Date: Tue, 19 Mar 2019 12:31:30 +0000
From: Vintage Speedoboy
Subject: Blitz Boy

This story is based around the British comic series Blitz boy which tells
the exploits of Quick Mick; the son of a wealthy London department store
owner who was found buried in rubble after a bombing and lost his memory.
When the bomb fell, he was shielded from the might of the blast despite
being blown against another boy carrying his football.

This story is entirely a work of fiction and any named characters bearing
any relation to actual persons living or dead is purely unintentional.

Nifty is a wonderful resource of stories for the LGBT community, however,
unlike an old book gathering dust in a shelf and not costing anything to be
there as well as being unread, it is a website which relies on public
donations to keep operating which thankfully has stood the test of time so
please find it in your heart to send them a few greenbacks or whatever
currency your country has and please have a look in their shop window for
their lovely shoulder bag to contain your erotic books or electronic
devices to read on aeroplanes.

Signed Vintagespeedoboy.

Walkabout Creek hotel, Australia. 2018.

Meeting Old Mick.

Walkabout Creek is a remote bush town in the Northern Territory of
Australia, frankly I've never even heard of the place until the day our
vintage Douglas DC-3 aircraft taking our tourist group on a scenic day
return flight from Alice Springs to Darwin was forced to turn back owing to
a rapidly approaching storm and was forced to make an emergency landing on
the unsurfaced airstrip when the aircraft finally taxied into a hanger
(Another relic from the war), the engines were shut down and we were put up
in Walkabout creek hotel.

I'm Tom Fullbrick, although everywhere I went, people called me fullprick.
I'm a retired pensioner of dual nationality (A blue and a red) gained when
I stowed away on a BOAC VC-10 airliner to Melbourne almost 50 years ago
when I was 16. Thankfully I arrived there without being sussed out and
started my mechanical engineering apprenticeship with the Honda Dealer at
Ascot Vale becoming an Australian citizen a year later at 17; the rest is
history as they say.


The atmosphere in the bar certainly was lively and I really have to take my
hat off to the staff for cooking our traditional Australian meals served
with fine Australian wines with a glass of their finest beer. I chose their
steamed shrimps with boiled new potatoes (Yes they even have them here)
minted peas with seafood sauce followed by tropical fruit cocktail.

I sat at a table with a sprightly old gent of 92 called Mick, despite his
age he certainly was in good health and still drives an ancient Land Rover
and rides an old ex military Indian 741B motorcycle he found dumped in the
bush just after the war and fixed it.

We compared our motorcycling exploits together forming a bond which would
reach out halfway across the world and yet. Mick certainly had a good life
but he has no family to share it with as deep down inside the poor old
man's a lonely heart.

Thankfully he was an avid reader of the nifty stories and he certainly knew
about all of mine. It was when he brought out an old hard backed exercise
book held together with rubber bands and old yellowed sellotape which
surprised me as he said.

"Tommo, I know you're an honest trustworthy bloke having read all your
motorbike magazine articles from the ones which came out here and what I
have here is my journal which I wrote as a boy in the `Old City' during the
war. It contains my memories of The Battle of Britain and The London
Blitz. You will also find about my fourteen year old self having sex with
men, mainly young soldiers and airmen home on leave and boy did I have some
good times as well as sleeping with them in their beds.

Back then I was never interested in girls, never have been and having rich
parents they took me to a consultant psychiatrist to try and find out if
there's anything wrong. That bloke tried every trick in the book including
hypnotizing me but all he could tell my parents was that it will pass when
I got older and charged them heaps in fees for the privilege.

Truth to tell, that old bludger was wrong. Yes I did root a few Shielas in
my youth but the excitement just wasn't there, not like it was with a young
bloke or a schoolboy and some of them were still in short trousers, it was
young boys who gave me the best sex of my life, boys who were still at
school, who did paper rounds on push bikes or worked Saturday jobs in shops
until the shop was bombed then he would go and look for another one. Tommo,
I really miss the old days and wish they stayed with me but you know how it
is, either Mother Nature or him up there has decreed that my cock shouldn't
be working like a young bloke in his teens any more.

Some of the bombed out shopkeepers took to wheeling their wares around on a
barrow, some of them set up their barrows at local markets and there was
the black market where you could buy anything, for a price and that's where
I came in."

Old Mick took a swig of his beer, rolled a smoke from his aged tobacco tin
with its flip up lid, lit it and took a drag, then said.

"My father's department store was a large shop, easily half the size of
Harrods, my father sent me out to fetch him a newspaper to check the racing
results, he knew a lot of inside information and which horses to back, he
really was a sly old bludger who made heaps just from betting on horses
plus he done the football pools. It was like he had some sort of a sixth
sense and by Christ he knew how to play the field but I must digress.

I hadn't even reached the paper shop when the bombs fell; it was a lone
Heinkel which dropped his bombs just to get away when one went off behind a
statue of someone on a horse and blew it over. It was that statue which
saved my life despite me being blown sideways into a boy carrying his
football. That was the last thing I remember.

They found me buried under some rubble and took me to hospital, by then I
lost my memory which is why it took my father a long time to find me."



I asked. "Out of all the fellows or boys you had sex with, there must be
one who stands out above all the rest."

"There sure was. Father had a family membership of `The Bath club,' it was
a place only the rich could afford. I swam there regularly and it was their
coach, an Olympic champion who taught and then coached me. I was the best
swimmer for my age but there was one a year younger than me equally as
good, name of Masters or Masterson, anyway you'll find his name in the
book. That kid had a cock on him which was huge, must have been at least
eight inches and he was only thirteen, he also had the sort of breasts you
would expect to see on a young Shiela of about the same age, they were
small and pointed with large nipples, we became friends and he rooted my
arse on our first sleepover followed by heaps more after that. The kid was
what you might call a satyr maniac as even at his tender age he knew every
move in the book and a lot more besides, I reckon his mum worked as a
prostitute because who else would have taught him all those skills? Between
the pair of us we've had more sex with each other than I had with anyone
else and that kid taught me everything I know about a young bloke's body."

He looked at the clock above the bar then drank the final dregs of his beer
saying to me.

"I missed the English way of life since I came out here and I must say they
do make excellent beer and thankfully the local bottle shop holds excellent
stocks. Time's getting on now and they're about to shut the bar, I'll buy
us each a bottle of proper English beer," he stuck his hand up to gain the
attention of the barmaid calling out.

"Two bottles of your finest English Spitfire ale on my tab."

She brought out the bottles with proper glass beer tankards on a tray,
opened and poured them with the skills so deserved of a woman in that
profession with a frothy head and laid the tray on the table when he said
whilst holding a bottle.

"The spitfire was the best plane of its time, it truly was a marvel of
engineering, a thing of beauty and so deadly to the Germans, it thrilled me
just to watch one in flight and it's true what Churchill said that we all
owed so much to so few, our young men, not much older than me risked their
lives flying them in defence of the Old country and some of them never came
back."



Old Mick certainly hit the nail on the head with a valid point from those
dark days in the skies of 1940. We drank our beers slowly whilst making
small talk comparing notes about the old country from almost 80 years ago
to the present day.

His was an England from another time captured in the memories of those
still alive, in photographs, old home movie films, news reel films and in
books when he finally passed me his treasured journal with tears in his
eyes with a Coutts and company cheque for 2,000 pounds drawn on the famous
London bankers asking.

"Tommo, I trust you'll do a good job of having this published," then he got
up and left followed shortly by me going to my room.



This book meant the world to him as it contained his childhood memories
from those dark days of 1940 together with the seedy world of man and boy
sex from a time when it was highly illegal which if caught, the man usually
went to prison whilst the boy was certainly birched if he was lucky, if
not, he went to Borstal.

This truly was a priceless work and he was begging me to have it
published. He was certainly putting a lot of trust in me and despite living
a simple life he wasn't short of a few bob either owing to investments made
for him all those years ago so he could definitely afford to have it
published.



The handwriting in his book has now faded, written in a typical schoolboy's
handwriting with his fountain pen and there were sections where the ink's
tone differed, doubtless owing to his refilling his pen with another make
of ink thereby adding a unique character to this book which told of life
almost 80 years ago.

I sat alone in my room reading it under the light of a hurricane lamp after
the storm knocked out the power and I could visualize young Mick as a boy
writing his entries into this book either by the light of a candle or a
lamp in some air raid shelter whilst the bombs were falling only this time
it was the noise of the howling wind and lashing rain causing the entire
wooden building's timbers to creak and yet we were all safe in our beds
knowing that this building has weathered countless storms in its 150 year
history when jet lag finally claimed my waking mind.



After breakfast the following morning, Old Mick was waiting outside the
hotel in his old series one Land Rover. I initially expected to see a
decrepit old decaying hulk no longer fit for the roads; instead this
vehicle was in very nice condition and well maintained by someone, I got in
with my camera and he drove me to his nearby weatherboard property with its
corrugated sheet steel roof overlooking the airfield.

If there's such a thing as the Australian 1900 house, this was it. Mick's
house is what I would term a museum house, as though it was locked in time
except for his telephone and his computer located in the corner of the
living room.

The house was fitted with electric lights with period fittings as well as
gas mantle lights plus Mick also had a Tilley kerosene table lamp. Other
than that, his kitchen had an old cast iron solid fuelled range cooker and
the bathroom had a wood chip fuelled bath heater, both of which are fuelled
either with wood or dried out cattle dung from the nearby cattle stations
and he also has a war surplus ex Australian army Soyer stove made in Sydney
during the First World War, a relic first made by the British during the
Crimean War and probably used as one of the many soup kitchens during the
depression and the water is supplied from four large water tanks, one on
each corner of the house and a water tower in his back yard, all of which
fills up with rainwater during the wet season.



After sharing a pot of tea with water boiled in his Sirram kettle over his
dung fuelled stainless steel hobo stove in the back yard overlooking the
airfield which surprisingly boiled his kettle faster than even a modern gas
fuelled camp stove similar to a Jetboil owing to the heating tubes built
into the kettle like a boiler. He showed me his old Indian, gathering dust
in his shed, its military green paintwork faded and rusty exhaust. He
looked at me with a forlorn look saying.

"I'd give my right arm for someone to fix her up, my local mechanic tells
me the crankshaft's blown and spares are scarce now, I suppose he's right
as these things were made during the war,"

I felt sorry for this old gent's motorcycle having come to the end of the
road and yet, back in the UK, we've restored machines in far worse
condition than this one. I knew I could easily crack this one back home,
but here, with no toolkit? And having to ask a local mechanic to borrow his
which these days consists mainly of metric sockets, spanners &c throws up
heaps of problems unless someone with a really old school toolkit could be
found, a starting point would have to be whoever worked on his Land Rover.



As a pensioner it wouldn't be the first time I spent an English winter in
Australia. The first one was several years ago with an old mucker's offer
to live in his off the grid property at Kyneton in Victoria. At the time a
lot of the old weatherboard properties in Melbourne were being taken down
and replaced with luxury new build houses when he bought a really nice one
which even the contractors said was a shame to destroy which oddly enough
also contained a Honda XL-250 Motosport trail motorcycle in the back
room. So the story goes, its young owner disappeared and never came back to
reclaim it so the bike went with the house, furniture and all which was
rebuilt and redecorated out in the bush.

The motorcycle had done less than 2,000 miles on the clock and being stored
in a back room of the house with a cover draped over it, all that was
needed was to clean the dust where it had collected, clean out the
carburettur, change the oil, adjust the valves, replace the battery, blow
up the tyres, refill the tank with fresh fuel then ride it to the local
garage for its roadworthy which it sailed through and register it.

That motorcycle was truly a godsend, especially having to ride along tracks
in the bush which would even challenge most four wheel drive vehicles
including John's old series one Land Rover which he's owned since his teens
with his father's old Ex WD BSA M20 fitted with chunky tyres for the bush
tracks.



I called John that morning during which we spent ages talking over old
times and broached him on the subject of Old Mick's Indian. Both his sons
operate a historic motorcycle restoration business at Seabrook in Melbourne
with John pitching in after retiring as a Qantas chief engineer when their
heavy engineering facility at Avalon closed down.

The local mechanic arrived with Dorian his long blond haired seventeen year
old bespectacled son with Harry Potter round glasses wearing only a black
vest and Stubbies shorts. After coffees we looked over the old Indian, he
put a drop of fuel in the tank, connected an old battery charger to the
battery & kicked her over several times before the engine fired up with a
loud knock; he blipped the throttle saying to his son.

"That's what a rooted motorcycle big end sounds like," he passed him his
sounding rod then said.

"Put your ear to that and the other end on the engine cases," then passed
him the sounding rod followed by me having a listen. There was no doubting
about our diagnosis and we initially formulated a plan to remove the
engine, strip it down and crate up the parts for freight to Seabrook.



Their reply certainly was a godsend which changed our plans, the mechanic
left to go to another job leaving Dorian with his toolkit and I to tackle
the old Indian which certainly was a learning curve for him even though
he's been working on farm bikes since he was twelve although it was having
to use old school imperial tools (American SAE and British BSW/BSF sizes)
which really screwed with the teen's brains. Once the engine was out, I
guided him on the strip down and took notes and photos with my Iphone as he
took it apart and finally lifted the crankshaft out with a beaming white
tooth braced smile on his face.

I inspected the cylinders and decided to freight them with the crankshaft
off to Seabrook for re-machining and rebuilding the crankshaft as John
would be the best man for that job so we cleaned up and packed everything
away as Dorian was setting off alarm bells in my gaydar big time and he
knew it when he asked Old Mick to borrow his Land Rover then stuck on his P
plates with masking tape.



He drove along dusty unsurfaced roads till he arrived at his parent's old
weatherboard property on the outskirts of town and entered the house. He
boiled some water and made our coffees with Arnotts Tim tams chocolate
biscuits.

He sat next to me on the settee and our legs touched which was likened to a
jolt of pleasure flowing between us when he ran his hand along my thigh
saying.

"For an old bloke, I must say you're in really good shape for your age,"

I looked at his crotch seeing his Stubbies shorts tented out by a huge rod
of throbbing flesh which was jerking away like it had a mind of its own and
seeing this got me rock hard just like a teenager. Seeing I was now taking
a good look at his huge bulge I noticed the very prominent staining on his
shorts owing to heavy pre-cum and spunk after leakages with his piss stains
lower down.

I felt proud to be packing nine inches inside my pants which paled into
insignificance when Dorian finally dropped his shorts and his heavily piss
and cum stained jockstrap revealing a hugely fat 10 inches of prime teen
boy meat leaking his love juices like a tap. I plunged his cock into my
mouth which just about got in there and cleaned off his love juices from
the head of his cock finding this boy really tasted nice although for him
it was only a quick starter when he took it back out and started slapping
on loads of lube.



This boy really was the hottest I've encountered but even he doesn't even
come anywhere near as close to Dylan, a younger teenager back home who's
attending school. Where Dylan does have the edge on everyone is that he's a
male hermaphrodite with both sets of fully functioning male and female
organs and pert lactating breasts on a boy's body.

Lust coursed through Dorian's body like an exploding powder keg as he
squeezed loads of lube up my rear pussy hole with a large medical
syringe. I immediately sensed he does this knowing that his monstrously
huge cock's certainly going to stretch my hole right out, holding me by the
hips he slowly pushed it right in to his balls then started thrusting at a
gentle pace whilst his hands glided over both halves of my arse making me
shoot off my load hands free within a minute as each thrust was also
exciting my secret love button inside and it wasn't long before he started
shooting huge hot well spaced out jets of spunk inside my bowels and there
was a lot of them, it just didn't seem possible for a teenager to be
shooting cum by the bucket load filling me right up, leaking back out of my
hole and the hot gushes of spunk just kept coming, so much so it must have
taken him about five minutes to finally empty his balls leaving me
wondering how someone could put up with such a long drawn out orgasm as he
really was moaning like a bitch in pleasure?.

When he finally did pull out he sucked out the dregs of my after leaking
spunk from my cock then gave me a very passionate tongue kiss followed by
me doing the same to his deflating cock and finally cleaning ourselves off
with his cum rag of a towel then getting dressed.



Dorian switched on his Imac computer showing me loads of gay photos
followed by reading a few Nifty stories together then he beckoned me to log
onto my email. I logged on and opened up one from Dylan with a load of
photos taken last (English) summer at `The Lynch' an island on the River
Thames and seeing those photos blew Dorian away, especially with all the
nude shots of Dylan and his mates as well as his mum, Roberta, Vivian and
Dylanne. I explained to him how special he really was with his pussy and
girly milky breasts with his mum, who was also naked, as were all the
teens. He loved the shots of them all wearing either Eyeline or Truwest
swim briefs and others taken of them wearing raunchy teenage girl clothes.

I went to the website with Dylanne's movie shot on a Japanese train with
the futanari schoolteacher; British schoolboy, Japanese futanari schoolgirl
and the teenage girl wearing see through skin tight white trousers and see
through white nylon tee shirt which really peaked his interest when he
saved the link.

John's email was now on there with an attachment, this contained both the
military workshop manual and spare parts catalogue for the Indian 741B
which I first loaded it onto my Corsair survivor stealth waterproof flash
drive followed by Dorian printing off two copies of the entire document.

A look through the Indian parts Europe site revealed that the main bearing
housings in the crankcases weren't correctly machined at the factory so we
were looking at having the crankcases machined to take oversized bearing
housings whereas the con rods are fitted with pressed in bearing outer
races so sorting out those parts is best left to John at Seabrook.

Afterwards Dorian made a couple of corned beef and vegemite sandwiches with
more coffee and bowls of canned fruit cocktail then finally returning to
Old Mick's house and giving him a copy then we packaged up the crankshaft,
crankcases with timing cover and cylinders &c as an engine unit ready for
transport by air and with my in depth knowledge of the motorcycle market,
John would be sourcing parts for this old Indian mainly from overseas which
would take time and with that in mind I decided to book my flights to
Melbourne.



I discussed our plan with Old Mick regarding his old Indian which totally
surprised him and went against his way of thinking having been brought up
on a bush mechanic's mentality working out of old tumbledown sheds. His
mindset was from a time when motorcycles were more simple although after
speaking to John on the phone he realized that his engineering and machine
shop was the right way to go as John would be vapour blasting the cases,
sand blasting and re-painting the cylinders and heads, turning up the
bushes in the crankcase and timing cover, machining the bearing sleeve
housings, re-building the crankshaft, re-machining the cylinders including
a lead free fuel conversion which when completed would certainly give the
old timer motorcycle a new lease of life for years to come and with the
departure of the scenic flight passengers, Mick kindly offered to let me
stay in his house.

Having borrowed Dorian's old HP laptop, I began to write the earliest
entries of his journal into a book format. The laptop's battery was rooted
necessitating keeping its charger connected all the time plus it didn't
matter that it wasn't logged onto the internet when thoughts came to me
about the old laptop Dylan found amongst a pile of rubbish blocking the
lane where he lives which turned out to be one used by a pornographer
bringing a wry smile to my face knowing its contents were loaded onto
another flash drive stashed in my bag.

Dorian came round on an old beat up Honda XR250 farm bike after evening
meal and blagged a sleepover. I saw the expression on his face knowing this
was going to be a night of passion.



It had been quite a day and we all retired early as my connecting flight
departs in the morning, what I didn't expect was three to Old Mick's
ancient double bed hoping to god he's not plagued with bed bugs although I
would have thought with the amount he drinks, if there were any, he would
be the root cause of getting them drunk.

Dorian certainly became overcome by lust knowing he's in for a night of
raunchy sex and what did surprise me was Old Mick still had the sex drive
of a teenager when I realized they are regular sex partners. I would have
thought an old man in his 90's wouldn't even be able to get it up any more,
not so Old Mick so I reckon he told me a little white lie back at the hotel
as Dorian had his lube ready and waiting for Old Mick to lube up his rock
hard cock and Dorian's rear hole and being a nubile teenager he straddled
the old man who was also packing 10 inches on him to ride him cowgirl
fashion.

Whilst he rode up and down on the old man's huge pole, I slowly wanked
Dorian's huge cock with one hand whilst I massaged the old man's nipples
with the other and he was uttering all the dirty words under the sun whilst
moaning like a bitch and it didn't take him long either to fill Dorian's
bowels with the finest vintage cum and yet Dorian hadn't shot off his load
which he was saving for me.



Unlike Dorian, there was no way I could straddle and ride him cowgirl
fashion so I had to settle for lying across the bed with my ankles on his
shoulders and seeing his muscled ancient bronze suntanned body gained
through years of hard work was a sight to behold when I knew I was in for a
good shafting by a very fit teenager and boy, he certainly knew how to give
it as well when he started thrusting into me with his balls slapping my
arse whilst massaging his nipples with his hands calling me all the dirty
names under the sun whilst moaning in pleasure which at times I felt like
braining him but thought the better of it knowing it would be really hard
to knock him over.

His cock certainly hit the spot with my secret love button inside which had
my cock gushing out ropes of spunk like a fire hose all by itself when I
felt the first of a succession of huge well spaced out gushes flooding my
bowels as he gave me a repeat performance lasting at least five minutes
fuelling my fond memories of a teenage she-male Justin back on the island
some years ago who definitely was and still is a hyperspermia case and
there's no doubting that Dorian's his equal but at least this bed for the
night hasn't got spunk, breast milk and pussy juice stained sheets, not
like Dylan's bed back home.

It seemed as though the night had passed by in just fleeting moments when I
heard the alarm clock only to find that Dorian had vacated the bed, I found
him in the kitchen wearing only his heavily stained jock strap cooking our
breakfasts and he really did cook a substantial one at that, even for this
ungodly hour as it was just getting light.

Thankfully he also lit the bath heater so I took a quick shower, shave and
shat out the last of Dorian's spunk with a huge log of a shit down the pan
and dried up just as Dorian called me to the table. After breakfast I
dressed into my summer clothes, packed my bags, removed my USB stick from
Dorian's old laptop to find him waiting outside in the Land Rover.

We openly passionately tongue kissed and hugged each other in the airport
lounge, shook hands and sealed our pact to keep in touch when he saw me off
onto my flight to Darwin to connect with the Melbourne flight when by late
afternoon I was sitting in John's living room at Seabrook and two days
later we unpacked the old Indian's crate of engine parts.



Kyneton, Victoria.



Having spent three days at John's Seabrook residence during which I toured
the city on his 1978 BMW R80/7, riding this machine certainly brought back
fond memories from the Honda dealer days, John bought this machine off
them, rode it to the Isle of Man TT and pranged it knocking off a
cylinder. It was brought back in a van and repaired by what's known in the
business as a `contract repair'. John repaired the crankcase, cylinder and
head by alloy welding, machining and reclaiming the cylinder fins otherwise
the machine would have been wrote off. The insurance engineer who finally
inspected the machine and received John's satisfaction note certainly was
impressed with his skills and his photo log.

These days it's Matt, his eldest son who rides it now and he's kept the
machine well maintained. I rode it looking up my old contacts and reducing
my shopping list of rare parts to ship back to the UK.

Matt was glad to have me around as he uncrated the old Indian's parts and
laid them out on his hydraulic workbench under John's analytical eye whilst
taking photos and notes regarding my recollections of the engine being
stripped. I pulled out the photocopy manuals which he sent me by email then
looked though them adding to the shopping list of parts followed by driving
to Kyneton in his 1988 Fiat Uno platinum which John fixed up whilst at
Southend Airport working on the Qantas Boeing 707 and used it on his
shopping forays for his Land Rover's and motorcycle's parts which he crated
up and loaded into the hold of the aircraft.

I seriously questioned him about shipping it at the time and now I'm
driving a tidy example of a very rare car which belies its history of Honda
sheet steel motorcycle crate bottoms being used to repair its body and door
panels. It was another trip down memory lane as I used to own this car
which is now registered at his Kyneton address because it's cheaper.

I finally settled into John's nicely restored weatherboard house out in the
bush (Another Australian version of the 1900 house) thankful to be given
Dorian's old laptop as a parting gift although I would have to hook it up
to John's solar panels to keep it operating for which he uses a type
normally used for charging truck batteries owing to the laptop requiring a
20 volt supply thereby restricting me to daytime use and thinking. `If only
there was a second car battery here?' then I could use this old laptop at
night.'

I lit the fire in the old Aga range cooker fuelled from the wood pile and
started preparing my evening meal then took out my Sony Yacht boy radio,
switched it on then searched the airwaves until I found the local radio
station listening to some old records from the 1970's. I cooked a simple
meal of Frankfurters, boiled mini potatoes and peas, all from tins followed
by fruit cocktail and coffee then lit the wood chip fuelled bath heater for
a quick shower.

After the tropical heat from the top end, I felt cold that first evening
and lit the cast iron stove in the living room then settled down to read
Old Mick's journal by the light of John's Tilley kerosene table lamp.



Mick's journal, 7th September 1940.



On this day I started writing my journal hopefully as a record of the
events about to follow. It was a lovely sunny day for September when I
joined a group of boys who were mud larking on the riverbank, the tide was
well out and we went swimming. The water was lovely although we could only
stay in whilst the water was still. None of us wore swimsuits mainly
because the other boy's parents who were poor couldn't afford them. We were
all naked and no-one even cared a damn, not even the Bobbies on the beat
who either smiled or just looked the other way.

The eldest boy was a 13 year old called Dylan Masters who'll be 14 by
Christmas and comes from a well off family. I could count myself as the
oldest but these boys are total strangers to me. He's a Boy Scout with
blond hair with blue eyes and a nice smile with a tooth brace and he wore
glasses with round lenses which he left with his clothes whilst swimming.

The second boy was 11 year old George Galloway, he was a dark haired
lightly built small boy for his age, Martin was a chubby built 12 year old,
Matt was the youngest one there at 10 years old who Dylan kept a close eye
on as he could barely swim and stayed close to the bank where he could
stand up.

The other boys certainly noticed that both Dylan and I had large cocks for
our age which even soft must have stood out like sore thumbs and they made
loud comments about them, especially with our hairy pubic bushes.

It was during the summer that Dylan taught Matt to swim just before the
school holidays and he passed his beginners 10 yards swimming test, this
was about the limit of his ability.

Dylan, oddly enough was a very strong swimmer who proudly held a Royal Life
Saving Society Bronze Medallion in lifesaving so it's understandable why he
kept a close eye on Matt. It was such an idyllic day which none of us
wanted to end when we heard the sirens wailing all over London and the
skies rumbled to the sound of aeroplane engines, that's when we saw them,
Matt called out Messerschmitts, Martin called out Heinkels, Dylan couldn't
see what they were without his glasses and I finally confirmed they were
Heinkels.

We were scared as we all knew those planes were here to drop bombs, we got
out of the water so fast, grabbed our clothes and ran naked carrying them
to the nearest tube station where we quickly got dressed.

We left the tube station after the all clear sounded and went our separate
ways except Dylan who caught the tube to Hampstead with me. We walked to
our homes across the park when he had other ideas and led me into the
bushes beside one of the ponds, that's when we first did it and that first
time was just a wank in the bushes finishing with shooting off our spunk
which was my first time with another boy who certainly awoke a side of me
which had slept until this day.



Kyneton, Victoria.



I finished Old Mick's journal entry for today having tidied it up just
before the light started to fade with the power from the solar panels
failing so I finally shut down the laptop and went outside seeing a couple
of kangaroos by the dam and some rabbits in the open space which is
supposed to be the front garden. There was birdsong all around in the trees
with kookaburras sounding their laughing calls, cockatoos screeching and
magpies warbling when I heard the sound of the Land Rover's engine which
seemed to start and stop, then I heard it again, now I heard a chainsaw
thinking. "Who the hell's around here playing games?"

I grabbed John's shotgun and went along the track to investigate, there was
nothing but the bush all around me so I returned to the house, locked the
gun away and called John from my Iphone saying.

"Here mate, what's the deal with this place? I've heard a Land Rover and a
chainsaw this evening thinking either the bush is haunted or someone's
playing silly buggers."

"Oh that, those noises you heard were mimicked by a lyrebird, there's quite
a few around there, you'll get used to it."

"Yeah, except I heard your Land Rover, do you mean to tell me those birds
are that good?"

"They sure are, you have a nice quiet night as you've had a long day." Then
the call ended.

I turned on the gas supply valve from the outside tank and lit the living
room's two gas mantle lights then primed and lit the Tilley table lamp,
placed it on the stand next to the settee and started reading a book, the
next thing was waking up about two hours later having nodded off so I
turned off the gas lights, went outside and shut off the gas tank's valve,
lit a candle, shut off and depressurized the Tilley lamp and retired for
the night.



I woke up the following morning with a huge rock hard cock as I do most
mornings with recollections of erotic dreams having sex with Dorian who's
dressed wearing schoolgirl uniform items supplied by Vivian. In the dream
he wore a white see through nylon blouse shirt, see through high leg low
rise micro skirt, bright red see through uplift bra obscenely supporting
his huge breasts and cocksock briefs with his huge red nylon sheathed cock
dangling halfway down his thighs, black six strap suspender belt holding up
sheer black seamed fully fashioned stockings and shod with six inch high
heels thinking.

`Where did that one come from?' This was the wet dream which caused me to
flood my black pair of Eyeline nylon swim briefs with a huge load of spunk
whilst I slept.

I lit the wood chip bath heater ready for my morning shower and shave then
still wearing only a pair of shorts and flip flops, I went out to the car,
opened the tailgate and fished out John's well used stainless steel wood
gas stove and set it up on his outdoor table with a sheet of asbestos
underneath, threw in a load of wood chips, primed it with methylated
spirits and lit it knowing this would cook my breakfast a lot quicker than
the Aga.

I had almost completed cooking my breakfast in a large frying pan when a
police four wheel drive pulled up driven by a gorgeous looking blond female
senior constable in her thirties who immediately barked out.

"Haven't you heard this morning's news? There's a total fire ban on."

"I must admit I haven't," .  .  .  "Well at least you can boil some water
and get some coffee on the go, Senior constable Julie Hargis, your old
mucker's asked me to look in on you, are you settling in nicely?"

"Fine, thank you."



Whilst having our coffees with Arnotts Tim tams chocolate biscuits, I saw a
long blond haired teenage boy sat in the passenger seat of the four wheel
drive with a glum expression on his face staring into space, she asked.

"I really could use a favour as I'm working a double shift and I don't want
my son home alone, he's been temporarily excluded from school for hitting
another student which I will soon get to the bottom of otherwise he's not a
bad lad."

I beckoned him out of the vehicle and he got out with his backpack wearing
black Stubbies shorts with a red tee shirt, white socks and black trainers,
he sat at the table with his backpack on the ground, I passed him the Tim
tams and he took four out of the packet, here was a teenager fully capable
of eating his parents out of house and home and he certainly wasn't fat
either.

She unloaded his old school tubular framed muddy fox mountain bike from the
vehicle, refitted the wheels then leaned it up against the end of the table
then sat down saying.

"This is Melvin, my 15 year old son who you may find he's a right handful,
I told him that either he behaves himself or he's going to be grounded with
his phone taken off him," we shook hands and I formed the impression that
butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, I was wrong about him after his mum
left.



Mel popped into the house with his bag, found the spare bedroom, got
changed, raided the larder for a slice of fruit cake and a mug of coke, he
came back out wearing only a bright red pair of Eyeline nylon swim briefs
and flip flops and I thought. `What the fuck?' I'd known him for less than
10 minutes and now saw him in all his glory, I asked him.

"Why are you dressed wearing only swimming trunks at a strange house?" his
answer floored me.

"That's all I ever wear at home and besides, this is old Johnno's house,
not yours and I've stayed here heaps of times already, so there."

I had to admit he certainly was a good looking well suntanned youngster of
a build normally seen on competition swimmers sporting large nipples on
large pointed breast buds the size of dog food sausages on his well
developed pectorals with an almost girly appearance with a solid muscle
bubble butt sporting a huge package bulge in his swim briefs. He was well
into his growth spurt standing just short of six foot with long runners
legs nicely coated with blond hairs as well as his forearms. I've normally
seen so many teens dressed like this in aquatic settings, on the island and
even in my own house back in the UK where they mainly wear see through
nylon vests and swim briefs so who was I to judge him except the sight of
him had my large cock becoming erect like a rod of iron and tenting out my
Stubbies shorts and he knew it. I could see the twinkle in his bright blue
eyes with his wry smile.



He went back inside the house, logged onto the laptop and began watching
gay porn movies before reading nifty stories; I just left him to get on
with it as he was nicely occupied although his large cock was seriously
tenting out his swim briefs and leaking such huge loads of pre-cum that a
huge wet spot had now formed in his swim briefs and he was also caressing
his cock through the silky nylon, his nipples looked like they'd grown to
the size of thimbles and he began sensually stroking them, from where I sat
I could see the movements of his cock twitching inside the nylon with beads
of pre-cum oozing out through the nylon thinking this boy is so hot, I bet
he's gagging for sex.

I went inside to the kitchen and poured two ice cold small beers from a
stubby bottle which he gladly accepted and took a swig, as I sat next to
him, his leg touched mine then he began caressing my leg until his hand
went up my shorts and grasped my hugely fat nine inches of rock hard
leaking twitching cock through the silky nylon of my black Eyeline nylon
swim briefs saying.

"I see that I'm not the only one who loves wearing nylon, you're a man
after my own arse," Mel began experiencing pleasure sensations inside his
rear hole waiting to be serviced by a huge cock and before I knew it, we
were both on the double bed with a tube of lube in his hand lubing my cock,
then squeezing some into his hole before kissing me passionately like a sex
starved lover and straddling across me facing my head then lowered himself
down and impaling himself onto my rock hard cock whilst his own seven
inches which dwarfs his 30 inch waist teen boys frame was dripping gobs of
pre-cum onto my chest. I scooped some up with a finger and licked it clean
whilst he rode up and down on my huge pole with a pleasing motion watching
his budding breasts bounce in time with his motions with the strongest ever
boy pussy clenches in time with his twitches I have ever experienced on a
teenage boy and every time his cock twitched, it dropped a gob of pre-cum
onto my chest



This boy's pre-cum tasted really nice giving me a taster of what's to come
when his cock finally jets out his load and fuelling me into a frenzy of
lust and a joi de vivre of my youth again when I thought. `OMG, he's so
special, I just wish I could bring him back with me?'

After some minutes of the most amazing sex with him he blurted out.

"I'm coming," when his cock shot out streams of boy spunk like a water
pistol some of which shot out several feet whilst the rest either landed on
my face or my chest and his powerfully clenching rear pussy hole triggered
my orgasm flooding his bowels with a huge load of spunk uttering loud sighs
as each one of my huge hot jets flooded into him when I saw beads of white
liquid on the end of his nipples just before he laid down on top of me in
his deeply satisfying afterglow and passionately tongue kissed me when I
returned his tongue kisses.

I scooped up as much of his spunk with my hands and licked them clean which
really tasted sweet with a fruity taste and managed to taste a bead of
whatever came out of his nipples which was sweet, rich and creamy just
before we went to the shower. I asked him.

"Is your mum giving you anything to take, like pills or whatever?"

"Ah yeah, she's been giving me something to help me grow as I was a small
child at 12, since then I've shot up by at least a foot," I could only
wonder what she's been giving him?



After showers we both dressed in tee shirts and Stubbies shorts, I opened
the laptop, logged onto my emails to read shit loads from the Old
Country. Dylan sent me a nice email saying how he's looking forward to the
Christmas holidays during which he's attending a National pool lifeguard
course at the local leisure centre having only just turned 16 and he's
thoroughly enjoying the course. He also says he's over the moon that Ellen,
his mum's now pregnant with his baby.

Other emails from Vivian, Roberta Jason, Dylanne, Rick, Justin &c all say
they're missing me and calling me a lucky bastard to be enjoying a hot
summer whilst they're in the depths of an English mid winter.

Mel then logged onto his email and received loads from his school friends
mainly wishing him success in his year 11, his HSC's and his impending pool
lifeguard course at his local recreation centre in the New Year.

He read part of Quick Mick's journal then the first installment in the `my
documents' section saying.

"This book is truly a piece of history, whoever this boy was, he's taken
the trouble to document his experiences during the war, these entries are
really a treasure trove of history which if he hadn't done this, those
stories would become forgotten for all time. I may be able to help you on
this one as mum's got heaps of books from the war and you may even find
something in there to add to the story, I would love to help you on this as
I'm also studying English history for my exams."



I really could welcome Mel's assistance as the old saying goes, two heads
are better than one but the day really was heating up and I began to wish
there was a local swimming hole nearby, Mel too had the same thoughts and
asked.

"Tommo, how about we go swimming as I know a ripper of a swimming hole to
the north of the town just a few miles away."

We couldn't get into John's old Fiat fast enough for the drive to Turpin's
falls and when we arrived, I was blown away by the sheer beauty of the
place surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs with two waterfalls at one
end on either side of a cliff face opposite the entry point with a large
pool of water bigger than an Olympic swimming pool. We quickly stripped off
to our swim briefs under our shorts, locked our clothes in the car and
walked barefoot to the water's edge over rough ground. Mel quickly entered
the water and swam a powerful front crawl to the other side and back, here
was a young whippersnapper of a teen swimming a highly efficient stroke
just like the many competition swimmers I've seen over the years when I too
entered the water not expecting the sudden shock as despite the fiery
Australian heat of the day, the water was damn cold. It must have taken my
body ages to warm up and become accustomed to the water as I too also swam
to the other side and back. I knew straight away that you certainly had to
be a very strong swimmer to come here.

Other than the cold water, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and Mel wanted
to finish the session by diving off the top of the cliffs until I pointed
out the notice telling us that diving off the cliffs is prohibited.

We dried off, walked back to the car and drove into the town to shop for
groceries when Mel's mum rang me on my Iphone asking.

"Tommo, would you please be kind and look after my son over the weekend? I
would rather he stayed with you than have him home alone. I'm sorry to put
this on you as I can't say much as I've been roped in for a police
operation; I've pushed some money under the door so you won't go short on
food."

"Consider it done," now I'm sharing a weekend with probably the hottest
blooded teenager on the planet.



Having arrived at John's off the grid house, we both carried the groceries
in along with our bags. We left Turpin's falls wearing wet swim briefs
under our shorts which soon dried out; I lit the Aga's fire and stoked up
the fire then prepared a roast dinner for two followed by ice cream with
Canadian maple syrup, Mel kindly washed the dishes leaving me to dry them
and put them away then settled down to watch a movie snuggled up together
in just our swim briefs under a blanket. The noises of the bush had now
changed to the constant buzz of psicadas which continued throughout the
night. Lastly we both checked our emails before both retiring into the
double bed for a night of passionate lovemaking and raunchy sex.



To be continued.