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.
A 3 part story by Richard Darby.
Little Willie Stevenson - Part 1 of 3.
This is back in the old days. Don't ask me when. It's not important. Little boys never change.
I was working at a prep school in Leafy Buckinghamshire in England. Boys from eight to thirteen. My perfect age of attraction, but the younger ones were too young, if you know what I mean. I know how little boys work from the inside out, and very, very rarely will you find a boy below the age of nine who, sexually, knows his arse from his elbow, and under the age of nine his little dickie is just a tool to pee out of and also fondle before he goes to sleep. The feelings are nice; ergo he gets nice feelings before he slips off to dreamland, where he dreams of knights of old or whatever hero in the book or comic he has been reading. He becomes the swashbuckling pirate or the handsome prince. And some are also like that even when they become eleven years old. Those are the late developers. Previously, I did say very, very rarely will you find a boy below the age of nine who, sexually, knows his arse from his elbow. I've met the odd one who bucks the trend. From my experience, this type has been introduced to sex by Uncle Cornelious, or whoever, but always a trusted member of the family. And so it was for the boy of whom I'm about to tell you, but he didn't fall into my hands until he was nine years old. (That's a shame really. I was quite jealous of Uncle Cornelious, or whoever. Lucky sod!)
Little Willie Stevenson was a super little boy. Son of a prominent politician he was. A high up politician. A politician who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and very probably had something else in it on his way to getting where he was. Like father like son? Probably. The rich and famous have few principles or morals. They don't get where they eventually finish up to be if they're principled and moralistic. Can't say I blame them. Being a principled, moralistic pauper is no fun.
Little Willie Stevenson. I noticed him the first day he arrived at the school. How could I not notice him? I always say that some boys are sexy creatures no matter how old they are. There's just something about them that exudes sexuality. I've seen five year olds with a sexy mouth and a body to die for. Most probably, they're the ones who turned on Uncle Cornelious, or whoever. But Hugh Davies has principles. Yes, turning on the style with boys that age is a bit too much for me. I prefer waiting until they are as old as Little Willie Stevenson was when he ensnared me. Oh yes he did! He was also a clever little chap. And he was beautiful. Drop dead gorgeous beautiful he was with full sexy lips and blonde hair and blue eyes and a body that was, no doubt, adored by his mummy. (Not the museum type – his mater. Maters are always proud when their boys become mini sex objects. No, I'm not talking incest here; just beautiful sons that maters know will be handsome young men when they get older and will, hopefully, marry the best-looking girl in town.) But back to Little Willie Stevenson. (I had absolutely no interest in his mater.)
Little Willie was an athletic little boy. Hyper he was. Rugger or cricket; he loved playing in both games. And he was damned competitive! When he was playing rugger, because he was not a big boy as in his stature was athletic rather than bulky, he played scrum-half; the quick young man who puts in the ball and retrieves it from the scrum and passes it out to the fly-half, or, if he sees an opportunity and a space, he darts through the opposition and scores a try. (Darts through the opposition and scores a try. Hah hah. That is analogous of how he ensnared me. The little monkey! Hah hah.)
But before we get to that part, I'd better deal with the boring bit and tell you about me. (Groans all round. Yes, I can hear you!)
Hugh Davies (that's me) was thirty-four and a teacher at the school when he first `associated' with Little Willie Stevenson. As you've probably guessed from the name, yes, I am Welsh! (Behind my back the boys called me `Taffy Davies'.) I had quite a reputation and I was well liked. By boys like Little Willie Stevenson, that is. Why? One of the reasons was because I was much like him as a youngster, but not on the cricket side. Cricket is a game for Englishmen, and I am NOT an Englishman. A Taff born and bred me, and rugger is in my blood. My Da he played rugger. For London Welsh he did. As did I. London Welsh RFC, for you ignoramuses, is a famous Rugby Union Club that was formed in 1885 and was based in Old Deer Park in Richmond-on-Thames. (I say `was' because they've gone and buggered things up now and the club has gone out of existence.) So, I grew up to be a rugger player and I played for London Welsh when I was a young man and during my time at university, and afterwards. But I had a serious injury to my back when I was twenty-five and had to retire from the game.
However, Hugh Davies (that's me) studied Politics and Psychology and History when I was at Uni. Those three subjects are well-suited to being a teacher. Add to that my sporting prowess, and I could get a teaching job almost anywhere. So that's what Hugh Davies did. (That's me.)
Boring bit over. (Thank God I hear you say. Well, I'll add that I was a hunk and good-looking to spoil your sense of relief.)
Now back to Little Willie Stevenson, the real hero in our fable. I got the grin from him at an early age. That grin is how you sort the wheat from the chaff; the sexy sods from the barren soils of childhood. That grin speaks volumes. Ancient volumes. In fact, the first hidden written words would have been done on stone, so long have they existed. And what are those words? Boy telling man that his sexuality is available. A boy has no need to get his dick out and waft it about to attract your attention; he just gives you that grin. A boy gives you that grin, and if you're receptive and on the same wavelength, a bond is formed. Whether that telepathic flirtation is fulfilled depends on circumstances.
So, from the moment Little Willie Stevenson arrived at the school, we shared those grins. But we waited until he was nine years old before telepathy changed into reality, or, to put it into its proper context, Little Willie Stevenson decided it was time for reality.
I'd better describe the school before we go any further. It will help if you can imagine the props to this story. The school was originally a large, Georgian Manor House, and like most large Georgian Manor Houses, they require a lot of maintenance and therefore a shed load of ackers to keep them maintained. And due to the antiquated UK death duties tax, many of these properties leave the inheritors penniless, or even worse, in debt. So, instead of an inheritor moving into one of these rambling places, they get sold off to anybody who thinks they can make them viable. Many become corporate headquarters or hospitality places, and some become schools. This particular one became a school. But then, up pops another barrier to their existence: the properties become what are called `Listed Buildings', which basically means you can't alter them from their original design. But there are ways around these laws if you're extremely clever or well connected or you're prepared to sell your arse to the devil. And so it came to pass (by reason of one or two or all three of those attributes) that a large extension was granted planning permission at the back of the house. So (and I reckon it was maybe a combination of all three of those attributes that done it), the original building was left `as is', and a large extension was added at the back (the entrance to which was via a short corridor that ran from the main house to the new part) that contained classrooms and dormitories and bathrooms and showers etc.
Showers. Maybe I should tell you about those? They are very important. Being the Sports Master, I had seen every boy who went through the school in the showers, and because I showered with them if it was necessary, they me. There was a long line of showers which the boys used and at one end were two showers that the schoolmasters used. So after a rugger game we would all pile in together and shower. That way I got to know every detail of all the boys in their birthday suits, and every boy in the school knew the intimate details of my own body. Now I know you're thinking that I would have a permanent erection being in that position, but it doesn't work like that. When one first takes up a post like mine then at first things are `difficult', but after countless occasions, one becomes blasé and not at all turned on by the sight of naked boys' bodies. So don't be fooled by those who tell you that showers are a hotbed of emotions. Trust me, they are not. They're usually a fun place where boys never stop giggling and teasing each other. But in this particular affair between Little Willie Stevenson and I, and because it's important to the gist of this fable, we were both aware of what the other looked like naked in a non-sexual situation.
And we will forget the classrooms. They are of no consequence to this story. What are of consequence (apart from the showers) are the dormitories, because if any hanky-panky is going on, then that's where it will happen. Hanky-panky between boys is common and garden stuff, but the really juicy hanky-panky between masters and boys is the special stuff of legend. And that can happen because a schoolmaster is required to have a bedroom at the end of the dormitory to keep the little boys in check and also to tuck them in at night. So, lights out – fun begins. (If you haven't got the gist of things by now then I suggest you bugger off and read something else.)
And just to add a little meat to the bones, when Little Willie Stevenson reached the age of nine, guess what? You've got it in one... he moved into the dormitory where I was housemaster of his year group and schoolmaster in charge! Atten...shun!
When Little Willie moved into my dormitory, those grins became more frequent. He would throw me one whenever he thought he could get away with it unnoticed. I never scolded him for his familiarity. Instead, I would often return one with a sly wink. Eventually, probably when Little Willie considered that we were telepathically hotwired sufficiently, he decided to do something about it. It was about six weeks into the new school year: late'ish October... about eleven at night when all the boys should have been fast asleep. Even boy/boy hanky-panky was over by that time.
I was in my room, dressed in my PJ's and a dressing gown and enjoying a nightcap - a small brandy - when I heard a gentle knock on my door. I didn't yell `Come in!' as I would have done had it been earlier; instead I went to the door and opened it quietly, and there was Little Willie in his lovely blue flannelette PJ's and his blonde hair tousled as if he'd been to sleep for ages and had just woken up. But his eyes were bright, which gave the game away. This was no sleep-disturbed intrusion, and I didn't believe a word he said when he whispered, "Sir, my leg is hurting. I did it playing rugger." So, naturally, being a benevolent schoolmaster who cared for his pupils, I opened the door a little wider, and without saying anything, I gave him the crooked finger and in he came. He looked around, no doubt thinking that, rather than my room being an extension of a classroom where the boys would often come for guidance or admonishment during the day, in the evening, the room was cosy and comfortable with just the wall-lights on and the coal fire still burning brightly. Also, because my living room was also my bedroom and I'd unfolded the sofa/divan and made my bed, my thoughts were confirmed when he said after he'd looked at that, "Nice in here Sir!"
I wanted to tell him that it was a damned sight nicer with a gorgeous nine year-old boy in it, but instead, I asked, "Are you in much pain, Stevenson?"
He looked up into my eyes and nodded. "Yessir. I can't get to sleep because it hurts so much." He half turned around and put his hand on the top of his right hamstrings where they joined with his buttocks. "Here Sir. It's painful just here." Then he clutched his right buttock and added, "It goes right up and I can feel it on my bum as well, Sir."
When he said that, I was thinking; Ah... my Little Willie Stevenson is a clever little bugger. And why did I think that? Because, if he was a stupid boy he would have gone for the jugular and pointed to the exact opposite point on his leg, which would have been the quad muscles at the side of his groin, and when a boy is in heat, that beautiful appendage between his legs would have given the game away immediately. So I smiled that smile inwardly to myself and led him towards the armchair, which was by the side of the fire, where I'd been sitting with my brandy before he arrived. I sat down and pulled him to me. He shuffled backwards and I placed my hand on his right buttock, and applying slight pressure, I slid the hand down onto the back of his thigh. "Here?" I asked.
Looking over his shoulder, he replied, "Yessir. Right there. Especially where my leg joins my bum Sir."
I nodded to him. "It's your hamstring, Stevenson. You must have pulled it. You need to see nurse in the morning and she'll give you some liniment and maybe massage it for you."
His gorgeous blue eyes looked into mine and he put on a pretend `poor little boy look', and asked, "Can't you do it Sir?"
I smiled at him. "I don't keep liniment in my room, Stevenson. Stinks too much."
He half smiled. "I know what you mean Sir. But can't you just massage it for me? You know, sort of take the edge off and then I'll take a Paracetamol and be able to get to sleep?"
I almost burst out with the giggles at his cheekiness, but I managed to keep a straight face when I replied, "I'll tell you what I can do. I've got a hot water bottle that I can apply to it for now. How about I fill it and we'll put that on your leg and see if the heat eases it? I've also got a bag of frozen peas in the freezer, so if we do them alternately, that will do the trick even better. Hot and cold applications is good for repairing tweaked hamstrings. I'll give you a Paracetamol before we start. That will help ease the inflammation, and you can borrow the hot water bottle when you go back to bed and that will help too. Sit in my chair while I fill the kettle for the hot water bottle. Oh, and try to be quiet. We don't want the whole world to know you're in here, do we? Masters are not allowed to have boys in their rooms at night. You know that!"
That grin became conspiratorial when he replied in a whisper, "I'll be quiet Sir, and I promise, I won't tell anyone I've been in here."
I pointed a finger at him. "You'd better not! Boys have been expelled for far less, and schoolmasters have been sacked for it."
I was talking to the master here. Little Willie had known of the consequences before he even thought up this plot, and it was a risk he was prepared to take. As I said; he was a clever little bugger.
Hot water bottle filled; frozen peas from the tiny freezer, and I returned to the chair. Little Willie got off it, took his Paracetamol with a sip of water, and I sat down and pulled him to me; facing me. Then I placed the hot water bottle, which was covered in a soft fabric, onto the top of his hamstring and pressed it firmly against him. The pressure put him slightly off balance and he sort of staggered towards me, ending up with his crotch pressed against my left knee and his hands on my shoulders. Because I was leaning slightly forward in my chair, our faces were only a few inches apart. I could smell him. Boy smell. It's a unique aroma. No doubt he could also smell me. Man smell. A unique aroma. Mix the two together and they become a potent potion of pheromones when man and boy are in heat. I felt my throat go dry, and no doubt Little Willie's throat was doing the same. My dick was getting hard, and no doubt so was Little Willie's. (I couldn't feel it against my knee because I was aware that he had only about three inches, and that would be when he was fully aroused.) Our eyes met. He gave me that grin. I returned it.
Just one glance into his beautiful blue eyes made my brave Welsh heart flutter. Because the room was not brightly lit, his pupils were large and bottomless. I could see into his naughty soul. Dancing eyes he had. Dancing, laughing eyes. Mischievous eyes. Beautiful eyes set in the countenance of a beautiful boy with a head with splendid contours and topped by a mop of silky blonde hair. And that head sat on small but delicate shoulders that belied what the boy was really made of: gossamer steel. I had seen those shoulders flailing in the ruck and I was fully cognisant of the power of every inch of his young body below them. His beautiful body. I had seen him naked in the showers, so I knew every inch of his perfectness; each wonderful contour of his sexiness. Oh yes, I knew what lay covered before me, and I was aching to kiss every part of it.
But I didn't. Instead, alternately, I pressed the hot water bottle and the bag of peas against his hamstring and waited for him to make the next move. That's so important... him making the next move. A boy needs to lead his man into the rich harvest of unspoken passions. That is their gift. Only they should be the leader, and sooner or later, if they desire what you can provide for them, they will give themselves gladly; willingly, and with passions that are unequalled.
His breathing relaxed as the seconds passed by as I was holding him, and then he closed his eyes. I watched his face relax and a slight smile settled on him. I knew why that was. Part of his plan had worked and he was pleased with himself. A minute passed; two minutes passed; then three, and Little Willie decided it was long enough, and that's why his eyes suddenly opened and he stared into my eyes when he said, "That's helped Sir. I feel much better now. I don't think there's anything more you can do?"
His last comment was a question. Little Willie was throwing the ball back into my court. (I told you he was a clever little bugger.) That's how it works. Little Willie had made all the running up to this point and now it was time for me to do my bit. So I took the hot water bottle away and asked, "Would you like me to massage it for you? A small massage will help, and then you can go back to your bed and completely relax."
He gave me that grin. "Yes please Sir. It will probably help."
So I pulled him to me; his hands automatically rested on my shoulders; he lowered his head so it was by the side of mine; his soft, downy hair was nestled against my cheek; just our breaths breaking the silence of this magical moment. I was in boy heaven. (No doubt he was in man heaven. It's the way it works. Never forget that a boy has thoughts too!)
Digits spread wide; I massaged his buttock and the back of his gorgeous, supple thigh. I made sure my thumb was firm as I ran it along the inside of his thigh until it was nestling against his perineum, and then it followed the inner contours of his delicious buttocks as it travelled higher. Up and down. Slowly but firmly. My dick was hard. No doubt Little Willie's was too. I was feeling him up. We both knew it. But now the ball was firmly back in Little Willie's court. He would be the one to take it further... or otherwise. There were so many ways he could have done that, but Little Willie decided it was not quite time for that... yet. And that's why he pushed away from me. I could now see his three-incher was hard. It was tenting in his PJ's. And he knew I could see it. But he didn't care. It was part of the game he was playing. He picked up the hot water bottle from the side table and gave me that grin. Then he said, "That feels much better Sir. Thank you. I'd better go back to my bed now."
I also gave him that grin. "Best you had, Stevenson. It's getting late. Sleep tight and go and see nurse in the morning. And be very quiet when you go back to your bed. You know why that is, don't you!"
He nodded with his smile. "Yessir. I'll be as quiet as a mouse." And he went towards the door. When he got to it, he turned around and asked, "If it's hurting tomorrow night, would you mind giving me the hot water bottle treatment again Sir?"
I winked at him. "Whatever. Let's see how nurse goes on with you. Off you go."
And off he went, closing the door very quietly behind him and no doubt in high spirits because I hadn't told him that he couldn't return. Let's see how nurse goes on with you. That comment had been deliberately ambiguous. He would return. I had absolutely no doubt that he would. Why did I have no doubts? Because, just like when he walked into my room, he had no limp when he left. His hamstring was fine. My Little Willie Stevenson had just fired warning shots across my bow. He was coming after me and I had better be prepared to hoist all sails and get the wind behind me and flee, or furl sails and surrender.
I chuckled. Little Willie had got me wondering whether Uncle Cornelious, or whoever had been in the same position as I was. Having seen this precocious young man in action, it wouldn't have surprised me one bit if Little Willie had been the protagonist. The gorgeous, beautiful, sexy little bugger.
I lay in my bed after jerking myself off; thoughts of the naked Little Willie whirling around in my head; thoughts of what he would have done when he got back to his bed. What perversions would have been running through his young brain when the magic moment arrived for him? I knew the boy; I knew the body, but one is never privy to the secret and perverted thoughts of a boy's mind. Only when one becomes completely familiar can one know that, and even then, from my own experiences with boys, very few dare let out the deep, hidden desires that most human beings have.
Time would tell, and that time would begin when he returned the following night to get his massage?
Part 2 to follow.
Richard Darby... email@example.com