Date: Sat, 17 Apr 1999 10:32:25 -0700 (PDT) From: Bpell Subject: The Chronicles of St.Barnabas part 3 (A BL classic by Colin Murchison) 3. The Math Lesson During supper (meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas, jello) I began feeling pretty randy. On Sunday nights the boys are allowed to dress very casually, and in their relief at being able to shuck off their school duds (blue shirt and striped tie, Navy blue blazer with school crest, grey flannels, long for the older boys, short for the younger ones) some of them really took advantage of this liberty. Ericson, for example, bounced into the dining room (Ericson has a way of walking on the balls of his feet, pitching slightly forward at each step-it's charming) garbed in a soft white turtleneck and red bellbottoms. With his face still pink from the shower, and with his blond hair neatly in place, he was ravishing. As his bouncing bum swished near me, I reached out and gave it a flick, and was rewarded with one of Ericson's smiles. They were unlike young Harrison's smiles, which were open and friendly and simply expressed little Everett's unbounded joy in being alive and a boy. Ericson's smiles said, "I know I'm pretty, thank you, and I know you know, and wouldn't you like to do something about it!" Perhaps you think I'm reading too much into a boy's smile but when you've lived in a boys' school as long as I have, you realize how coquettish boys are with men. Of course, most teachers in boys' schools are boy-crazy to begin with, or they wouldn't be there, and the boys are pretty quick to pick this up and turn it to their advantage. Pretty boys always make out well in boarding schools. Ronnie Riley was wearing last year's bermuda shorts, faded, too small for him, and therefore just right, and a sort of fuzzy sweater with nothing underneath. He looked very cute but you could tell he had just slapped on the first things he found, whereas Ericson had given a good deal of thought to his wardrobe. Ronnie's hair was mussed and not quite dry. I kept catching his eye. The first time his look seemed to say, "Why are you staring at me?" The second time it seemed to say, "Well, if you want to fool around, let's fool around." Once he just smiled at me. I got homier and homier. I got Max Sailer to take my after-dinner study hall (he owed me one anyway) and went upstairs to wait for Ronnie. The dorm is divided into two sections, with my apartment between the two. There are no partitions between the beds, so there is no such thing as privacy amongst the boys. In addition to his bed, each boy has a night-stand, and a metal locker at one end of the dorm. My apartment consists of a comfortable study, with a desk, a sofa, a working fireplace, and, in back of this, a bedroom and bathroom. It's really very private, yet near enough the boys to keep an eye on them. I went into the dorm an began pottering around, checking nightstands and lockers, adjusting blinds, etc. When I heard Ronnie coming up the stairs I moved into his wing, and, without giving him more than a glance told him to get ready for bed 'first, so we wouldn't have to worry about the time. It was a plausible suggestion, as the boys often changed into pajamas right after study hall, so that they could play right up until the warning bell for lights out. I watched Ronnie out of the comer of my eye as he sat down and took off his sneakers and socks, then pulled off his fuzzy sweater. He stood up with his back to me and I heard him unzip his zipper. I moved closer, to check the nightstand next to him, opening and closing the drawers (boys in boarding schools have no privacy), watching Ronnie as his pants slithered to the floor and he peeled his cotton briefs down over his silky hips, displaying his inviting rear end. I let my hand graze ever-so-slightly against his bare behind as I closed the nightstand drawer. He pulled away at my touch, not nervously, perhaps from modesty. How I longed to seize him and toss him down across his hard little bed and rape him on the little mattress where he had lain awake so often jerking himself off. I gazed longingly at my favourite boy. He had dirty blond hair, mischievous grey eyes, and a wide, expressive mouth. Long of limb, he was not particularly athletic looking; rather there was a voluptuousness about the contours of his body that was sensuality itself. He moved his long limbs languorously, like a cat stretching in the warm sun, and he had a way of looking at you that was out of the silent movies. I moved over toward the window and leaned against the wall, so I could watch him put on his pajamas, making small talk to keep him from getting self-conscious. He did the pants first. His legs and thighs disappeared into them as he pulled them up until they reached the obstacle of his protruding buttocks. As he pulled them up, the elastic caught under his bottom cheeks, lifting them up as a bra does breasts. After a bit of tugging and twisting they plopped into place, hidden beneath the thin cloth, but showing pinkly through. I went into my room, and he followed, after donning bathrobe and slippers. We actually did some math for a while, but I kept getting distracted. His bathrobe, having long since lost its cord, hung open; his pajama shirt, missing two buttons, was parted to reveal his belly button going in and out as he breathed. Just below his navel a large blue vein disappeared on a southward journey I very much wanted to take. Soon my arm was around him, resting casually on his bare stomach. There was no reaction to this. I tickled him a little, because I loved to see his stomach shake when he was tickled. Soon the math book was tossed aside and he was lying on his back with his head in my lap. I looked down into his big grey eyes as we talked, one hand toying with his silky hair, the other wandering over his thighs. I began playing with his ears, which were slightly pointed, or so they seemed from this angle. "Where did you get such pointed ears?" I asked. "Are you perhaps a faun?" "What's a faun?" "What's a faun! And you're in the seventh grade!" "But, sir, you never taught us anything about fauns!" "No, you were supposed to get that in thefifth grade." "I wasn't here in the fifth grade, sir." "Where were you in the fifth grade?" "I don't know. Some dumb school. Anyway, sir, what's a faun?" "A faun is a creature with pointed ears, like yours." "You mean anything with pointed ears is a faun, like a horse is a faun, and a cat and a rabbit and-" "No. A faun usually has little horns, too, and cloven hooves, like a goat, and a little tuft of hair right at the base of its spine, where its tail would start if it had a tail." "Well, I don't have horns, do I?" "Not yet. You're too young. Fauns don't develop horns until puberty. And don't ask me what puberty is." "I don't have to. It's when a faun develops horns. Right, sit?" "Right." "Do fauns have cloven hooves and tufts of hair before puberty?" "You can usually see the beginnings of them," I said, toying with his lips as he spoke. "Well, you can check my feet and see that they aren't cloven, whatever that is." "How do you know they aren't cloven if you don't know what it means?" I asked as I doubled up his legs so that his feet were near my face and the cloth of his pajamas was stretched so tight across his bottom I thought it might split. I felt and prodded his feet. "I think I detect incipient clovenness," I said, tickling the soles of his feet (the slippers had dropped off in the process). "We'll have to keep a close eye on your feet, as well as watch for the sprouting of horns." "And the tuft of hair." He said it, not me. "Yes, of course, the tuft of hair. That would be absolute proof that you are a faun." "Where did you say it was supposed to be?" "Where your tail would be if you had one. Shall we have a lookt' He gave a mischievous giggle as I flicked him over on his stomach. I raised his shirt and ran my fingers down his smooth back to the base of his spinal column where the soft flesh disappeared under his pajama pants. "It's usually a bit further down," I said, slipping my fingers under the elastic waistband and sliding his pants down. Soon I saw two dimples, and then with some more tugging the top of the crack came into view. Not content, I pulled them down further until his two round mounds were freed from the cloth and half-way exposed to my burning vision. With his pants thus at half mast, I began examining the boy's coccyx with my fingers. "Are you finding anything, sit?" asked the boy, his voice muffled by the couch. "No real tuft yet," I said, "but I seem to detect some downy fuzz, which may be the beginning of the tuft itself. This is where it will be when it comes." And I fingered his coccyx, that charming little nub of bone right at the top of the crack. "This is your vestigial tail," I said, prodding it. "If you are truly a faun, as I suspect you are, you will one day have a little tuft of hair growing there." "Is it good being a faun, sit?" "Well, originally fauns lived in the woods and spent all their time dancing around and getting drunk and making mad love to everything that came along." "That sounds pretty good. What do they do nowadays?" "The same thing, only they don't necessarily live in the woods. You can find them anywhere, even in choir schools." "Do they still like to dance and get drunk and make love?" "You bet. They especially like to make love. They are very oversexed." "I guess it's too early to tell, with me, isn't it sir?" What precisely did he mean? Was he talking about being a faun, or being oversexed? "Boys who are ticklish are usually oversexed," I said, tickling him fit causing him to wriggle and squirm. As he did so I held onto his pajamas in such a way they gradually worked themselves down over his hips all the way, so that his lovely soft bottom was now in full view, resting on my lap and not very far from my face. Tickling with one hand, I stroked his behind with the other, delighting in the feel of the soft warm flesh under my fingers. Then I began softly patting the resilient flesh. I don't want anyone to get the idea that it's a simple matter to take a twelve-year-old boy into your room for a math lesson and in twenty minutes have him on your lap with his pants down. No, siree. This little scene was the result of months of spadework, beginning with tentative tickles and progressing to furtive feels and gradual gropes. It's only in books that you find a willing kid who gets laid on page three and loves every drop of it. I had done lots of careful work with Ronnie, and I wasn't going to louse things up by moving too fast. On the other hand, like the tortoise I had every intention of winning the race. I continued stroking his silky buttocks, and by now we had ceased the banter. My cock was hard as a rock and I wondered if he could feel it pressing in his belly. I let my fingers stray down between his cleft, grazing his little button, then down between his thighs. As I worked my hand down in deeper I touched the base of his cock, and it was very hard. As I touched it, he clamped his buttocks tightly together. I turned him slowly over on his back. His fine young cock stood up and said hello to me. I am no cock-measurer, so don't ask me if it was three or four and a half inches long. It was about average for a boy of his age, and it was circumcised. Aficionados of boys'pricks would have found it a pretty little thing, I am sure. What interested me more was its angle. Remember how, when you were a kid and you got a hard-on, your cock would rise up and point to your face, so that it was pressed flat against your belly? Well, that's how his was now. There is no fiercer hard-on than that of a pubescent boy. Ah, lucky youth! As I gazed at his organ it seemed to respond by twitching slightly with each surge of blood into its vessels. His small hard nuts were tightly encased in their sac, which was stretched so tight it looked transparent, and showed tiny veins. "Maybe the tuft is here!" I said, sliding my hands under his penis and probing right above its base for any hairs. Right by the root I found two miniscule hairs. They looked as if they had just sprouted that morning. "By Jove, I think I've got it!" I exclaimed, grasping his throbbing penis and examining the two hairs. By this time, however, the boy was too aroused to pay attention to our little game. I looked down into his grey eyes and the expression was one more of pain than of pleasure. His expression seemed to say, "Please, sir, give me some relief from this strange and wonderful feeling." I slowly brought my face down to his and kissed him on the mouth, still holding his cock. He knew how to kiss, and soon our tongues were chasing each other around like two guppies in a fish tank. With my right hand I continued massaging his cock and balls. Whenever I tickled his balls thcyjumped a little higher into their sac. I continued probing his groin, working my finger down beneath his balls towards his anus, then back up front to his dong, which was twitching even harder. Meanwhile we kept our mouths joined together. His breath came faster and faster and his body squirmed on my lap. Then a nice thing happened: He reached up and put his arms around my neck. I love it when boys do this. I pulled him very close to me, kissed him even more passionately, and worked his joystick faster and faster. Almost at once his youthful loins started jerking and he whimpered into my mouth. He jerked very fast, and when at last he stopped, and his body relaxed, I looked down and saw several drops on his chest. Another first! His first (as far as I knew) offering to Venus was small, but it was delicious, I decided, as I licked the droplets off his smooth tummy, then took his cock in my mouth and squeezed out one more drop. Suddenly we became a little awkward with each other. We had never gone so far before and he didn't know how to act, now that he had spent himself. He started to pull up his pants, but I pushed his hand away and did it myself, slowly and lovingly. Then I kissed him again, mussing his hair. He sat up. "Well, sir," he said, "I guess that was more of a French lesson than a math lesson!" I laughed, tickling him and kissing him. But just then we heard the whoops and hollers of the boys. Study hall was over.