Disclaimer: The following story is a work of fiction, a fantasy actually. It is not based on any real persons, living or dead. It does contain graphic descriptions of sexual activity. In most countries of the world you must be 18 years old to read it, so stop now if you are not 18 years old. And if you are offended by vivid descriptions of sexual activity between boys and men, do not continue reading.
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Thanks to J for the editing.
Richard Darby Stories present...
Dark Haired Wonder
A story written by Robert Lawrence.
When it came to boys, I had always thought that I was a `blonds-have-more-fun' man, that is, until I met him – my Dark Haired Wonder. Truly, I had never before experienced such energy and inquisitiveness packaged into such a compact eleven-year-old black-haired bundle... or any other colored hair bundle come to that. So let me tell you about him and how things panned out between us.
Many things began, this relationship included, when I went to work in the 70's as a teacher at an all-boys, K-12, boarding prep school. The school had two campuses, one in an upscale urban neighborhood, and the other was located miles from anywhere in rugged mountain country. While the 10-12 graders stayed year-round at the rural campus, the other grades cycled for a month at a time to `The Farm', as it was colloquially called back then, and I had come aboard at The Farm in mid-school-year to teach high school English, algebra and social science. I arrived at the same time as the visiting eighth graders, at the start of February, and took over their U.S. history studies.
When I first arrived, outside of class, I spent my time getting my bearings on the what's what and the who's who, and settled in. The pitifully small salary was made more acceptable with the other benefits - a free room on campus (with the responsibility of supervising the dorm it was attached to), three meals a day, free gasoline, and all the boyhood I wanted to scope out. My room did have its own entrance and an attached full bathroom, with the added luxury of my own water heater. (Why luxury? - think about it!)
And I hadn't been there long before I began to hear stories and outright warnings from other staff about a certain sixth grader who would be showing up in April. The boy had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, or ADD as an acronym. (Not so commonly identified then as it is today, and now labelled ADHD). Apparently, he was a real handful when it came to discipline and other teacherly concerns. In my 23 years of life, however, I had so far not met a boy I couldn't tame, so I took the cautionary tales as a challenge. The young man's name was Paul.
In the first two months of my new job I had made close friendships with two eighth graders, Doug and Frank, and had even gone to bat for them when they had requested to stay at the rural campus when the remainder of their class had returned to Headquarters. Ostensibly, they had to remain because their class project - a film of their interpretation of a popular big-budget Western - wasn't finished by the end of February. The eighth graders had to return to the urban campus, so the seventh graders, who were coming to The Farm in March, were expected to complete the scenes. Doug and Frank just happened to have the lead roles and were needed for continuity sake, and, besides, it was my 8mm camera.
It was also true (in my opinion) that Doug and Frank were the most attractive boys in their class. Doug was a lean brunette, 13 going on 14 years old, maybe 5'4". From shower watching, I knew his dick was about 4" soft, with a ball sac hanging just as low, and with a patch of soft dark brown pubic hair. Frank was a dark blond 13 year old, with a little heavier than normal build. His sexual development was a mystery to me, but he had definitely been in the throes of puberty for several months if his breaking voice and the light hairs on his arms and legs meant anything.
The headmasters of the urban and farm campuses agreed that Doug and Frank could actually stay at the farm for the remainder of the semester. Because they didn't like the living conditions at the city campus, Doug and Frank were overjoyed when they learned that. So they promised to apply themselves to their studies (they had been placed in my high school English class), and I had gained a teacher's most valuable asset - two students loyal to me and who repeated to me everything they heard about the nefarious goings-on among the other young pagans.
I used a two-part approach to gaining their trust.
First, when I was trying to assess things, I always alluded to something that I already knew had taken place, and the names of those who may have been involved. Sometimes these were pure shots in the dark. But Doug or Frank would believe I must have known something, so they would add their own versions, sometimes observations, sometimes gossip, sometimes facts just to prove me wrong. Secondly, I did not act on every report they gave me, much like the British in WWII when they were deciphering all German radio transmissions with the captured Enigma machine, but could not act on every message for fear of tipping off the Germans that they knew the secret code. So I judiciously responded to reports of only serious infractions, and even then, only when I could point to some other piece of evidence besides my informants, thus protecting their anonymity.
Doug and Frank were my most valuable sources of information when it came to preparing for Paul. They had firsthand knowledge of what Paul could get up to and eagerly shared with me every detail of his indiscretions. At first they were somewhat reluctant to breach that most secret, yet widely known, of prep school behaviors - lights out dormitory follies. But they cautiously let me know that Paul had the reputation of providing sexual favors to other, usually older boys. (Though not to them, of course!)
I took Doug and Frank into my confidence even further when we had a very open discussion about "Why do you think he does that?" I did not condemn or otherwise make fun of adolescent crushes as they had possibly thought I would. Instead, I steered their conclusion around to the fact that Paul needed attention and a body guard, and he could probably buy some loyalty with some sex play. I pointed out that it was sad that no one had taken Paul under their wing; much of his disruptive activities may have toned down. Doug and Frank were surprised at my response but said they thought it made sense.
Finally the dreaded day came, when the seventh graders would return to civilization and the combined fifth and sixth arrived at The Farm. As I stood there waiting with the headmaster and a few other staff members, the white school van rolled up the dusty road about 4pm and came to a stop in front of the little office, the side door slid open and a gang of fifth and sixth graders came flying out. But not one matched the description of Paul. So, after not recognizing him among the masses, I turned my attention to the front passenger door, and watched it swing open, revealing a wickedly smiling youngster with a thatch of straight black hair on his head and his arms still clinging around the young woman's waist in whose lap he was seated. I just knew this had to be Paul. The boy looked me straight in the eyes, and I think he winked at me, and I suddenly had the strange sensation that he may have been researching the new guy (me) prior to his arrival, as much as I had been studying up on him. If I was right, then this was going to be a very interesting, month-long chess match. Paul slowly detached himself from the young woman, joined the throng of his fellow students grabbing for their gear, and raced off in a cloud of dust to his dorm.
Dinner was served at 6pm on the dot, and as was their custom, Frank and Doug showed up at my room in their school uniforms about a half hour before. They couldn't wait to tell me the latest story making the rounds. It turned out that the woman who had offered Paul her lap for the last couple of hours of the ride in, was the new fifth/sixth grade teacher back at headquarters. (This I already knew.) Doug asked me if I had noticed anything special about Miss Leavens. Taking the bait, I admitted that she was quite full chested. Frank filled in that it was between those two mounds that Paul had slotted his head and sometimes face for the last two hours, based on a totally faked incident in the van when he had begun crying, and Miss Leavens decided that she could best comfort him. What harm could there be? - he was only eleven. For the moment, Paul was the hero of the school yard for copping the first feel of the new schoolmarm.
It was then that I acknowledged to myself that I was up against a master manipulator. I was going to need cunning and luck to get through the month. (Little did I know how much of those assets I would need!)
The fifth and sixth grade split their academics between different teachers for their various subjects, just like the high school. I was given the task of continuing their education for the month in the earth sciences. So I immediately had to begin contending with Paul's sometimes disruptive class behavior. Paul was supposed to be taking Ritalin, every morning, dispensed by the school cook: substitute mom and unofficial nurse. But Paul, like most kids on that drug, did not like the dazed feeling it produced, and he had his own ways of occasionally avoiding ingesting the pills. So sometimes he was zonked, and other times he was, shall we say, highly alert.
But after a few days of observation, much of what Paul did, appeared calculated to me, and was not a spontaneous reaction to a physiological inability to attend to his environment. His actions seemed to be for the purposes of attention-getting, or proving himself. He jumped at any comment that appeared to be a challenge.
On the Friday morning at the end of the first week, I found him sitting alone with the headmaster in the headmaster's office. This indicated something serious had happened. Dennis White (the headmaster) told me that Paul had taken a swing at another student (but didn't connect), over nothing. Another teacher had seen the altercation and stopped it immediately. In those days, we did not follow a zero tolerance policy, realizing that boys herded together 24/7 would be boys. So we dealt with incidents on a case by case basis.
At the next break between classes, I approached Billy, the student who was the 'victim', and a couple of his buddies. I had already identified Billy as the class bully and the others as his henchmen, although this particular bully specialized in verbal assault, more so than physicality, and seemed to stay under the radar of other teachers' suspicions.
I challenged the ringleader by taking an educated guess and asking, "So what did you tell Paul he couldn't do this time?"
The bully appeared surprised at the phrasing of my question, which, of course, told me that I was on the right track. We danced back and forth with several retorts from him of "Nothing", "Not much", "Nothing worth getting upset about", blah, blah, until I pieced together that Paul had been claiming that he and his dad had gone fishing and caught some big trout. The bully announced in front of one and all that Paul was a liar and that he had never been fishing, much less caught anything. Within a minute, apparently, Paul's fist had flown to its target. Without accusation or lecture, I walked away, leaving the bully to ponder his fate.
It had long been my guess that much of Paul's bad behavior was him responding to the taunts of other students. They knew what buttons of Paul's to push... so they pushed them. They also knew, with his reputation, that Paul would usually come out the loser, and then they would walk away clean.
When I returned to the headmaster's office to tell Dennis what I had learned, Paul was still there. I didn't have a class, so Dennis asked if I would stay in the office with Paul for an hour while he taught his class. I agreed and took over the role of supervising Paul while he was serving his detention. I just sat quietly at Dennis' desk for a few minutes, moving papers around while Paul was scowling and had progressed to kicking his chair legs rhythmically. So, without looking up, I asked him, "So you like to go fishing?"
Paul wasn't sure he wanted to 'take the bait', as it were, and said nothing.
I continued, "I went with my Dad a few times, but we weren't very good." I looked over at him and I smiled, just a dumb, What are you gonna do? smile.
Paul almost laughed, but he kept his composure. "My dad and me caught some trout once."
"Were they big, or regular?"
"Regular, I guess."
"Where did you guys go?" I asked. "I think my Dad and me went to like Sequoia Park or something."
**Aside to the reader - As the English teacher I knew/know the proper use of subjective and objective pronouns, among other things, but I chose to communicate with my younger charges at their level in casual circumstances, rather than insist on being the Lord of the Grammar. If you have a problem with that, then sue me!**
"We were at Big Bear. We camped out in a tent... my dad and me and my Mom and my little sister."
"Did you eat the fish or throw them back?" I asked.
"What - are you stupid? Of course we ate them," he countered, testing to see what he could get away with.
"No, I'm not stupid," I replied sarcastically, "but some people just like to try doing stuff, like 'Can I catch anything?' and some people really want to taste the fish. Did you suck the eyeballs out, in front of your sister?" I grinned evilly.
Paul cracked up. "No, I didn't suck out the eyeballs!" He giggled. "Would you?"
"Sure. Just get me some fish and I'll show you," I cracked back at him.
"Are there fish in the river?" he asked, referring to the creek that ran through the farm's property.
"I'm told there are. And I'm pretty sure that kids under twelve don't need a fishing license either," I offered.
His eyes twinkled. You could see the gears turning. "But I don't have a fishing pole or bait or anything."
"Well, if I can get some gear and Mr. White says it's OK, you could probably go tomorrow because it's Saturday. And if you catch something, we can fry it, and I'll suck out the eyeballs in front of the whole school. How about that? Is it a deal?"
Thinking that I had just brokered the Missouri Compromise, I leaned back, pleased with myself. But Paul had to have the last word (of course) and countered with a surprise proposition, totally out of left field: "Can I tie some flies?"
"Can you get some stuff so I can tie flies to fish with?"
"You can tie flies?" I challenged.
"My grandpa showed me once. You need some feathers and hooks and leader line and stuff."
I had been playing the game believing that there were only four aces in the deck. Paul, of course, had found the fifth one. I had thought that I was patching together a bluster, a fish story, on Paul's part, when in fact, Paul had been dealing in reality all along (or so I had to believe). The proof would be in the pudding, when I called his bluff with, "OK. It's a deal, flies and all." `What the hell had I gotten into?' I thought to myself. So I added, "But one final condition. (His face clouded up when I said that.) For the rest of today and maybe all weekend, would you please not get into any trouble? Yours or anybody else's? Please." I put on my puppy dog eyes and a pleading smile.
"OK", he grinned. (God, what a beautiful grin!)
We didn't talk about much the rest of the time until Dennis came back. He admonished Paul to behave and then let him scoot. I filled Dennis in on what I had learned about the dust-up, and that I suspected Paul had been goaded. We agreed that fisticuffs were not an appropriate response, so that Paul's detention was not the wrong thing to have done. However, I told Dennis I would like to see whether Paul's account of having been fishing stood up, so I'd like his permission for Paul to go fishing.
"You'll have to go with him," said Dennis. "The young kids can't go to the creek without adult supervision."
Ah, new rule, I thought to myself. I had only been around while the junior and senior high kids were at the farm, and they did not require chaperoning apparently. The elementaries did.
"Fine," I agreed. "Anybody around here have some fishing gear I can borrow?"
Dennis admitted he did and went to a closet in the office and dug out a pole and reel (not too fancy) and a tackle box, which had hooks and fake worms and line. This would do, I thought, for the big adventure.
I was worried about the fly-tying issue, but I was determined to show Paul that some people in this world can be relied upon to keep their promises. Then it suddenly dawned on me that, instead of making a drive into the closest town (23 miles) to buy supplies, some colored thread from my sewing kit and a few feathers from an old pillow might work some magic. So I pounded a couple of 6p nails into a 12" piece of 2x4, and thought I could sell that as a tying station.
Saturday morning was clear and warm for early April. I did not have supervision duty (i.e., I had a day off) and after breakfast went back to my room. Around ten there was a knock at my door. It was Paul, dressed in Levi cut-offs and a white T-shirt. He was about 4'10" or 4'11", slender and well proportioned. I noted that his arms and legs were nicely tanned for this early in the season, sort of a cream-in-coffee tan. (Later, I discovered this was a permanent condition.) He said he had to do the flies before we could go fishing.
I took a deep breath, hoping for the best, and introduced him to our makeshift fly tying rig and supplies. He frowned a bit at the nails in the 2x4, until I showed him how easy it was to tie one of the fish hooks to the nail and then start wrapping the threads around the feathers. He wrinkled his nose at the feathers. Testing our limits, he growled, "Where the hell did you get these?"
I let the swear word go and said "They were especially flown in just to make your sorry ass happy. So shut up and get to work." Tit for tat, I always say. He took my response as I intended it - it was not a school day and we were equals, of a sort. He got down to business.
For the next two hours, he sat on the floor, in what I would come to recognize as his signature cross-legged posture, tying those silly flies. For someone with ADD, he stayed focused and quiet for all of those two hours. Hmmm?!
The lunch bell rang. Paul was required to show up at the dining hall. I told him to go have something to eat, but not to talk with his friends about us going up the creek together. He left and I left a few minutes later. Everything went quietly in the dining hall. I went back to my room and a few minutes later he was back, as well.
"Did anybody say anything?" I asked him.
"Nope. We're cool," he replied, indicating he was in on the conspiracy.
In the room, we tested putting the pole together and the action of the reel. Satisfied that he had a good selection of home built flies (which were actually really professional looking - maybe he did have a grandpa who tied flies), we set out for the creek.
We followed a trail parallel to the creek for about a mile, which took us away from all but the most determined prying eyes. We went down the bank to a large flat red sandstone rock that jutted into the creek and a nearby tree with a comfortable looking 'Y' in its lowest branches. Sunlight was coming straight down, warming the rocks.
I took my paperback book, climbed into the crotch of the tree, braced myself and looked slightly down and over at my charge. I think he appreciated that I was letting him do all the setup of the fishing stuff. He assembled his first rig and cast his weighted fly a respectable distance into the creek. (Damn - it was looking as if he had done all this before.)
He reeled in and cast again, and again and again. I concentrated on trying to read. It was actually getting warm. I looked over at him, and as soon as he knew I was watching, he quickly put the pole down and skinned his T-shirt off over his head. His chest and back were the same tan color as his arms and no demarcation lines at his shoulders. He had a blemish free, silky brown torso, with dime-size dark brown nipples and an inny belly button. I couldn't decide if his earlobe-length black hair was Asian or Latino or Native American in origin, but it shone and hadn't a curl or wave.
I was watching him. He knew I was watching him. I knew he knew I was watching him. And I think we both knew that fly fishing in April in a tiny creek was NOT the point of the exercise.
"Mr. Hartman?" he queried. "Can I ask a...a personal question?"
I knew what he was going to say before he said it. "Sure."
"Are you a homosexual?" he asked without missing a beat and staring directly at me, his brown boy body shining in the sun.
I had to give my response just the right inflection. "Not exactly", I replied, not turning my gaze away in the slightest.
** Aside to reader – Well, in truth, I identify as a pederast, a boy lover. The first person to ask me if I were a homosexual (in those days we weren't gay yet) was an LA County sheriff after a traffic stop in 1969 and in all honesty I said "No", using the same reasoning. The fact that I had three 14 year old boys in my Karman Ghia should have clued him to ask a different question, but hey!**
"Uh huh", Paul said as if he had just opened the heretofore locked door to a candy shop. He smiled, turned around, bent over to pick up his pole, showing the white edge of his briefs over the top edge of the cut-offs, which accentuated a beautiful boy bum. The red light ladies of Amsterdam could have taken lessons from Paul.
After a few minutes of silence, during which I couldn't read and Paul didn't fish, he said quietly, "I didn't throw the punch about the damn fishing."
"I assume we're talking about Billy," I responded.
"Yeah. I didn't go after him because he said I never fished before. He said I didn't have a dad."
"Jeez," I said. "He said you didn't have a dad? What's that all about?" (I was sitting up at this point.)
"They all know I'm adopted." His voice almost broke, and there was a glistening in his eyes.
"So? Some of those guys are from divorces. I'll bet there's at least a couple other adopted guys at the school. Everybody's got some complications in their life. Don't let them get to you. Are you cool with your adopted parents?"
"They're great, I guess. But I really don't know what I am. Am I part Mexican or part Chinaman or what?" He had walked over to where I was sitting in the tree, in the shade now, his deep brown eyes even with mine. Upon this closer inspection I could see that there was only a hint of an epicanthic fold, so the Asian thing might have some bearing. And there was definitely European, with the cute, narrow upturned nose. His mocha complexion was smooth all over, with a few freckles sprinkled across his nose. His pre-pubescent body was pretty much rid of baby fat already, and he had two perky dark brown nipples. His young musculature was starting to define itself and I very much wanted to see what was under the cut-offs. I knew there was probably no hair, and there was no pronounced bulging "package", but that was fine with me.
"Hey," I said. "We're all something. I'm part queer. And I'm going to tell you that you're the best looking boy I've ever seen, whatever your parts are. But don't let it go to your head."
This would be the point in a movie where we move closer to one another and hug, maybe even kiss. But this was real life. We only stared at each other, with a big silence hanging between us.
Finally, Paul said, "I guess. I'll try to be cool about it."
"And lay off the flying fists of fury," I said. "Unless your life is in danger. You know those guys just try to get to you."
"I know. But sometimes I just have to let loose." He pulled his T-shirt back on, picked up the pole and tackle box, and headed for the embankment. I followed, and in silence, we walked back to the world of school.
For the next week we did not see each other privately. In class Paul acted subdued. I suspected that he was actually ingesting his daily ration of Ritalin. It also meant that no more incidents of inappropriate behavior occurred. It then hit me that this might be an opportunity to progress things further.
I announced in class that I was going to give a prize to the student who showed the best behavior over the next two days. The prize was going to be a night spent in my room. The previous week I had already offered a similar prize for the top two test scores on Wednesday's exam. The prize had been won by a model student named Glenn and another kid named Chris. Glenn and Chris had shown up at my room after study hall with their sleeping bags and PJ's. We had listened to some record albums, had Cokes and cookies, talked and then hit the sack. In the morning they had dressed for school and departed. The major point of this exercise was that the word was certain to get spread around that Mr. Hartman was OK and nothing `funny' happened. The excitement about the next prize was sure to generate interest.
On that Friday, I made my announcement in class about the winner of the prize for best behavior. I said that Paul would be spending the night with me. Immediately after I announced it, there was grumbling, but I was prepared for that. "Has Paul been OK this week or not?" I asked the class.
"Yeah, but what about all the times before?" one boy yelled from the back of the room.
"And, yes, what about all the times before? Wouldn't you have to say he has made the biggest change, from not so good to good, of any of you?"
The reluctant voices mumbled almost in unison that he had.
"Then, help me out here. This is a good thing. Let's see how it works out. There's still time for a few more parties," I smiled.
Although the smile was not returned all around, I sensed an easing of tension. Paul, throughout all of this, had, thankfully, kept his silence, but I could see a twinkle in those eyes. I knew I had scored some kind of victory. I did not know yet, how complex a victory it would be.
The first indication that I was facing down a curve ball was when Paul came up to my desk at the end of class and asked, "Can I have a friend come with me?"
I held a conversation in my head - `What the hell is this? I set it up so we can be alone, because that's what I thought you wanted. And you're asking for company?'
Out loud I said, "I suppose so. Who do you want?"
"Can Matt come?" Matt was hanging out at the back of the room, apparently already let in on the conspiracy. Matt was a good kid, a few inches taller and a few pounds heavier than his class average, but still slender and good looking. I also knew he was hairless and uncircumcised from a glimpse I had caught at a swimming session days before.
"Sure. Glad to have him. You guys come over to my room around 8pm tonight. Bring sleeping bags and PJ's and a change of clothes for tomorrow. OK?"
"All right" they almost said in unison. "Thanks," said Paul and they left, whispering excitedly together.
I had no idea that Matt and Paul were friends. They had shown no special interest in each other and I had hardly ever seen them together at play. Oh well. Paul was full of surprises; I just wasn't sure when or how I could legitimately arrange another private time for us.
That night, right on cue, there was a knock on the door and two 11 year olds paraded in, smiling from ear to ear. It crossed my mind that the invitation from Paul to Matt was maybe payback for some previous help Matt had given him. (I made a mental note to check this out further.)
They immediately started going through my vinyl record collection, jostling over who got the next choice of music or comedy. (There was no VHS or DVD or Internet, and we were so rural there was no TV broadcast reception, and cable or satellite was not yet at the consumer level.) The cold Cokes came out of my little fridge and the cookie and candy stash was raided. They talked between each other about school happenings, moving towards the sexual every once in a while, with references to the size of tits on girls they both knew back in the city, both carefully watching my reactions at their openness.
I decided to fire back, and asked how Paul's time with Miss Leavens was. He feigned anger at the question, and then he and Matt broke out in giggles. Paul used his hands to cup the imagined sizes, while Matt made salacious movements with his extended tongue.
The conversation bantered back and forth for a while longer. I was about to think of an excuse to end the festivities, when Paul announced it was time for bed.
It was at this time I realized that there was a deficiency in sleeping arrangements. "Hey," I pointed out, "there's only one sleeping bag. What's up?"
"No problem," Paul announced. "You have a spare bed and Matt can have that. I'll take the bag on the floor."
It was true. I slept on a twin bed at one end of my studio apartment, and about eight feet away, parallel to my bed and against the other wall, was a second twin bed. Paul intended to roll out the bag in the space between.
"Fine with me," I said.
They each went separately into my bathroom. Matt came out wearing only flannel PJ boxer-brief style shorts; Paul wore only a pair of white briefs. "It's been warm at night," pointed out Paul to prevent further statements of the obvious by me. Both of them had only the normal little bulges at their crotch.
I locked the front door, closed the blinds and turned out the lights. Then I stripped to my briefs and crawled into my bed from the foot of it, and slipped under the sheet. I figured if Paul was happy, I was too.
I couldn't fall asleep easily. In the semi darkness I listened to the breathing sounds of two youngsters. A pole mounted light outside was intended to light up the grounds but leaked enough luminance into my room to make some things visible. I kept tracing out the previous few days in my head, trying to figure where I had made an incorrect assumption about my relationship with Paul, and why his sudden neutrality. My agitation was, needless to say, not sleep inducing.
After about twenty minutes, there was a shuffling sound near me and a whisper said, "Can I get in bed with you?"
It was Paul, of course. By way of reply, I shifted to my left side and raised the sheet with my right arm. He slipped in and remained on his left side, facing away from me. Seconds later he shifted his body back into mine, his little ass pressing into my stomach at my navel. My mind was racing and I was frozen to inactivity. After the previous conflicting signals, I didn't know what was expected of me. I shouldn't have worried. Paul was in control. His right arm reached behind him, searching for my right arm, which I had balanced along my side, for fear of putting it where it was not wanted. Instead, Paul pulled my right arm over to his chest, obviously indicating he wanted to be held. I obliged and applied as much pressure as I thought was safe. This was good for a minute or two, but Paul's plan was progressing. He had shifted his body down enough so that he could detect my erection pressing though my shorts into his ass. Again his right hand went roaming. This time it slipped between his back and my stomach, under the waistband of my shorts, and deftly grabbed my cock. He slowly began stroking. I couldn't let this attention go unanswered, so I moved my right hand under his briefs and began a two fingered stroking of his hard circumcised prick. He rolled on to my hand to stop the action, saying "You don't have to. I'm too small to do anything."
I continued my stroking, saying "It isn't quantity. It's quality."
(We both remembered that line for the next 17 years of our relationship.)
He was happy apparently with the reply, and allowed me to continue. I savored the feelings of his silky skin shifting over the hard spike of his cocklet. My little finger reached out to stroke the tight little sack. I detected not a single hair or the beginnings of one anywhere in the vicinity.
After a few minutes of the mutual stroking, Paul decided to move to the next phase. He threw the sheet off of both of us, and then he gently pushed me on to my back and got into his cross legged seated position on my left side, next to my left hip. Bending over, his two hands grabbed each side of my brief's waistband and pulled down. I lifted my ass just a little to assist, and he expertly had me out of my pants, laying nude on my back, with my cock pointed to the ceiling. I began to wonder what would happen if Matt in the other bed awoke to this activity. But it was Paul's party; I just followed his lead.
Paul had now started stroking my six inch hardon with two hands. My left hand went looking for Paul's little prick, pushing around folds in his cotton shorts. Paul seemed annoyed by this and removed his two hands from my cock. I thought I might have made a mistake. However, he rolled onto his back, slipped his shorts off, returned to his position at my hip, and his two hands went back to work. My left hand easily found its target this time, and began mapping the topography of the hairless eleven year old groin it had encountered, three inch erection, tight ball sack and smooth perineum.
Then, just as we were, getting into things, what I thought might happen, happened. Matt's voice from the other side of the room asked, "What are you guys doing?"
I responded in a fake, stern teacher voice saying, "None of your beeswax."
Paul rejoined, however, with "Wouldn't you like to know?"
I was playing various scenarios in my brain, including that this was some kind of setup to out me, or that Matt was playing a role in some play directed by Paul, or that he wasn't supposed to wake up.
With no further conversation, though, Matt got up and walked over to our bed and for a second was just standing there facing us, looking down at the whole sexual tableau.
Paul, however, spun around on his little ass, still cross legged, reached out for the tops of Matt's boxers and pulled down. Leaving the boxers at Matt's ankles, he then grabbed Matt's waist and pulled him towards us. Matt toppled with his belly across my groin, and began to wiggle to one side while Paul removed the boxers the rest of the way.
While I was wondering where this sexual circus was headed, without any words being exchanged, Matt turned over onto his back while using his arms to slide further up my chest. Paul had exited the bed and was pulling Matt's feet towards the floor so that Matt had eventually arched on his lower back over the edge of the mattress. My right hand had reached over to Matt's groin and for a few seconds I was fondling a hairless, spike-stiff penis. But Paul pushed my hand further up onto Matt's chest and went to work on his own down at Matt's fun zone.
I was rubbing Matt's chest, lightly stopping to pinch a nipple, then rubbing the tight abdominal area. Matt began to stiffen and relax rhythmically, from whatever Paul had going on. In the darkness and at my oblique viewing angle I couldn't see much detail. I only assumed that Paul was jacking Matt off. Matt finally jerked several times, which I interpreted as his orgasm.
He lay there for another minute, not moving, when Paul asked "Was it good?"
"Oh yeah," exclaimed Matt limply. Then he stood up, a bit wobbly, pulled his shorts back on, and plopped back into the other bed. "Good night," he said.
"Good night," Paul and I said in unison.
Even though my dick had not been touched for several minutes, the nearby erotic play had left me hard anyway, and Paul once again assumed his yoga style position next to me and both of his hands began moving up and down my shaft. But not for long.
"Do I have to use my hands?" came the voice at my side, said in the manner of a child asking if he has to finish his spinach.
"N-No," I stammered, "Not if you know another way."
"Matt liked it," came the reply, and instantly the head of my dick was enveloped in a warm wetness. His tongue began to flick back and forth under the glans, while his lips managed to go down another inch or two on my shaft. My circumcised prick was of only ordinary proportions, but so was his eleven year old mouth. The inside of his mouth was no longer warm, it was getting hot! His saliva kept up the lubrication, while he expertly kept his teeth out of the way. One hand returned to the base of my dick, and began traveling up and down in unison with his lips.
There was nothing amateur or hesitant about this class A blow job. I closed my eyes, while my left hand played with a little set of balls and a rigid little prick with a mushroom head. I wasn't pushed away. Paul was concentrating on his mission.
Soon his saliva was mixing with my pre-cum and I could feel the moment of truth approaching. My right hand came up and began pressing lightly against his moving forehead. "I'm gonna cum," I volunteered.
His left hand came up and slapped my right hand away. I took the message that his intent was to ride the pony until it was all over. With that issue settled, I resumed channeling the ecstatic sensations from the feeling of his dick with my growing orgasmic glow. I practiced my technique of holding on to the explosion until the last instant. At the magic moment, the electricity started at the base of my spine and spread up towards my skull, and at the same time raced to my crotch. I knew I must be ejaculating more volume than I ever remembered. I enjoyed the disembodied sensation for a second longer, and then returned my attention to my bed partner. I fully expected to feel significant wetness of expelled cum all over my groin.
I should have learned by now not to be surprised. Paul was still on my engorged prick, his swallowing actions synchronized with his continued pumping and not a drop of fluid being allowed out through the perfect seal of his beautiful lips.
Finally my spasms ceased. Paul took the opportunity to make a few last vacuuming actions. The tip of his little tongue probing the opening to my urethra to make sure not a drop of my semen was gone to waste. His mouth came off my dick. He looked over at me and even in the dimness his eyes were blazing and his white teeth formed a huge smile, and in one last movement to assert his dominance, he gave my deflating cock a little slap. Then, as if the previous half hour hadn't happened, he stretched out once again on his left side at the edge of the mattress, and pulled the sheet back up over our bodies. When he was settled facing away from me, he asked, "Was it good?"
"Fantastic," I let him know. "But one thing," I whispered. "You didn't have to swallow."
"Yes I did. It was my dessert milk shake. Good night."
"Are you sure I can't suck you off?"
"I can't do anything yet. It's a waste of time."
"Not for me," I countered.
"Yeah, well. No thanks. Shut up and go to sleep."
And that was the night that the tables were turned. I had been manipulated to believe that my plans had been thwarted and that it was going to be an ordinary, nothing unusual sleep over. Instead, my control had been wrested from me and I was forced to acknowledge that an eleven year old had been in the driver's seat all along.
I awoke the next morning with just the smallest bit of sunshine beginning to filter through the blinds. I was still naked and so was Paul. We were spooned together, but he had scooted up just enough so that he had captured my hardon between his thighs. God, it felt great! He was still breathing in a slow regular rhythm, and I did not want the moment to end, so I made no serious movements. I slowly reached down and cupped Paul's boner and balls and my own cockhead with my right hand. He snuggled back into me even more firmly. I was able to glance over at Matt in the other bed. He was spread out on his back, still `sawing logs' as well, with the sheet totally off of him and with a tent in his boxer briefs. I told myself that all was well in my world.
These were the opening events in what would be a 17 year off-again/on-again relationship with Paul. There would be many more adventures and sexual encounters, including first orgasm, first pubic hair, first fuck and first break-up. But those are all other tales.
*** Oh, and one of the high school guys came back to campus a week after that momentous night with a mess of trout that he had caught. He shared them at a school BBQ on the night before the fifth and sixth had to return to urbanity. At one point I announced to the assembled throng that I had lost a bet, and proceeded to suck the eyeballs out of one of the grilled fishies before their startled faces. Paul laughed so hard that he went into a coughing spell. While trying to calm him, I whispered that we could make it better when I arranged for him to come stay with me during the upcoming summer break. God, I loved how his eyes could sparkle!
Robert Lawrence... firstname.lastname@example.org