Date: Sat, 18 Dec 2004 06:50:29 -0500
From: g d <parrafan@ureach.com>
Subject: The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities

The Grazed Elbow and Other Calamities

by Parrafan

DISCLAIMER:
This is just a story I made up. Don't take any of it seriously.
If you're over the legal age, you are welcome to read and enjoy
it if you want. If you're under the legal age, sadly you have to
stop reading now.

DEDICATION:
I love reading the stories on Nifty, and this story is a humble
tribute to two of my favourite authors, Ganymede and Debonair.

Chapter 1: The Grazed Elbow.

I guess I should have realised something was not quite right a
little sooner. But, as happens all too often in these
situations, you don't recognise what's going on until events
have well and truly overtaken you.

It started innocently enough. Looking back, the only "innocent"
was me. At the time, I was on lunchtime yard patrol, keeping a
general eye on the student population as they played their games
of handball, runacross and touch footy. There were two teachers
on duty, in accordance with school policy, and the two of us
walked our separate patrol areas at either end of the lunchtime
playground, a roughly rectangular block about a hectare in size.
This other teacher (who taught a Grade Two class, mostly seven
year olds) and I were frequently assigned on the same day. So
much so that we had become accustomed to keeping in touch with
each other by means of a system of hand signals that we had
devised between us.

There were only ten minutes remaining of the lunch period. All
lunches had been eaten, rubbish had been binned and games well
under way. I casually meandered towards a game of keepaway
between some Grade Sixes that was showing signs of becoming much
too vigorous when one of my own Grade Five boys came alongside
me and caught my eye. He was holding his right forearm with his
left hand, and pointing his right elbow at me. The elbow in
question had lost a small patch of skin, about the size of a
book of matches, and the resulting contusion was slowly
beginning to ooze blood.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed, when I saw it. It was one of those wounds
that every boy has had, at least once, and it was the kind of
wound that generates a stab of sympathy pain in any onlookers.
But as Terry wasn't crying, I guessed the injury was so recent
that the wound was still numb. Since I would not have associated
this particular boy with the sort of rough and tumble game that
frquently generates this type of injury, I immediately suspected
that he was the victim of a bit of bullying.

"What happened, Terry?", I enquired, as I took hold of the hurt
arm and carefully manipulated it to check for broken bones.

"I was reading my book and walking at the same time and I
tripped", he explained, in quite a matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh!", I responded. That seemed probable, knowing Terry as I
did. No evidence of bullying here, just his typical daydreaming.
"Where's your book now?".

"Peter is minding it for me", he answered, nodding his head in
the general direction of the seats where the less athletic boys
sit during luch period.

I waved to my colleague the signal that means "Cover for me" and
walked Terry back to our homeroom. I knew the school nurse had
already left for the day (she only works mornings) so I decided
to administer First Aid myself, rather than take Terry to the
Admin office to be tended to by one of our ancillary staff. He
was one of my homeroom boys, after all.

I hold a current certificate in First Aid, as do all classroom
teachers at the school. I keep a small first aid kit in the
bottom drawer of my desk - no drugs, only creams, lotions and
bandages - so when we reached our classroom I escorted Terry to
the front of the room (to my desk) and began swabbing the wound
with an antiseptic wipe.

I noticed a curious thing at that point. I have had to perform
this kind of duty many times in my fifteen-year teaching career,
and invariably I find that the patient will carefully watch the
progress of the operation as keenly as a jeweller's apprentice.
Not Terry. He kept his eyes on mine the whole time. It was as
though the injury was incidental. It was a bit distracting,
really. Instead of paying attention to my attempt at dressing
his wound, Terry gazed straight into my eyes. Oh well, I
thought, takes all kinds. Terry always had been a bit different
to the other kids, or so I had noticed in the two months since
he had been in my homeroom.

The instinct that told me Terry was a bit different from the
other boys should have warned me about what was to happen, but
it didn't. Funny how instinct is often confused with hindsight,
isn't it? After I finished my ministrations, Terry took his
first look at my handiwork, then pointed the elbow in my face
and said "Sir, Mummy kisses it better for me when I hurt
myself".

Now I knew enough about kids to know that I had to kiss it
immediately, to avoid one of those embarassing pauses that
always makes your next action seem rather forced and unnatural.
So I quickly  replied "Sure", and bent over to give the crepe
bandage a little peck. "How's that?", I said jovially, trying to
maintain a caring yet masculine attitude.

"Thank you, Sir", Terry answered, a bit dreamily, as he took
advantage of me still being seated and partially bent over, to
wrap both his arms around my neck and plant a kiss on my cheek.
I was too surprised to do anything, so I just sat there like a
dummy, mute, but Terry had already removed his arms and turned
away from me, skipping towards the door. I was still sitting
there in shock a minute later when the bell sounded to mark the
end of lunch period.

Chapter 2: The Swollen Nipples

Luckily, ours was not included among the great majority of
schools nowadays that has been caught up in the current wave of
paranoia about teachers coming into physical contact with
students. Many schools, unfortunately, have been forced (by
rabid parents and talkback radio show hosts) to issue new policy
directions to teachers, which prohibit under any and all
circumstances, any physical contact between teacher and student.
These policies are so rigid and narrowminded, that they would
even prohibit a congratulatory handshake on the presentation
stage during Speech Night. But, as I indicated, our school was
fortunate to have a slightly more enlightened parent body. The
policy operating at my school simply gave teachers authority to
do what they thought a 'reasonable parent' would do. Admittedly,
the notion of 'what a reasonable parent would do' varied rather
widely (or wildly) from one teacher to the next, and in the case
of bachelor teachers such as myself, was open to much
interpretation (not to say imagination).

As a sensible precaution, any non-trivial contacts between
teacher and student had to be recorded in a logbook kept in the
Admin office. So I was happy to trot down to the office later in
the afternoon to make my entry in the book. "Treated a grazed R
elbow belonging to T Gillings, 13/4/02, R Pazko" was all I
wrote, and I thought it sufficient. Looking back, maybe I should
have mentioned the kiss (his, not mine).

The next morning Terry was the first student to arrive in the
homeroom. That was not so unusual, as the more academically
inclined students frequently arrived early so they could catch
up on their reading of latest Harry Potter or Darren Shan books
(or whatever was popular at the time). What was unusual was
Terry's next action. He walked straight up to my desk (I was
preparing an arithmetic quiz at the time) and stated "Sir, is it
normal for a boy's nipples to be swollen?".

I look back on that day and think "What if I had said 'Yes
Terry, it's normal, now go sit down'". Or maybe I should have
suggested that if he was worried he could visit the school nurse
at 9 o'clock. It's easy to be wise in hindsight, isn't it?. What
actually happened was that I looked straight at his school shirt
(it was an automatic reaction, I swear), only to see two small
nubs sticking up from his chest through the soft cotton. Terry
somehow interpreted that as a signal that he should show me the
offending nipples, and before I could stop him, he reached down
and grabbed the bottom of his shirt and whipped the light cotton
garment up and over his head, dropping it on my desk.

Terry was now naked from the waist up, standing in front of me,
swollen nipples pointing straight out at me.

"Sir, I asked Mummy, and she said I should ask you", Terry
explained. He might have been asking about the number of legs an
insect should have, or whether the class would be studying
Geography this afternoon, he was so casual about it. I stared at
the prepubescent chest with a mixture of wonder and terror. All
I need is for another student or teacher to walk in right now,
and my goose is cooked, I thought.

A quick glance towards the door reassured me that no-one was in
the immediate area, so I said the first stupid thing to Terry
that popped into my head.

"Uh, do they feel tender?"

Terry looked at me quizzically and said "I dunno, I haven't felt
them". Saying that, he pushed his scrawny chest towards me even
further, and before I could think even one rational thought, my
fingers had gravitated towards the puffy nipples and began to
squeeze them, gently stroking and rubbing them in a manner
guaranteed to make them even more swollen than they already
were.

"That feels good, Sir", Terry breathed. I couldn't believe that
I was giving this boy what I called in my youth a 'tit job'.

"Um, Terry, it's pretty normal for a boy your age to experience
some swelling of the nipples", I stammered. "It just means that
your body is maturing. Have you talked to your mother about
this?" I vaguely recalled hearing that his father had
disappeared years ago.

"Sir, she said to talk to you about it", Terry replied. "Why do
boys have nipples anyway?"

I silently cursed his mother for dropping me in it. "Well, it's
normal for a boy's nipples to do this sometimes, and I shouldn't
worry about it if I were you", I said in what I hoped was a
neutral, re-assuring tone.

"As for why boys have nipples, well I suppose the short answer
is, when you were being formed inside your
mother's...er...inside your mother, you were a mammal before you
were a male. All mammals have nipples, no matter what sex we
are". I stopped groping his tits and reached for his shirt,
hoping to get it back on him before any more of his classmates
arrived. After I pulled the shirt over his head, I tried to
settle the bottom of the shirt on his waist and hips. This left
me open to Terry's hug, which he immediately applied, much as he
had done yesterday. This time, his kiss was planted on my lips,
only lightly, but still a 'lip kiss'. I froze. Terry just
strolled back to his desk as though nothing had happened.

I spent the rest of the day trying to avoid any interaction with
Terry, in a vain attempt to get those puffy, stiff, squeezable,
suckable, pointy boy nipples out of my mind.

Chapter 3:  The Tummy Ache

I thought that I had survived to the end of the day without any
further Terry-incidents, but I was way off.  As the
end-of-school bell was sounding, I saw Terry wading against the
flow of Fifth Graders rushing to the door to present himself at
my desk. Withing thirty seconds, the room had cleared of all
personnel except Terry and myself.

"Sir, I have a tummy ache", Terry announced to me, one hand
lying on the allegedly aching tummy, his other hand on the
corner of my desk to steady himself.

"Do you want me to drive you home so you can tell you Mum about
it?", I asked in a feeble attempt to deflect his question.

"Sir, she won't be home until seven", Terry countered. "Anyway,
she would want me to ask you about it. She's always telling me
to ask you about personal stuff".

That's just great, I thought. I put a heap of energy over the
last fifteen years of my teaching career into keeping all of my
students at arm's length for my own safety, and one skinny,
winsome, intelligent, sexy boy succeeds in worming his way under
my defences inside two days. It's just not fair. Before I could
formulate an answer to Terry's assertion about his mother, he
pulled his shirt over his head. Not only that, but he stuck his
thumbs under the waistband of the front of his shorts and
dragged them down about six inches, revealing a hairless lower
belly.

I thought about bolting for the door, but Terry positioned
himself in front of me in such a way as to make that course of
action even more undignified than it sounds.

"Sir, it sort of hurts here", Terry muttered, flopping his hand
vaguely in the area of his lower intestine. And I do mean
**lower**.

I sighed and gestured for him to move a bit closer. I knew when
I was beaten. Placing one hand on his lower back (to steady him,
I assure you!), I turned him sideways and rested my other hand
on his flat stomach. I then gazed fixedly into the middle
distance, as though I was listening for the far-off wail of a
police car siren, and began lightly pressing Terry's alabaster
abdomen with the pads of my fingers. I perfomed a "sweep" of the
allegedly painful area, covering the whole magnificent torso in
much the same way I thought an inexperienced gynaecologist might
prod his first pregnant patient's belly.

As I moved my fingertips over the translucent, warm, soft yet
resilient skin, I asked him from time to time "Does this hurt?",
"How about here?" and so on. I had to call forth from the
furthest recesses of my memory all the phrases I could remember
from playing Doctor with a neighbour boy when I was twelve years
old (neighbour boy was 10 as I recall). Terry's answers were
non-commital at best, so I was unable to diagnose anything more
specific than tummy-ache, which brought us back to where we
started. I told Terry as much, then rubbed his tummy a bit (for
luck, like a Buddha?), pulled his shorts back up to his navel
and reached for his shirt. I had somehow forgotten about the
previous shirt incident, but clearly Terry hadn't, as he again
took advantage of my distraction in settling his shirt-tails to
wrap his arms around my neck and kiss me. On the lips. Again.

This time it was a bit more than a peck. It was more like a
smooch. Though not quite a slobber. He held onto me a bit longer
as well, and looked into my eyes just as he finished the kiss. I
am sure he saw the "rabbit in the headlights" look in my eyes.
Thankfully, he quickly relinquished his hold on me (and took his
arms from around my neck too). I had graduated from startled
rabbit and was now doing my beached fish impression at this
stage.

"Thanks, Sir", he called out over his shoulder as he darted back
to his desk, collected his schoolbag and scooted out through the
door.

Chapter 4: One bigger than the other

Utter coward that I am, I hid in the staff room as soon as I
arrived at school the next morning. I'd spent a restless night,
waiting for the accusatory phone call from Terry's mum, or
worse, the midnight knock on the door from the local
constabulary. I sat near a window, watching the boys drag
themselves to school for another day, trying to pick out Terry's
thin frame among them. I was interrupted by a fellow teacher who
tapped me on the shoulder and scared 5 years' growth out of me.

"Bit jumpy, Russ?" he inquired as I clutched my heart and my
breathing returned to normal.

"Uh, yeah", I replied. "What's up?"

"One of your kids is at the side door. Um, skinny, dark brown
hair, freckles, Gillon or something, I think his name is", he
replied.

"It's Gillings, Terry Gillings, and thanks", I answered, hauling
myself out of my chair. I met Terry at the door and waved at him
to follow me to our classroom. He fell in behind me obediently
as we trudged the thirty five metres to our room. His compliant
attitude made me even more nervous, if that was possible. I had
the feeling of impending disaster that a Christmas turkey must
have around December 22nd.

We arrived at our homeroom and I led the way to my desk. Terry
followed behind me. He had been silent the whole time, but I
sensed it was a silence full of foreboding.

"Sir", he began, "Is it normal for a boy to have one testicle
bigger than the other?". He looked me in the face with a
demeanor as open as any I have ever seen on a boy. "I asked my
Mummy, but she said-"

"To ask me", I finished for him. I had heard this refrain often
enough that by now I could sing it without the manuscript.

"Well is it normal Sir?", he asked again, and before I could
stop him he had grabbed the sides of his school shorts and
dragged them to his knees, where they continued on their
downward journey and dropped to puddle around his ankles.

Terry did not appear to have included underpants in his school
uniform today. I noticed little things like that in a boy. My
first instinct was to insist that he pull his shorts back up
again, but all of the sensitivity training that the Education
Department puts teachers through made me hesistate. Would that
traumatise him, make him think that I was repulsed by his naked
body? Before I could rationalise any further, he had shuffled
forward to within a handspace of me and pushed his hips forward.
His modestly sized (but well-proportioned) wedding tackle
jiggled at me as I made a snap decision - to save my teaching
career.

"Terry", I said as gently and calmly as I could. "Can I pull
your shorts up first, then we can talk?" As I reached down for
the skimpy garment, I kept up what I thought was a reassuring
patter.

"The fact is," I continued, "I don't need to look at your
testicles to know the answer to this one. Anyway, I wouldn't
want one of your classmates coming in the room just now, and
seeing your bare bottom. He might think I'm giving you a
spanking for being naughty." Terry gave me a look that suggested
that might not be such an undesirable outcome, but allowed me to
pull up his shorts. As I got them past his knees, I felt his
body sway to accommodate the raising of the shorts up all the
way, in that enchanting way that only a boy's body does. I
tucked his shirt in for him as he continued to gaze at my face.

I put my hands on his hips (once he was fully clothed), as I had
seen a parent once do when addressing his wayward offspring.
"Terry", I began, "I want you to know that I will always try to
answer your questions, but I don't always have to see the part
of the body you are asking about. Is that okay with you?" He
nodded his head and smiled in reply. "It's okay that you showed
me, but I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed if another boy
came in and...um...saw you. Alright?" Terry nodded again, and
smiled as if to say that he got it all the first time, and it's
no big deal.

"Terry, How many boys in our class have got blue eyes?", I
asked, waiting patiently as he mentally totted up.

"About a dozen, I think, Sir", he replied carefully, sensing
that this was some kind of test. Terry liked to do well on his
tests.

"Good answer", I countered. "Now, is it normal to have blue
eyes?"

"Yes, I suppose so Sir", he replied slowly.

"Hmm. And how many boys have hazel or brown eyes?", I continued.

"Well, there's 22 in the class Sir, so I guess around 10,
including me", he answered. I think he sensed where this
interrogation was leading.

"And is it normal to have hazel or brown eyes, may I ask?"

"Um, I suppose so Sir", he replied, rather sheepishly.

I pressed home my argument. "So, a boy can have blue eyes, or
hazel eyes, or brown eyes, but still have 'normal' eyes, would
you agree?

"Yes Sir", he said softly.

"The same goes for a boy's...er...testicles. The left one can be
a little bit bigger than the right, or vice versa, or they can
be both the same size, and it's all normal. Okay?"

"Um, yes Sir, I guess so. But what if one was as big as
a...uh... a golf ball, and the other one was as small
as...um..."

"A peanut?", I volunteered.

"Yeah, Sir, a peanut, exactly", he smiled triumphantly.

"Well," I mused, giving his hips a little swivel as I did so,
"that would be abnormal, but I have a little confession to
make". Terry raised his eyebrows to indicate I should continue.
"When you pulled your shorts down before, I couldn't help
myself, I glanced at your private parts. I hope you don't mind.
But I can assure you, your testicles look normal to me."

"But Sir, you have to...I mean...can you tell just by looking at
them?", Terry replied, a look of concern on his face.

"Ah, I can see you are worried. Would you feel more reassured if
i gave...uh, them...a...um, a touching, I mean, a physical
examination. Not just a visual examination, I mean. For the sake
of thoroughness." I watched his face closely.

"Oh, yes Sir, I think it is important to be thorough in cases
such as these." Terry's earnest reply assuaged my fears that I
was taking an unwelcome advantage of him. He began to pull his
shorts down again, but as my hands were still on his hips I was
able to stop him easily.

"Terry", I explained, "You don't have to take your shorts down
again. I can easily do the examination through the material
(**especially as you have no undies on**, I thought). Will that
be okay? That way we won't get c- er, that way, you won't be
embarrassed if anyone comes in the classroom. Just shut your
eyes and relax".

The boy's eyelashes fluttered down to the closed position as I
turned his body to face the blackboard, with his back to the
doorway.

"Are you ready, Terry?" I asked softly, my hand already on his
thigh just below the hem of his school shorts. My other hand
rested just on the top of his little round bottom, to balance
him.

"Yes, Sir", he breathed almost inaudibly.

"Okay, here goes." My hand slowly crept above the hem of his
shorts, then groped inwards towards his crotch, where it struck
it's first obstacle. Terry's legs were together like a soldier
at attention.

"Uh, Terry, just move your legs apart a bit, would you". The
little fellow almost did the splits in his eagerness to
accommodate my meandering hand. My fingertips moved further up
until I encountered the material of his crotch.

"Okay, here is the left one", I murmured as I gently palpated
his family jewels. "It feels fine. Does it hurt, Terry".

"No Sir it's fine", he whispered, eyes still lightly closed.

I only had to move my fingertips a finger's width to find his
right testicle. I decided to be a bit more forward with Terry,
partly to see what he would let me do, partly just out of
curiosity about his intriguing and enticing body. I felt around
for the right testicle for a few moments, then stopped.

"Terry, I can't quite seem to find your right testicle. Can you
pull your shorts leg up for me?" Without opening his eyes, the
boy's right hand went to the hem of his right side trouserleg
and pulled it up and across roughly, as far as it would go.
Naturally, without any undies on, all of his genitals were
exposed by this action. His little penis lay on top of his
scrotum, so I edged it out of the way with my thumb, and grasped
Terry's right testicle with two fingers and thumb. I must say, I
was surprised that Terry did not have an erection by this time.
I remember clearly that when I was eleven, if my nuts were being
fondled, even by the ugliest, most hateful monster, I would have
been as stiff as a walking stick. I rolled the marble-sized
gonad around in my fingertips as Terry breathed in deeply,
letting his breath out in a sigh.

"Seems okay to me Terry. They both seem okay", I advised, as I
returned to his left nut for a final fondle. I reluctantly let
his scrotum go and pulled his shorts leg back down to its proper
position.

"Are you satisified now, Terry? Your balls are normal, or as
normal as anyone else's."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you Sir". He opened his arms, and with his legs
still wide apart, he simply let himself overbalance and fall
forward into his now customary embrace. I got a smooch as well,
on the lips again. I was ready for it so I didn't freeze up this
time. Instead, I gave him a cuddle in return, even holding the
back of his head for a few seconds while he kissed me. If anyone
came to the door, well, to hell with it.

Chapter 5: A Grain of Sand

At morning recess, when I reached the staff room for a
much-needed cup of coffee, I found a telephone message slip in
my pigeonhole. It was from Mrs Gillings, Terry's mum.
"Fornicate", I thought (because I despise cursing, even in my
private thoughts), I'm busted already. But it couldn't be from
this morning's incident, because Terry hasn't been home yet. Oh
well, executions are best carried out speedily, a wise mentor
once told me. I found a phone and returned Mrs Gillings' call.

"Oh, Sir, thank you for getting back to me. Terry has been on my
back for ages about this and I keep letting it slide", she
gushed.

"Uh, Mrs Gillings, the name's Russ Pazko, it's only the pupils
that have to call me Sir", I rebuked her gently. "What can I do
for you?"

"Well, at our home I hear nothing but 'Sir this' and 'Sir that'
almost every waking hour, so I think of you as Sir also. Silly
of me I know. Terry's got quite a crush on you, you know". I
could almost see her smirking over the phone. There is a certain
sort of person who simply revels in causing discomfort to
others, and I immediately suspected Terry's mum to be a member
of that clan.

"Um, I think it's natural, and quite a compliment really, for a
boy to think highly of his teacher," I suggested, trying to
deflect what I thought was an implied criticism.

"Oh, come on now Sir, don't get all defensive on me, I only
meant it in the nicest way. I think it's quite sweet, really.
You know you're the first male teacher Terry has had since he
started school. He's got no daddy, or any uncles, poor little
tyke. He absolutely dotes on you Sir," Mrs Gillings repeated.

"Uh, well, thank you for the background info, Mrs Gillings, but
was there something in particular I can do for you?" I
persisted.

"Oh yes, that's right. Terry told me that teachers at your
school are permitted to have an occasional meal with the
families of students, but that the request must come from the
parents, not the boys themselves. A very sensible precaution
Sir, I must say. Terry has been nagging me for almost a month
now to invite you to dinner at our house. Is Friday good for
you, Sir?"

Mrs Gillings seemed to have jumped straight over "Would you like
to come?" and gone right on ahead to fixing a night. I felt both
trapped and relieved. Dinners with students' families are almost
always no-wins for the teacher, but good PR for the school. The
parents always have the wrong motives and usually turn it into a
lecture night for the poor kid. But in this case, the instigator
seemed to be the boy himself. But since I had her on the phone,
I thought I'd best defuse the other issue into the bargain.

"Well, thank you Mrs Gillings, I'd be delighted to join you and
Terry on Friday. Is six o'clock a good time?" Before she could
come back with another 500 word answer to a simple question, I
jumped in again. "Actually I'm glad you rang, because there's
something I've been meaning to ask you about. Terry has been
coming to me lately with a number of...well, I guess the best
way to describe them is 'delicate' matters, and I just wanted to
make sure that...er...I guess I wanted to be certain that you
were happy for me to be dealing with them". Phew! That felt
better off my chest.

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you say that!", Mrs Gillings enthused.
"I think Terry's getting near that age, you know, that age when
a boy starts to get inquisitive about...well, about **boy**
things, I'm sure you follow me. Well, I was an only child
myself, you see, no brothers of my own, so when a little boy
starts to ask about such things I really don't have a clue
about, I suppose I took the easy way out and told him to ask
you. In fact, I suppose you must think I'm dreadful for putting
this on to you, but when Terry asked me last night about
his...er, his...um...his boy parts, and whether they were the
right size or some such thing, I made it very clear to him that
I wanted all such inquiries directed to you. I hope he didn't
embarass you too much?" she asked solicitously.

"She finally drew a breath," I thought, but what I said was "No,
he didn't embarass me, and I can advise that I have answered
that particular question for him satifactorily. He's not really
a shy or overly modest boy, is he?", I enquired carefully.

"Oh, tell me about it! During the hot weather he gets around the
house with little or nothing on. He visits the toilet and
doesn't worry about closing the door. After his evening bath he
walks back to his bedroom, which is at the other end of the
house, without a stitch on! Yet he doesn't seem to play with
himself constantly, like I heard most little boys did".

Isn't it a universal rule, that mothers think nothing of their
children's privacy when gossiping with other adults? I had to
find a way to finish this call gracefully. "Um, thanks Mrs
Gillings, I guess we can discuss Terry in more depth on Friday.
I shall see you then. Bye", I rang off.

Terry had no more health crises during the week. In fact, his
behaviour was unremarkable. I half expected him to become my
shadow, following me around like a needy puppy, but he stuck to
his own routine. He was respectful in class, he didn't take any
advantage over the other boys out of hosting his teacher to
dinner, or put on airs as though he was beyond correction. Quite
amazing, really, such social maturity in one so young, and it
only served to make him all the more appealing to me.

By the time Friday arrived, I was quite looking forward to
dinner at Chez Gillings. I brought a chilled bottle of Chablis
with me, because it goes with everything, and everyone likes
white wine.The biggest danger for teachers at events such as
these is that they will turn into an ambush - that is, your host
will have invited half a dozen other people to "round out" the
dinner party, and you end up having to defend the whole teaching
profession against the silly nonsense spouted by a bunch of
creeps whose only proven child-related talent is the ability to
either get pregnant or get someone else pregnant.

But I was pleasantly surprised. Dinner with Mrs Gillings and
Terry turned out to be exactly that, and nothing more. Terry
wore a pair of boxer shorts and a tee shirt. Mrs Gillings
immediately told me that she insisted he wear something, so I
wouldn't be "scandalised and never come back", to use her words.
After inviting me to sit on the couch in the family room, she
retreated to the kitchen, to continue fixing the meal. Terry sat
with me on the couch, then called to his mother.

"Mummy, can I ask Sir now, please?", he enquired, rather
politely I thought.

"Oh yes, dear, that's right," Mrs Gillings called from the
kitchen. "Uh, Sir, Terry has another one of **those** questions
for you. Would you be so good as to help him with it - dinner
will be another ten minutes yet."

Terry scampered up to my end of the couch and climbed into my
lap like a docile house cat. He then lay across me, his bottom
in my lap, feet down the couch, head on the armrest, arms by his
sides, and explained his latest problem.

"Sir, when your foreskin hurts underneath, what does that
mean?". I was, I admit, somewhat terrified by the question, not
least because Mrs Gillings was easily in earshot. I tried to
formulate some words when Terry said "Look!", and pulled the
boxers down. He flexed his torso to lift his bottom clear of my
lap so as to get the boxers down easily. He then lifted the
bottom of his tee shirt up to his neck, making him naked from
knees to ribcage. He reached for his little soft penis and held
it between thumb and index finger, giving a little grimace when
he touched it. I nearly jumped a foot in the air when I heard
Mrs Gillings' voice right behind me say "Could you do something
for the little fellow, Sir, I don't know hardly anything about
his...uh...boy parts. He told me about it last night, and he
wanted to ask you today at school, but I told him, No Terry, I
told him, you leave Sir to have a nice peaceful day, not wagging
you boy part in his face at school, and you can ask him about it
before dinner, I says to him. It's not an infection or anything
is it Sir? It looks a bit red to me, but I don't really know.
Terry, take your fingers away from it and let Sir have a proper
look". With that, Mrs Gillings bustled back to the kitchen.

When my heart rate had slowed down a little, I realised that I
had been given open slather to inspect Terry's nude body, so I
decided to take charge. I took Terry's little penis in my
fingers and felt around it gently with the pads of my fingers.
Again I wondered at the fact that he was not stiffening up. I
also felt a tiny bump behind the ridge of his glans, under the
foreskin. At first I thought it might be a little pimple, given
Terry's proximity to puberty. Terry winced when I touched it,
but did not cry out or shrink away from me. Not a pimple, I
realised, but some foreign body underneath the foreskin, caught
behind the ridge.

"Can you roll your foreskin back, Terry?", I asked him. He shook
his head No, then said "I never tried, Sir". Amazing. An eleven
year old boy who has never tried to retract his foreskin. He
maybe doesn't even know what it look like underneath, I thought.

"I'll do it for you, if that's okay". I slowly pulled the
delicate skin down the stalk of his penis, a tricky task when it
is flaccid. I felt the back of the couch bump a bit and heard
Mrs Gillings breathe behind me. She had left the kitchen (again)
and come to watch proceedings. Lucky for Terry his foreskin was
not one of those tight ones. It retracted easily all the way
past the ridge, and I immediately saw the culprit. A grain of
sand had somehow found its way under there. It had rubbed the
tender skin and probably would have caused a minor infection had
it been left unchecked. It occured to me to wonder why Mrs
Gillings didn't simply take Terry to the local family doctor for
matters such as this.

I picked up the offending crystal of silica and held it up
triumphantly for Terry and Mrs Gillings to see. Both smiled at
me, then Terry bent upwards to hug me. Right in front of his mum
he planted a kiss on my right cheek, then glanced at her before
giving me another on the left. "How European", I thought
briefly, but while I was distracted with my own thought, Terry
smooched me on the lips, making a loud smacking noise as he did
so.

"That's Terry's way of saying thanks, Sir. He really is very
fond of you", Mrs Gillings said as she returned to the kitchen,
picking up plates and bringing them to the table. Terry jumped
up, boxers still around his knees, and called to his mum,
"Mummy, now that Sir has seen everything, can I leave these
off", indicating his shorts and shirt. Mrs Gillings looked to me
(for approval?) but I wasn't going to buy into this one, so I
just shrugged.

"Alright", she said, trying to sound disappointed but not even
coming close. "Take them to your room and wash your hands for
dinner".

Mrs Gillings took advantage of Terry's absence to fill in some
more family background. She related that even though she
permitted Terry to call her 'Mummy', she was in fact his
grandmother. Terry's natural mother was Mrs Gillings' daughter.
"The Slut" she called her, and it was clear that her daughter
had wounded Mrs Gillings deeply. Apparently "the Slut" had begun
sneaking out of the house at thirteen, was already sleeping
around at fourteen, gave birth to Terry at fifteen, and died
choking on her own vomit in a filthy dosshouse at sixteen with
another drunken teen. Mrs Gillings regarded that as the best
thing "the Slut" could have done for Terry.

"He's had a terrible start to life, poor little dear. And he's
so obliging, so helpful around the house, I hardly have to say a
single cross word to him. He has some funny ideas, like this
nudity thing, but he's such an innocent boy I just haven't got
the heart to tell him to cover up". Terry returned to the table,
naked and unashamed, and pulled his chair around next to mine.
The three of us spent a delightful remainder of the evening; it
was one of the most pleasant PR dinners I can recall. Actually I
could not remember much detail of the conversation because Mrs
Gillings kept topping up my glass of Chablis. She only had a
tiny amount and Terry of course drank fruit juice. At the end of
the evening, Mrs Gillings made a further dinner date for the
following Friday. She also suggested that I was welcome to bring
some overnight things if I wanted to avoid the risk of driving
home intoxicated, and sleep in the spare bedroom. I instantly
understood, despite my slight intoxication, that this offer was
exactly what it appeared to be at face value. Mrs Gillings was
old enough to be my mother, and was definitely not lusting after
my body. She just wanted me to stay alive. Terry, however, was
another matter.

Chapter 6: An Unscratchable Itch

I threw myself into work for the next seven days: in the garden
over the weekend, and in the classroom during the week. Friday's
dinner approached and I looked forward to it with a mild
anticipation. I enjoy home cooking, especially when someone else
cooks. Terry had no more medical or personal problems during the
week, but every time I looked at him in class, he was smiling at
me. It got a bit disconcerting so on Thursday I asked him to
wait back at lunchtime.  Rather than just ask him to stop it, I
thought I'd try a different tack. His classmates cleared out in
about fifteen seconds, and Terry came out the front to my desk.
I went on the offensive by holding my arms wide for a hug. His
smile broadened and he ran the last few steps and nearly leapt
into my arms. I held him tight, then turned him around so his
back was across my lap, his heels dragging on the floor. I
kissed his cheek, then looked him square in the face.

"How are you, friend Terry?", I began. Earlier in the week, when
the class looked at the Russian Revolution, a boy had asked me
what "Comrade" meant, and I replied that it meant "friend", and
it was a perfectly acceptable word to use now that the Soviet
Empire had collapsed. For the rest of the day every boy
addressed every other boy as "Friend Cory", "Friend Michael",
"Friend Shayne", and so on. I thought it was simply charming,
and only put a gentle stop to it when one boy went too far and
addressed me as "Friend Russ". He only got a stern look, though.
At that age, that is usually enough for most boys to realise
they've stepped over the line.

"I'm very well, Sir. Looking forward to dinner tomorrow", he
answered. I took the initiative again, and kissed him on the
lips. I hadn't really thought out where I was going with this, I
was flying on instinct alone.

"I think I figured out why you don't wear underpants, Terry," I
declared to the boy in my arms. He raised an eyebrow at me, so I
continued. "It's because you'd rather be nude, but you can't go
nude at school, and going without undies is the next best thing.
It gives you the feeling of being nude without actually being
nude. Am I right?"

"Now you know one of my secrets", he replied in a dreamy voice.
"So I will tell you one of yours". My eyes widened as Terry
proceeded. "You teach boys because you love them. Not 'love' as
in 'sex' but you love them like my Mummy loves me. If you didn't
love them you'd do something else. Drive a truck, or build boats
or something".

A hundred emotions must have flitted across my face just then,
all watched carefully by Terry. Surprise, fear, curiosity,
admiration, each took their turn and was replaced by another.
Was I such an open book, or was Terry an exceptionally
perceptive boy? "That is my biggest and only secret, friend
Terry", I admitted. "See you - all of you - tomorrow". I
released him from my hug and stood him on his feet properly. He
skipped out to enjoy his lunch.

The constant smiling in class stopped, thank goodness. Maybe
Terry just wanted a little more attention than usual.

When I arrived at the Gillings' home the next evening, I had a
bottle of Verdelho in one hand and a small overnight bag in the
other. I was determined to take up Mrs Gillings' kind offer, and
see where it led. Terry met me at the door, tonight wearing a
large white bathtowel around his waist. As soon as he saw me, he
removed the bathtowel to reveal that he was naked underneath,
then turned and called to the kitchen, "Mummy, it's Sir!". An
answering call came back, "Show him in please Terry".

Terry took my overnight bag from me and deposited it in the
spare bedroom. He returned his towel to the bathroom before
joining me on the couch. Grinning, he held open his arms for a
hug. I obliged, pulling him onto my lap for a kiss. I locked
lips with him and held him a little longer than I usually do. He
rubbed my back a bit, then broke off the kiss. "Thanks", he
said.

"What for?", I asked

"Just for being nice to me", he answered coyly, sitting down on
his usual part of the couch.

"Mummy, can I ask Sir now", Terry called to the kitchen. In
reply, Mrs Gillings lumbered into the family room to greet me
personally. She 'tsked' at Terry's nakedness, but smiled to show
she didn't mean it.

"Before you ask Sir, have you cleaned your bottom like I told
you", Mrs Gillings asked the boy sternly. I cringed inside. It
was the kind of question parents insisted on asking their
children in front of other adults, seemingly to suggest 'Do as I
say or I'll embarass you even worse'. But it did get worse.

"Yes Mummy, it's clean", Terry replied blandly, without a hint
of the exasperation I usually hear in children's replies to
their parents.

"I mean did you clean it properly, right up inside your crack?",
Mrs Gillings continued, then turned to me. "Terry has a little
problem he wants to ask you about, if that's okay. Dinner will
be in twenty minutes," and back to the kitchen she turned.

"Yes Mummy, I cleaned it thoroughly, inside my hole as well",
Terry replied to her departing back. I thought I was used to the
frank speech of the Gillings household, but it appeared that I
had yet much to learn. Terry turned to me and asked "Sir, you
know how your skin can be itchy?". I nodded sagely in reply.

"Well, is it possible to be itchy on the inside as well as on
the outside of your body?" Before I had a chance to formulate a
reply, Terry crawled across my lap, laying face down with his
little round bottom right in front of my eyes. He reached back
with both hands and pulled his cheeks apart.

"Just starting last night, it feels really itchy right up inside
my hole. I didn't want Mummy to touch it because I know she
doesn't like doing that sort of thing with little boys".

"That's for sure, Terry", boomed her voice right behind my head.
I only jumped half a foot this time. "I got some Sorbolene from
the pharmacist. They said it was good for itchiness. Would you
mind doing it for Terry please Sir", Mrs Gillings said, handing
me the bottle. It had a pump-action top. What could I do but
oblige?

I pumped a millilitre onto the palm of one hand, then dipped my
index finger into the gooey white gel. "Looks a bit like semen",
I thought to myself, "but I don't think they sell that by the
half litre bottle at the pharmacy". Terry was still patiently
holding his bottom cheeks apart, exposing his pink hole. He
seemed relaxed, so I pulled his hands away from his nearer
cheek, then tipped the goo off my hand onto that cheek. That
meant that I could now use that hand to hold his bottom cheek, a
feeling which is utterly indescribable even to those who have
travelled in outer space.

I moistened my index finger in the goo again and rubbed it
around his tiny pink hole. My fingernail was closely trimmed
(luckily) so I had no fear of making the itch any worse. I
prodded inwards, expecting Terry to flinch. He was remarkably
calm for a boy who was about to be skewered up the anus by his
fifth grade teacher's finger.

"Now when I go in, you'll have to guide me to the itch, Terry" I
counselled, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"Uh huh", he replied in that sleepy, dreamy voice I had come to
associate with pleasure.

"Terry!" Mrs Gillings called from the kitchen. "Answer Sir
properly! I've spoken to you before about grunting like an
animal!"

"Sorry Mummy", Terry repented sincerely. To me he said "You can
push your finger in my hole now Sir, I'm ready." Terry's words
made the whole operation a lot less erotic than I feared it
would be. It was almost clinical. I wondered whether a
gynaecologist feels like this when he looks at a woman's most
intimate parts. Just a routine procedure, nothing to see here,
folks. As I pressed further into his hot tight passage, he
guided me with his words.

"That's it, Sir...a little further in, please...good, now a bit
that way" (here he waved his hand and pointed) "now more sort of
down, yes, oh, that's it...now a bit further in. Can you sort of
twist your finger around a bit, please Sir?"

"I think I'll need more Sorbolene", I gasped, slowly easing my
finger out. I wondered if he would notice a change to my middle
finger instead? It's a centimetre longer, and slightly thicker.
One way to find out. I greased up my largest finger and began to
ease it into Terry's anus. His directions resumed.

"Mm, um, good, yes, deeper now please Sir...er around that way a
bit...good oh yes good...now a bit further, almost there...now
can you do the twisty thing Sir mm". I had my middle finger
fully inserted up to the last knuckle. It wouldn't go in any
further, but it was extended straight. I tried twisting it but
it was like turning a screw inside a stripped thread. Suddenly
inspired, I used my free hand to push Terry's other hand off his
bottom cheek, the one further from me. I then grabbed that hip
and pulled Terry's rump higher in the air. His groin was no
longer touching  my lap. I curled my finger and Terry sighed. He
got the message and pushed his bottom up even higher.

"I think you've found it Sir", he moaned as I scratched the wall
of his lower colon. He was resting all his weight on his knees
and shoulders at this stage, his bottom raised almost as high as
my chest. My arm was beginning to grow weary so I finished off
the scratching exercise by vigourously pumping my finger in and
out about a dozen times. Terry grunted, but Mrs Gillings made no
comment, if she heard.

Tired but happy, Terry slumped back down onto my lap, a
contented smile on his face which was turned towards me. Mrs
Gillings appeared from the kitchen and said that dinner was
about to be served. She asked Terry to take me down to the
bathroom to wash my hands. Instantly invigorated, Terry leapt up
and grasped my clean hand, pulling me up off the couch and
dragging me down the hallway. I was again amazed to see that
Terry did not have an erection. Surely all that moaning and
sighing signified some kind of sexual delight? So where was his
stiffy?

Chapter 7: Is it supposed to get stiff?

Dinner was delightful again, Mrs Gillings surprising me with her
culinary skills. It was not fancy fare, but it was presented
with imagination and flair. I polished off the whole bottle of
Verdelho, minus one glass which Mrs Gillings nursed all evening.
Terry asked me for a taste of it, so I immediately glanced at
Mrs Gillings for her approval. I held the glass to his lips (it
would be a shame to spill even a single drop) and he must have
only taken the smallest of sips before screwing his little nose
up and shaking his head in mild disgust.

"How can you drink that stuff Sir?", the naked little boy
sitting next to me asked. "It tastes like...like wee-wee, er,
like urine!"

Mrs Gillings and I both smiled benignly at him. "It is what's
called an acquired taste, Terry. For example, some people like
the taste of avocado - to me it tastes like soap."

Mrs Gillings also added her piece. "Alcohol, Terry, is something
that adults enjoy, not just because of its taste, which you get
used to eventually, but because it relaxes them after a hard day
at work trying to knock some brains into silly schoolboys'
heads." Turning to me, she continued. "Oh yes, something I've
been meaning to ask you Sir, uh, your name, Pazko, is that
Russian, or Ukrainian perhaps?"

"I wouldn't know, to be honest, Mrs Gillings", I replied evenly.
"It's the name they gave me at the orphanage. Maybe they just
made it up; I wouldn't be surprised".

"Oh you poor man, an orphanage, how...how, er, how unfortunate",
Mrs Gillings tried to search for the word that would convey her
dismay without sounding too judgemental.

"Actually it wasn't as bad as many lurid news stories nowadays
make out", I countered, in an attempt to rescue her from the
embarassment of asking me such a personal question and getting a
completely unanticipated answer. "In a way, it was a lot like
living in a boarding school, except you couldn't go home at the
end of term for holidays. The caregivers took us on plenty of
interesting outings, maybe more than a child in a regular family
might experience. I grew up feeling like I had sixty three
brothers and five parents. The saddest times where when a boy
you had been friends with would get adopted, and you never saw
him again".

I had been so focussed on replying to Mrs Gillings that I
momentarily forgot about Terry on the chair next to me. A soft
sob made me look towards him, and what I saw took me aback.
Tears were streaming down his face, making me instinctively put
my arms around his shoulders and pull him to me chest.

"Terry, Terry, shhh, it's okay, really, the orphanage wasn't so
bad, shhh", I rocked his little body  a bit to calm him down.

"Did...did your Mummy le-leave you at the...or-orphanage because
you were...bad?" Terry gasped out between sobs.

I heard Mrs Gillings' sharp intake of breath at Terry's words,
so I spoke quickly. "No, no, Terry, I don't think so. I don't
think I was any more bad than any other boy. No, I don't think
my mother would have done that. Orphanages as a rule do not
encourage boys to question why they are there. They expect a boy
to get on with their lives and make the best of his situation.
In my case, when I was old enough to ask about my parents, I
guess I must have been about six years old, my caregiver simply
told me that they had passed away. He didn't actually say it in
so many words, but he hinted that the subject was closed, so I
never gave it any more thought, or worry. Nor should you. You
feel my pain, don't you?", I asked gently.

"It made me so sad when you said about the orphanage", Terry
whispered, his sobs now stilled.

"I think it might be somebody's bedtime", Mrs Gillings wisely
suggested. "Would you like Sir to tuck you in tonight Terry
dear?" The boy's big smile and vigorous nodding were ample
reply, his tears already forgotten. He hopped off his chair (his
legs not quite long enough to reach the floor when he was
sitting) and ran around to Mrs Gillings, gave her a hug and a
kiss and raced to the bathroom to brush his teeth. The Dental
Association probably would not have approved of the much
abbreviated brushing, because he rushed past the table within a
minute and headed straight for his bedroom.

Mrs Gillings had one more shock for me that night.Clearly she
had been waiting for Terry to depart before broaching the
subject. "Will you stay over tonight, Sir? Tomorrow is a
Saturday, no school, and you did have quite a bit of wine. Also
Terry would love to spend some time with you in the morning, if
you're up to it. I know you see him five days a week, and
deserve a break from him-"

"I'd be delighted to sleep over, Mrs Gillings, thank you. It
would not be a happy experience to have to explain to the school
principal how I lost my driver's licence, or how I wound up in
the emergency ward. As for Terry, I find his company...well, I
guess I enjoy his company a lot more than I expected I would
ever enjoy any student's company. He brings out instincts in me
that I didn't even know I had". After I said that, I realised
how ambiguous it sounded, but Mrs Gillings must have taken the
more wholesome meaning, because she just gave me one of those
maternal smiles and a nod.

She continued with her conversation, and I began to worry that
Terry might fall asleep before I tucked him in. I glanced
towards his bedroom, but Mrs Gillings noticed and said "It's
alright, he'll probably read for half an hour or so before he
starts to get really sleepy. That will be enough time for me to
screw uo my courage to ask you another favour."

"A favour, Mrs Gillings? I'm sure whatever it is, it will be my
pleasure," I replied, trying to indicate that whatever she
asked, I would try my best to accomplish. I saw a funny little
turn of her head when I said the word 'pleasure', though, which
gave me a niggling worry.

"Since you grew up in the company of so many little boys, I'm
sure you will know what I mean," she began. "When I got custody
of Terry after The Slut left this world, he was in a bad way.
Physically I mean. I blame myself that I did not see it right
under my own nose, but I swear I never knew she could be so mean
to her own child. That poor boy was underfed, pale from being
indoors all the time, and bruises, my Lord, you should have seen
the marks on that poor boy's frail little body. That's the
reason I never force him to put clothes on. I can't really deny
him any small joy, to make up for the pain of his first year of
life. Terry saw more pain in his first twelve months than a lot
of people see in their whole lives." I kept silent, hoping she
would get to the point before I started bawling myself.

"The bruises on his body were not from beatings, the doctor told
me afterwards. They were from pinching. The Slut used to pinch
my dear little grandson, my little Terry, on his legs, his
bottom, and even on his...his poor little boy part. When I got
him, his boy part was blue all over from bruising. He howled
like the damned when he...passed water, but the bruising
eventually faded. Now I will be the first one to admit that I
don't know much about little boys, but I do know that they are
always getting...that is, their boy parts often get..." She was
beginning to flounder, so I rescued her.

"You mean little boys often get erections, or stiffies", I
stated gently.

"Thank you, yes, that's what I'm trying to say. I remember from
my own teenage years that boys can get them all the time. Terry
has been running around this house naked for over ten years, and
he has never once had a...never had a single one. Ever. I
thought that maybe he was less, er, less easily stimulated than
others boys. But you already know how open he is. I'm sure that
if he ever got ne, he would have asked me what it was. I fear
that the Slut somehow damaged his boy part, and that it will
never satisfy a girl. He will never be able to get married. He
will be alone, for ever". Mrs Gillings buried her face in her
hands, her shoulders heaving as sobs wracked her large frame.
She looked up at me with tear-streaked eyes.

"Can you find out if Terry is able to...to get it...to be a
whole man? Please?" she begged. I found myself in the unusual
position of being the only person in the house who had not
turned on the waterworks that evening. I got out of my chair and
went around to her. I rested a friendly hand on her shoulder to
offer some human comfort.

"I will have a talk with Terry tonight when I tuck him in. We'll
talk more tomorrow, too. May I ask, just in case, if Terry wants
to sleep in my bed, will that bother you?"

"He's never had a friend sleep over, or slept over at anyone's
house himself. If he wants to sleep in your bed I doubt you or I
would have the heart to stop him", she said with a wan smile.
"Just be true to those instincts you told me about earlier. I
have confidence in your good judgement, Sir".

I really must get her to stop calling me that, somehow. It's so
disconcerting. Must be like how a new priest feels to be called
'Father' by elderly parishioners.

I patted her shoulder again, and headed for Terry's room. He was
still awake, as Mrs Gillings had predicted, reading a novel
about the boy who became a half-Vampire. He looked up as I
entered his room and put the book on his nightstand.

"Hi, friend Terry", I smiled at him. He smiled back. "I'm having
a sleepover tonight, if that's okay with you".

"Mummy told me this afternoon that she had invited you. I'm glad
you accepted, Sir", he replied. I sat on the side of his bed and
lightly patted his hip through the bedclothes, which stuck up
like a little mountain as the boy lay on his side. I was pretty
sure he was naked underneath the bedcovers, for why would a
dedicated nudist wear pyjamas?

I ran my hand over his hip then up to his ribs, still on the
outside of the sheets. Terry smiled again, then rolled onto his
tummy. I seized the opportunity. "Would you like a backrub,
Terry, before you go to sleep?"

"Can I have a tummy rub too, Sir?", he asked, shamelessly.

"Anything for you, friend Terry", I returned.

"That's just like in that song, Sir!", Terry replied eagerly,
and then, in a thin high voice, began to sing
	'I'd do **anything**, for you, Sir, **anything**
	For you, Sir, **anything**, for yooooou'
before dissolving into giggles.

"That was lovely, Terry. I think there is no more beautiful
sound in the world than a treble voice. It must be what the
angels sound like in heaven", I answered, wiping my eyes. He
really was getting under my skin (darn, another song lyric).

"Now for my backrub", Terry declared, throwing the covers off
himself. I beheld the back view of him in all his naked glory. A
thought passed my mind, that Terry and his grandmother had
conspired to produce exactly this outcome, but I dismissed it
immediately. Would a pleasantly plump, down-to-earth grandma
pimp for her only grandson? Surely not! Perish the thought.

I placed both hands on his shoulders and commenced a gentle
massage. I worked my way down his shoulderblades, his lower
back, his nicely rounded bottom cheeks, his thighs and finally
his calves and heels. I tried to give all parts of him equal
attention, I honestly did, but perhaps his bottom received
slightly more of my hands' caresses, if truth be told.

After lightly scraping the soles of his feet with my
fingernails, making him wriggle and squirm (but not pull his
feet away), I simply said "Okay", whereupon he rolled over in an
instant. I saw  right away what Mrs Gillings had feared. His
little penis was still flaccid. Maybe my backrubbing skills were
not sufficient to light the fire in his young loins. I began
manipulating his chest (marking my second adventure with his
puffy nipples, mmm) then on to his ticklish tummy. I showed no
false modesty as I worked my way straight down to his little
weapon. I stroked his little doodle, massage his testicles,
plucked at his foreskin and stroked his perineum. Nothing. Not
even a little lengthening to suggest a future stiffness to come.
I decided to cut to the chase.

"Terry, have you ever had a stiffie?", I enquired gently.

"What's a stiffie, Sir?", he asked innocently. That pretty much
settled it for me. Any eleven-year-old boy who doesn't know what
a stiffie is could not possibly have ever had one. But I owed it
to Mrs Gillings to be absolutely certain.

"It will be easier to show you than try to explain", I replied,
standing up. "I'm going to my room to change for bed. Then I
will come back, okay?"

"Do you wear pyjamas to bed, Sir?" Terry enquired sweetly. He
lay back with his head on his hands.

"No, Terry, I sleep like you do, in the nude. I will be coming
back into your room nude, so I can show you what a stiffie is,
is that okay?", I clarified.

Terry smiled at me. "Thank you, Sir", he whispered.

I slipped off my clothes in the room across the hallway from
Terry's room. Mrs Gillings' room was on the other side of the
family/dining room. A sliver of light showed under her door. The
rest of the house was in darkness. I returned to Terry's room,
and I must admit that I was, as they describe in the classics,
rampant.

I am only modestly equipped in the reproductive organ
department, but apparently I had enough to impress Terry. His
reaction was very flattering, really. His eyes bulged and his
mouth dropped open. Then he gulped. He licked his lips. I could
almost see the gears turning inside his head. I sat on the bed
and resumed my fingerplay with his tiny tossle. Still no
response. Maybe he was resolutely heterosexual?

At any rate, I didn't think I needed to tell Terry what a
stiffie was anymore. He sat up and reached one hand out to my
hardened organ.

"It's lovely", he breathed. "It's warm, almost hot! It's soft
and hard at the same time! Will mine get like that when I'm
older, Sir?". Terry looked me in the eyes, and I think it was at
that instant, when he saw the pity in my eyes, that he realised
he was not, and would never be, like most other boys. His eyes
glistened with tears.

(More to come).
parrafan@ureach.com