WARNING: This story is about an affair between a boy and a young man. Do not read the contents if it will offend you. If accessing this story causes you to break local laws (village, town, city, county, province, state, or country, etc.), please leave now.
Any characters portrayed in this story are fictional and not representative of anyone living or dead.
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By John T. S. Teller.
The boys are impressed and excited when they make themselves comfortable in the two small seats in the back of your black Audi TT. `Mother' is now Kathleen Grainger; the introduction made when you told `mum' to take the front seat, and while you're driving, she spends most of her time teasing information from you with seemingly casual questions. You answer most, truthfully; explaining that you moved here from your home town because of the quality of the job and the prospects for promotion, as well as the excellent salary. The TT is only a year old, so the basis of your status has already been laid, but you know that when she sees your `cottage', she will be impressed. Hopefully, Rebel will, too. The only untruth you tell her is when she queries you on the comment you made in the café that you lived alone, and you tell her that you had a girlfriend back in your home town, but that she didn't fancy the move, so you both, amicably, called it a day. While you're telling her that, through the rear view mirror, you catch the eye of Rebel (sitting in the seat behind his mother) and give him an almost imperceptible wink to inform him that the information is false. He smiles at you, and then looks through the side window, no doubt thinking that you're not averse to telling the odd lie or two to attain your objective. And maybe he's also thinking that if you can lie to his mother, could that not also be the case when you speak to him?
Once you leave the suburbs of the town, you tease the boys occasionally by flipping the accelerator to pass a car on the dual-carriageway, but then you slow down so as not to spook Kathleen. This is not the time for you to be a `boy-racer': you have her two most prized possessions in the car.
When you're approaching the turn-off for Leaston, casually, you say, "We'll make a short detour. I'll show you where I live." Again you look through the rear-view mirror, and again you see a grin pass across Rebel's face. It takes less than five minutes for you to reach your `cottage', and you pull to a halt outside it. You lean down in the car and point through the passenger seat window. "This is my place."
Kathleen is impressed. Your `cottage' is a two-bedroomed, beautiful, white, period country cottage with black painted oak beams, and the garden is a real English Country Garden, looking splendid with flowers in full bloom. You take the extravagance out of the situation by explaining that you rent it on a long term, renewable lease, and you've chosen not to buy yet because you may not settle down here. After Kathleen and the boys have stopped purring and complimenting you on your home, you drive away and rejoin the main road towards Burnston-with-Hampton.
You've been clever and clocked the exact distance between your home and Rebel's. It's just under three and a half miles. If he has a bike, it won't take him above fifteen minutes to get to you... if he wants to.
The Grainger home is the end one of a block of four; not modern; not affluent, but when you pull up outside the privet hedge with the waist high wooden gate, you say, "You have a nice home."
Kathleen smiles almost apologetically. "They're police houses."
Although you don't feel like smiling, you do when you ask, "Your husband is a policeman?"
Her answer is brief. "He is, but we're separated."
The complications of a policeman's wife living in a police house when they're separated are intriguing, but they're none of your business, and you don't even go there. Instead, you say, "I'll get your bags out of the boot."
As you expected, Kathleen Grainger is not impolite, and you're not surprised when she says, "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"
You smile at her. You've already made up your mind that if you and Rebel are to be friends, he has enough information about you to pursue it. It will now be entirely up to him if he wants to take it further, so you reply, "No thank you. I'll leave you to your evening and your boys. If you need anything at any time, you have my card. I usually go to the mall on Saturday afternoons, so I may see you there, and I can give you a lift home if we meet again." Then you add with a grin. "Sorry about the bun fight."
She laughs. The boys laugh. Just as you're turning away to get in the car, your eyes meet Rebel's, and you exchange a knowing look. Then you get in the car and drive smartly away, waving your hand at the diminishing Grainger family in your rear view mirror. Then you go home feeling very pleased with yourself.
You've had your evening meal, fed the wild birds, watered the pot plants, and are about to settle down for the evening when a text comes in on your mobile phone. It could be anyone, but something in your water tells you this is Rebel, and your heart begins to race when you open the inbox and see the message: I enjoyed the cream bun fight.
You try to picture him. He'll obviously be alone. No way would he risk texting you if he wasn't. The house was a three-bedroomed one, so he's probably in his room or taking a walk to do it. He's twelve. Will he have his own phone, or is he using his mother's? The situation of a man associating with a young boy can be a perilous one, and because his father is a policeman, you can be sure he knows that. But you have to be sure he knows that, so you reply: So did I. Is this your own phone you're using?
Yes. I'm in my room. We can talk. Do you like me?
Yes. And you?
Yes. Can I come and see you?
Yes. Will your mum know?
No. Don't tell her.
I won't. When do you want to come?
Can I come in the morning?
Yes. How will you get here?
On my bike.
OK. Be careful on the roads.
I will. See you about ten?
That will be fine, but I've got no cream buns here.
LOL. See you in the morning.
You're about not to reply, but then you think about the consequences if his mother should see the texts, so you write: Delete these texts.
Although it's 10 pm, because there are few clouds in the sky, there's a brightness about the evening, and the third cold beer and the flowers and the lovely sunset is a quite moving combination as you sit on the rustic bench by the rustic table, beneath the lounge window, thinking about the day that has almost passed. You've fallen big time for Rebel. He ticks all your boyloving boxes, and adds some more. But what does he want from you?
You've heard and read about boys that like men, and your fantasies always have one or two of them to satisfy your lust, but Rebel is the first boy you've ever met who might be like the stories and the fantasies. But, also, he might not be so. He might just be a boy seeking security with someone he likes. His father and mother are separated, so the man in his life will have left a big hole there. Is that what he wants from you? It could be, but it doesn't quite ring true. If all he wanted was a friend, then he had no need to make himself attractive today. And he had. His hair was admirably done, and his dress was both fetching and impeccable, and the logo on the polo shirt was a stroke of genius. KISS MY ASS. That makes you chuckle, and you take another drink of your beer while you're thinking. You haven't done all the chasing in this affair: he's played a major part. But what about tomorrow? What will you do? You have no idea. Why? Because Rebel will take from this only what he wants. Especially now you know his father is a policeman, you won't be able to make any move on him. Maybe it would be for the best that you become friendly with him, but keep a respectable distance between you both?
Your thoughts are interrupted when the text signal beeps on your phone. You pick it up and open it. What do you want from me?
Wow! While you've been running things through your mind, it seems that so has Rebel, and maybe he's getting cold feet. How to answer? You think long and hard. Then you text him back. Only what you want, I promise.
Because of the length of time that passes, you think that's the end of the conversation, but about ten minutes later, another text arrives. I'm in bed thinking about you.
You want to say something suggestive, but you don't. That would be a step too far... yet. So you send a simple reply. That's nice. Be comfortable, and sleep well. Goodnight Luke.
`Goodnight David'. That's beautiful... the first time he's used your Christian name, but it's also the first time you've called him by the name he prefers to be called. He won't have missed that. In fact, Rebel misses hardly anything. As well as being very attractive, he's quite a clever boy: a good combination. You still can't quite work out the logo on his polo shirt. KISS MY ASS. Did he wear it just for you, and if he did, was he telling you something? It is, or it could be a double entendre. It could be a malevolent streak in him, telling his mother that he'll do as he will now he's growing older. Alternatively, he could actually mean it where you're concerned. Would he like you to? Most certainly you would like to. Although he's quite a slim boy, he has a cute bum with well-filled, beautifully curved buttocks that even layers of denim and underpants can't disguise. He has nice legs, too; boyish legs that are beginning to firm out, which will probably be in keeping with the rest of his body. What will his...?
No, save that for later, when you're in bed and your fantasies are in full flow. Right now you'll finish your beer and watch the sun go down on what has been a very special day in your life. You pick up the almost empty bottle of Budweiser, tip it at the sun, and make a toast: To Rebel. Then you drink his health while smiling at the recollections of the beautiful freckles around his cute nose. You love boys with freckles.
To be continued...
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