiny,
slippery. Pointing right at my face. At my mouth. I flicked my tongue out
and licked the head. Shit! Was I crazy or something? I knew people did
that. I knew prostitutes, fallen angels, as my mum called them, did that to
men for money. I even knew that gay men had their own way of having sex. I
knew that some men liked to do things to boys. But here I was, sitting on a
toilet seat, in the bus station, in my school uniform, licking a
good-looking man's erection.

"Go on."

That must have been him because I wasn't aware of myself speaking.

Go on. So I did. I let the head of his cock slide into my mouth till the
tipped touched the roof of my mouth. Then I adjusted my mouth until his
cock was sliding in and out like a huge stick of Brighton rock you've just
started and you think you'll never finish. My lips slid up and down the
shaft, a bit of an exaggeration since I could only take in about half of
the hot hard shaft. Sometimes I let it slide out and pressed its length
along my cheek.

The pressure felt wonderful, but, to tell you the truth, it was the smell I
loved. You can't describe the smell to anyone who hasn't experienced
it. You might as well describe a rose to a blind man. It was the smell of a
man, of a man in heat, of a man who had the hots for me. It was me who was
exciting him, me who was arousing him, me who had taken possession of
him. And I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I slid my spare hand under his balls. They hung heavy and low. I want to
feel their weight, feel their texture, feel the dark hairs brush against my
hand. My fingers slide past his balls to his crack, and he shuffled his
feet wider.

The man moaned! He fucking well moaned! And he moaned for me!

I'd been scared. Maybe he didn't want me to touch him there. maybe I was
being too forward, or even dirty, in seeking out his most private place. I
put the tips of two fingers against his hole, not that easy to find as they
wriggled through the dense hair, but I found it! The entrance to King
Solomon's mines and I'd found it. The opening was hot, sweat-slick, and
hot. Do whatever you want? Go for it! I brought my fingers back, raised
them to my mouth, let his dick slide out for a few moments, slid my fingers
in my mouth and sucked them.

Bliss!

Okay, I am crazy. I was ten years old. A junior school boy sitting on a
toilet seat in the bus station sucking two fingers that I'd just stuck up a
grown-man's arse.

Crazy!

I am not even going to try and describe the thrill, the terror, the ecstasy
of holding a grown man's hard cock in my mouth, letting it slide in and out
as he tousled my hair, as I heard his moans high above me, as I felt his
cock push deeper and deeper into me, until I gagged, he withdrew, and I
insisted he penetrate me again and again.

His cock seemed to swell, get even thicker, and suddenly it was exploding,
spurt after spurt, deep into the back of my throat. Too much, too much, and
I wanted more. So much that my mouth couldn't hold it all, and it came
squeezing out of the sides, through my swollen lips, until I was coughing,
choking, and trying to lick up every last drop.

It was the man who had to push me away from him. I didn't realise how
sensitive a cock could become, and I didn't much care, I wanted more, just
more of more, and more than more, and more forever inside me. I wanted to
eat him devour him, swallow him more, eat him till he became me, and me
him, and... I don't remember how I got into his car.

A BMW!

And he was driving me home. Driving me home and telling me what a
wonderful, silly little fool I was. Having sex with a stranger. Swallowing
what he called his cum. Getting in a car with a bloody stranger. Didn't I
have any more sense than that?

Fucking hell, it was like getting told off again by that bastard back at
school. But the man was smiling at the same time, tousling my hair, tracing
my cheek with his fingers, showing me where his 'cum' had splattered onto
my school shirt. Thank god for that; at least I'd be able to dump it into
the laundry basket as soon as I got home. Stick it under the tap
first. Soak it. Tell mum it got soaked in the rain.

Silly little fool. Yes, that was me. Yet not that silly. I gave the man a
false name. Billy. I gave him a false telephone number. I told him to let
me off on a street two away from my own road. I went hopping and jumping
and skipping home in the rain, half worried that I'd end up pregnant, and
half worried I was stupid enough to believe a boy could get pregnant. But I
was elated, yes! I'd wanted something, and I'd got it. I'd made a man love
me, not only love me, but take a desperate risk to show his love. well, at
least his desire.

The cubicle door in the toilet didn't even lock, was half off its hinges,
and I'd sucked off a grown-man when, at any moment, anyone could have
walked in! Not only that. I'd wriggled two fingers up his arse, then taken
them out and sucked the grease from them. I lay in bed and sniffed my
fingers. Nothing. I was disappointed. I pushed down my pajamas bottoms,
rolled my legs over my shoulders, and worked a finger in my bum hole. It
wasn't easy but I got it in up to the knuckle. Then I pulled it out and
sucked it. Not bad. But no way as exciting as his smell and taste. I
wondered what it would be like to wiggle my tongue up there. "You're
fucking crazy," I told myself, but I knew that someday that's exactly what
I would do.

All I needed was a man to let me.

What if there hadn't been one man, but two, three four, half a dozen. And
they all wanted me to suck them off! I'd sit there for ages, sucking each
one, teasing, tormenting, bringing them to the edge, backing off, sucking
fast, slow, shallow, deep, until I was filled up, filled by their 'cum'
down my throat, in my belly, squirting out of my arsehole. Crazy, crazy -
beautiful and crazy! And then sucking each man inside out through his
arsehole!

I was 13. It was Christmas. The house for once was empty. Adam was amongst
our visitors. He was 17. He was handsome, movie-star handsome, and he was
fun. So we were 'Home Alone' at Christmas. Adam was drinking cherry brandy,
and allowing me a few sips, and we were talking when the music came on. Do
I remember what it was? Will I ever forget it?

U2 - Unchained Melody.

Playing again and again through the PC in my study/bedroom.

How did it start? I am not sure. One moment we were sitting chatting, next
minute we were dancing a slow dance, body to body, skin to skin, my head
jammed somewhere underneath Adam's chin. Maybe he was teaching me to dance;
I honestly don't remember. But I could feel him hot and hard pressed
against me.

As usual our home was over-heated. Outside snow was falling. If memory
serves, we both had on T-shirts and shorts. One hand stroked my hair, the
other went round my buttocks as he rocked me in time with the music. Then
we were on the bed, naked. How the hell had that happened? I was on top of
him, my face between his legs, taking him into my mouth, afraid I might
choke, and afraid I might not be taking enough of him.

Adam had thick black hair down there, not on his chest, but down there,
black and silky. It tickled my nose. I felt like sneezing but though that
would be cheeky. I felt him grow harder as the head of his cock moved
through the foreskin. I inhaled smells of soap and sweat, of unnamed scents
of sex. As his prick moved back and forward in my mouth, in my throat, I
tightened my lips, then relaxed them, I sucked fast, then slow.

I felt Adam's tongue run from my scrotum backwards towards my most private
place. I gulped, almost bit him, prayed for more. I felt the hot tip of his
tongue press against my bum hole, my anus, probe and push its way in. I
grew almost faint with excitement.

U2 were rocking in time to our motions: I need your love, I need your
lu-u-v, I need your lu-u-u-uv...

Every nerve in my body seemed to rush towards his tongue pushed, probed and
wormed its way into me. Too much, it was too much to bear. I pushed him
away, swung myself round to lie beside him, keeping my lips round his
hard-on, and sucked, my head moving up and down, taking in as much as I
could without choking.

Suddenly I felt it, a rush, a squirt, a spurt inside my mouth and throat,
again and again. I kept my lips tightly round his shaft and swallowed as
best I could... "hunger for your touch a long and lonely time..." I held on
as he pulsed himself into me. I opened my eyes and felt more than saw his
stiff cock slowly draw back into itself, leaving a big silvery drop hanging
where the foreskin had folded itself up like a flower as evening fell. I
ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth: I both tasted and smelled the
after-taste of toasted salted almonds.

Adam pulled up and held me close, running his tongue over my eyebrows and
closed eyelids. I couldn't open my eyes; I was ashamed, but I wasn't sure
of what I was ashamed. Certainly not of the sex; I loved that. But maybe
ashamed that I wasn't enough for him, that I was only a boy, only 13, with
a little cock - little compared to his - and no muscles, and no hair, a
baby, just a baby.

Ashamed because his tongue had felt so good, down there, down there in the
centre of so many of my dreams. Ashamed that I couldn't give him what a
girl could give him. Though I ached to give him it, down there. Did he read
my mind? He was down there again, his hot tongue everywhere. I thought I
would faint. I whispered to him. Sex things, dirty things. I whispered:
"Put it inside me. You can put it inside me. If you want. I want it inside
me."

We kissed deeply while he pushed a finger against my anus, trying to slip
it into my rectum; my body betrayed me, resisted, contracted. Adam raised
his fingers to my mouth. I sucked his digit and middle fingers together. He
pressed again, and down there I opened, slowly, until he could slide in two
fingers, then three. He moved them around, seeming to open me, to widen
me. Pain, dull then sharp cut through me down there. I bit my lip.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," he whispered.

I said nothing. I lifted and swung my legs over his shoulders, closed my
eyes and tried to relax. "God speed your love to me..." I felt his penis
against my anus again. He began to push and withdraw gently. I felt myself
open, felt the head bludgeon its way in. Excruciating pain, and I wanted
more. The back of my head buried itself in the pillow. I was unable to
speak; I was impaled and felt his cock slide into me deeper and deeper. He
asked if I was all right, and I pushed my arse harder against him, sliding
more of him into me. Nothing mattered except what was happening everywhere
and nowhere in my body. "I'll be coming home, wait for me."

I was heavy and falling, light as a feather and drifting through the air. I
opened my eyes and saw his, huge and sparkling, as little bolts of
lightning were shooting through them. Huge dark pools in which I wanted to
drown forever. Tears ran down my cheeks; I raised my face and kissed him as
he drove into me, withdrew and drove home again. My body was spiralling
somewhere amongst the stars. I was a constellation and I would be fixed in
the night sky forever.

Adam stopped. I opened my eyes and frowned. "Do it," I whispered. I clasped
my legs round his back and humped him best I could. From behind closed
eyelids I saw stars spatter my eyelids, the universe exploding in a million
pinpoints of light. I thought I could feel him thicken and pulse inside
me. His hair tickled the inside of my thighs. He was cumming, cumming,
cumming. No! That was me! I was spurting hard against his belly, and for a
moment I felt ashamed again. What would Adam think? A little boy who
couldn't even hold in his own... And Adam was cumming, too. And I thought
of the million trillion zillion little spermy-Adams swimming up my bum.

I fainted.

I know I fainted because Adam told me later. Because for a few moments he
was sick with worry. Then, he says, I stirred, opened my eyes, wrapped my
arms around his neck and pulled him to me. Cherry brandy kisses, kisses
sweeter than wine.

"Oh, my love, my darling, I hunger for your touch."

We showered together, in the hot and splashy water. Adam checked my anus to
see if there was any damage. Just a little. He put some cream inside my
with his middle finger, and I started to hump it. Dirty little bugger, he
laughed.

Then we dressed in woollies and anoraks, went outside and build the hugest
snowman you could ever imagine. I know it was a Snow-man, not a Snow-woman,
because it had Snow-balls!

Adam died that Spring. In Sri Lanka. He was doing a GAP year before
university. He e-mailed me every week until the accident happened. Every
time I hear Unchained Melody I cry - "lonely rivers flow to the sea."

But he'd left me a legacy.


9 - Luigi

His name was Luigi, and he was only eight!

Luigi, with his shoulder-length, corn-coloured hair, hazel eyes, perfect
teeth, and smile that seemed to have escaped from a television
advertisement. Luigi, whose English was so fractured that it was difficult
to determine when he'd switched from Italian into the language he'd come to
England to learn, to spend the summer at our school, in the junior boarding
house.

And there he was, with me, swimming in the back-garden pool, frolicking
like a baby dolphin, climbing on my shoulders, diving headfirst into the
water's sparkling embrace. And me hopelessly embarrassed to feel my cock
rising hot and hard as underwater the slippery eight-year-old wriggled
between my legs.

Damn it! I'm a boy lover! Don't tell me I am a pedophile. Just let me enjoy
Luigi for what he is - a beautiful, crazy Italian boy having a great time
with me in the pool. And out of the pool he climbs, thong down his legs,
bum pale cream in the tanning sun, and sprints into the house, crystals of
water splattering behind him.

I climb from the pool, grab a towel, give myself a perfunctory rub, and
stride into the house after him. Where the fuck is he?

"Luigi! Luigi!"

Up the stairs. Check the boys' dormitories. The toilets. The broom
cupboard.

No Luigi.

My room.

There he is, stretched across my double bed, legs hanging over the edge,
his hair splayed out , lying on his back, holding above his face a copy of
'The Beano' and laughing at the antics of the Bash Street Kids. At least he
has spread a thick white woollen towel below his half-on, silk thong.

God, but he is beautiful. Skin kissed by the Italian sun. Shoulders broad
for his age though he is close to being skinny. Cream coloured chest topped
by the cherries of his nipples. His stomach so flat there can only be five
inches in depth. The dimples of his thighs carved by Donatello. Long legs,
big feet, long toes. His genitals curled up like...

Not quite.

Luigi has an erection impossible to disguise - not that he would bother
-beneath the skin-thin fabric. His stiff penis rises like an asparagus from
the twin orbs of his balls, the little sac lying between the join of his
legs. His toes brush back and forth across the carpet.

I sit, towel-wrapped, by his side and let my fingers brush his hair, thick
and damp from the pool. Luigi throws the comic backwards over his head,
cups his hands beneath his head, gazes at the ceiling and closes his eyes.

I lean over and kiss his belly button. Tiny kisses. Flutters of tiny
kisses. The boy smells like freshly-baked bread. He is still wet, wet and
slippery, so how can he smell like fresh bread? I run my lips across his
tummy, up his chest, into his armpits as smooth as a chalice, and down to
the forbidden lands again.

Noises in the drive. The coach crunching over gravel. Excited voices,
squabbling, the kids back from the outing.

I sprang from the bed, grabbed Luigi, the little bastard was giggling,
half-carried him to the shower room, stuck him inside, turned on the
shower, and then returned to my own bedroom, my own bathroom, my own
shower. I let the water run hot and cold until the witness of my desire
subsided. Dried myself. Hopped downstairs to greet the weary shoppers. At
the top of the stair my hand was grabbed. It was Luigi. He had on his blue
jeans with Mickey Mouse braces. I slung him over my shoulders and carried
him downstairs.

That night I gave myself a good talking to. The junior Junior boys were
off-limits, if only because they were far more likely to get an adult into
trouble. They hadn't learned yet that sex between men and boys was anathema
for Joe Public and could happily blurt out stories that would get 'their'
man or men locked up at Her Majesty's pleasure. I resolve not to use Luigi
even for masturbation fantasies.

I'd forgotten all boys, boys in boarding houses, had secret lives of their
own well beyond anything their carers knew. I was reminded of that during
an exeat weekend a couple of weeks later when the boarding house was close
to empty. I'd given Matron the night off. I had only a handful of boys to
look after, and one them was Luigi.

Later afternoon. I was wandering the House. On impulse, I turned the door
of the infirmary. Locked. Highly unsual. Probably Matron had locked it. I
took out my master-key, turned the lock, opened the door... closed it
behind me.

There were three boys in the infirmary - strictly forbidden.

There on a bed lay Luigi - naked. Infirmary beds were purposefully very low
for safety purposes. Kneeling at Luigi's hips was Joseph. Sucking off
Luigi. At Luigi's head was Ben, feeding the eight-year-old his hard
cock. The little Italian, face turned away from me, was sucking the head of
Ben's hard on. He looked up and saw me. His eyes opened wide. He started to
say something. I put a finger to my lips and shushed him. A look of relief
washed his face. He pointed down at Luigi and mouthed: "He loves it."

Ben have a low whistle. Joseph looked up. Saw me. I shushed him, pulled up
a plastic chair, moved closer to the action and sat down. Joseph bent over
the small boy and began sucking his three-inch erection that stuck straight
up. Joseph moved to the side so I could see he had a finger up Luigi's
bottom and was gently finger-fucking him.

Imagine Luigi lying there - naked. His slim, tanned body is beautiful. The
small, firm chest topped by two rosy red nipples: the cherries on the
cake. The slightly-rounded tummy indented by its sweet button. The child's
butterfly pelvis. Pubic area silk as satin. Long legs. Bony knee caps. Feet
and toes that look too big for such a small body. And Joseph - wearing on a
t-shirt - making love to the boy's stiff penis with his lips.

I give attention to Ben, just in time to see him slip his cock from Luigi's
mouth, dip the head in what I take to be chocolate cream, before feeding
the boy again. I rise from my chair and kneel beside Joseph. I fish out my
hot, hard cock and put it near Joseph's face. He slips from Luigi suck my
dick while his fingers work on the boy's reaction - a stiff, pale ivory
stick of asparagus. He slides his finger from the boy's bum and slips it
under my nose - musk, sweat, and what must be shit. But there's nothing
offensive about it - it's pure Essence of Boy.

For ten minutes, we vary what we're doing. I'm sucking Luigi, then Joseph,
then finger-fucking the small boy - who protests until he stretches to
accommodate my adult middle-finger, then I'm behind the older boy chewing
on his anus while he licks and kisses the smaller boy's rosebud. So much
for my resolution.

I know I'm going to ejaculate. I get up and move behind Luigi's head. The
child is still nursing on Ben's chocolatey-cock. I sign to Ben to move
slightly to the side and mouth to him what I want. He removes his cock from
the boy's mouth and says:

"Open, Luigi. Open your mouth as wide as you can. Open. Open. Open wider."

I masturbate frantically. It takes on a few strokes and I'm empty into the
eight-year-old's throat. I'm not squirting, not spurting. I'm streaming. A
continuous stream of semen carrying millions of spermatozoa is fired from
my urethra straight into the back of the boy's tiny throat. He coughs,
splutters, chokes, but bravely gulps down what he can. Some is sneezed out
his nose. Some overspills his lips. I'm worried. But his little hand
stretches out to find Ben's erection. He starts licking the head again.

I nod to the boys. Tidy myself up and slip out of the infirmary. Later they
admit they 'borrowed' the key from its hook - strictly forbidden - and
replaced it after their fun with Luigi. I make them swear - scouts' honour
- never to do use the infirmary. I remind them of the dangers in getting
involved sexually with the younger boys. They look at me quizzically. I
say: "Make this a one-off", resolving to keep my resolution this time.

10 - Robert

I left the Boarding House and the school at the end of that year. And, yes,
it was because of sexual involvement - there's always the danger of that
exit for boy lovers who work in residential schools. But I left for a
reason I could never have foreseen or anticipated.

Here' are photographs of Robert running in from cricket, diving full length
onto the couch as if he owned my room and all its possessions as
exclusively as he held my heart. Face flushed, he announces: "We won! Just
by 3 runs but we won!"

Robert taking the stairs three at a time, diving into my arms, embracing me
with his legs, yelling, "Mum says I can't stay the weekend."

Robert gobbling half a kilo of ice cream, then staring hungrily at what's
left on my plate.

Robert by the lake, stretched out full length, his head on my stomach as he
twitches on the fishing line tied to his big toe.

Robert taking a shy bow as he completes his first evening in the school
play I have written especially to provide him with a starring role.

Robert mastering backgammon in a couple of hours, then going on to defeat
me, hindered, as I am, by my steady gaze at his face rather than at the
board.

Robert winning the U-13 Singles Tennis Trophy for independent schools
throughout the county. It took us five trips to five schools until we
(Robert, mum, me) reached the final that Robert won 6-4, 4-6, 7-6 in a
nail-biting tie-break (8-6). We celebrated with champagne and strawberries
on a huge tartan rug by the river. Mum was permitted one glass (mum's our
driver) while Robert and I polished off the rest. As mum laughed: "He's so
high already a couple of glasses of champagne won't make much difference."

Even Robert's dad was thrilled, though making money is what thrills him
most, and, as, owner of the biggest building company, he has made loads and
loadsa money.

Here's my favourite photograph. I took it just after Robert was presented
with the trophy. His head is tilted back, his face flushed with laughter,
victory, exertion and the sun. Opposite is his mother, her head thrown
back, laughing, sharing in Robert's delight. And I am there to capture the
moment in a photograph which will never be equalled in either of their
lives.

I guess the sex was almost inevitable.

How did it begin? With sport of course. Rugby. Robert staggering into my
rooms in the House after a school match in the mud. He is 12. He has to
wait for his mother to arrive in the MG to pick him up; she is always
late. "May I?" and he is into my shower cubicle, throwing his shirt, socks,
shorts, jock strap behind him as he goes. The young take so much for
granted.


"Don't go. I want to talk about the game."

Robert steps out of the shower, water running down his well-built,
well-formed body, diamonds hang from his nipples, he rubs his thick dark
hair briskly as his penis, large for a 12-year-old, bounces between his
thighs. It is only later Robert admits he pulled at his penis in the shower
to thicken it a bit, "just in case..."

He throws the towel to me.

"Do my back, please?" I catch the towel, it is very damp, so I flick a
fresh one from a drawer and begin drying his butterfly shoulders, the nape
of his neck, his back, his strong rounded buttocks. His presence is
over-powering.

"Mum says come for dinner," he announces between recollections and
reflections on the match.

"Shit, I've got cramp. Ooops, sorry, sir, but I really do."

He turns to me, left leg cramped in pain. I kneel before him and begin to
knead the calf muscle. He is in pain, his groans and assorted ouches tell
me so. My open palms run the length of his leg again and again, and then
squeeze the calf muscles rhythmically.

I glance up and Robert is fully erect.

His erect penis is about four inches length and thick for his age. The skin
is the palest pink. There is a flutter of foreskin round the head of his
cock. A few wisps of dark hair show that puberty has set in. His balls hang
low, the outline of each testicle clear. He pushes himself towards me a
fraction.

I look up into his face. His eyes are alight with desire.

"Maybe I'd better lie down," he whispers.

Robert backs towards the couch. I follow on my knees. He stretches out full
length. "Massage me please," he whispers. I know I should turn away, step
briskly to my feet, play the man to the boy, nothing has happened yet. His
voice is filled with desire...

"Please."

I lower my face and press the length of his penis against my cheek. I am
lost. I am drowning, not waving. And stretched out before me is the Word
made Flesh, beauty incarnate, a desire as compulsive as my own. A light
breeze flicks the curtain open. I open my lips, open my mouth, and seal the
future.

Monday. The last week of the school year. I'm taking my English
class. Robert in the class. There's a knock at the door. A boy from
secondary schools enters.

"Excuse me, sir. The Headmaster would like to see you."

"When?"

"Now please, sir. I'll take the class."

My heart stops. I breathe deeply through my nose. My heart beat resumes
rapidly.

"Whatever this is, it's not good."

How did I know?

Because the boy didn't say: "I'll take the class till you get back."

At that moment I knew I wasn't coming back.

I knocked and entered the Headmaster's study. He sat in one arm chair. The
Housemaster of the junior boarding school - my boss - sat in another
armchair. The Headmaster indicated I sit in the third armchair. I sat. I
noticed he had a letter in his hand.

"I'm afraid I've had a complaint," he said.

I said nothing.

"Now I'm not saying if what this letter says is true. Let's agree it's own
an allegation."

I said nothing.

"This letter suggests you have been having sexual relations with the mother
of a boy in this school."

I said nothing.

He gave a huge sigh.

"Mr. C., you're a damn good housemaster. The boys love you. The parents
love you." My Housemaster raised an eyebrow at the last remark. "We love
you." He paused, then resumed. "But your dilemma is this. We are a small
community. This news, allegation, is going to get out. No matter what
happens - gossip, rumours..."

Was I guilty?

Yes.

But only once.

I'd fucked Robert's mother - but only once. And it was an impulse fuck on
both our parts. Afterwards, she'd cried. We'd talked. Never. Never. Never
again. And we'd kept our promise.

How could Robert's dad have found out? I don't know. I never will. I wasn't
even sure if the allegation was from him. But I was sure what I had to do,
and I did it.

"Headmaster. Let's stop this right here. It never happened. Why this
allegation has been made I don't know... and I don't want to know."
Pause. Resume. "But I'm leaving. I'm leaving today." The headmaster began
to protest. I put my finger to my lips. "Listen. It's the end of the school
year on Friday. To tell you the truth, living in is not for me. I love the
job but I've found it claustrophobic." I risked a smile. "To tell you the
truth, I'm still a bit young for the job. Life's for living and I want to
go out there and live."

I was relieved when both men laughed.

My Housemaster, ever pragmatic, practical and reliable, spoke for the first
time: "How do you want to do this?"

"I'm going back to the House. I'm going to pack a couple of bags. You're
going to drive me down to..." I named a hotel near the railway
station. "And I'm going home. You've got my home address. Pack up my stuff
and send it on to me, please."

I stood up, signalling the interview was over.

The Headmaster stood up and shook my hand.

"Thank you." He paused. "Of course we'll write you a terrific reference for
any job you apply for. And I'll instruct the Bursar to pay your holiday
salary and three months' salary in addition." He paused. "We'll miss
you. And if I can offer you once piece of advice - resist temptation next
time."

We three men laughed.

Outside, I noticed there were tears in the eyes of the Housemaster.

"Hey Major P. Come on. Stiff upper lip and all that."

He put his arms round me and hugged me in the way I expect my father would
have hugged me if I'd ever known him.

And that as they say is that.

Maybe one more thing.

Next morning, in the hotel, when I came down for breakfast, there was an
unstamped postcard waiting for me.

On the back it read:

"Thank you. We'll both miss you."

The postcard was unsigned.

It didn't need a signature.

So where am I now?

I'm still teaching. I'm in an all boys' school in London. But it's not a
residential school - no boarding houses. It's summer - near the end of the
school year. And we're taking a double decker bus, crammed with 72 boys,
aged 11 and 12 to the south of France to a holiday camp near Nice. Everyone
will be in tents - except for me. I've managed to wangle a small caravan
because I'm in charge of any medical needs that arrive.

My year in a boarding school taught me one thing.

Try to resist temptation.

Well... I'll try.

LOL