Date: Fri, 14 Apr 2023 17:23:48 +0200 (CEST)
From: maxkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: ONE BOY'S STORY by Max Kent   Young Friends  Adult Youth

Date: Sat, 15 April 2023
From: maxkent69@tutanota.com
Subject: ONE BOY'S STORY

ONE BOY'S STORY

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ONE BOY'S STORY

01 - Harry and Me 02 - Mr. C and Me 03 - Alan and Me 04 - Eric and Me 05 -
Alan, Dan and Me 06 - Alan and Marshall and Me 07 - Raymond and Me 08 -
Falling in Love with Elwyn 09 - Elwyn and Me 010 - Men and Me 011 - Oscar
and Me




01 - Harry and Me

Sex started with Harry. A bit odd because I hardly knew Harry, and I only
knew him for a month in that amazingly hot summer. Climate change they call
it. Brilliant for being outside from dawn to dusk, and for exploring and
experimenting. Bliss for two eleven-year-olds.

Harry was staying for a month with his Auntie Sue, who happened to be my
mum's best friend, so I guess it was natural for us to be paired up.

Harry was fun. His nickname is Sunny. Not Sonney - Sunny. But I'm going to
stick to Harry.

Harry was tall for his age. Long legs going down forever. About two inches
taller than me, I guess. Thick blond hair down to his shoulders, a blond
fringe bouncing on his forehead. Hazel eyes. Nose turned up a little
bit. Red lips standing out because he was so pale.

Pale's the wrong word. But I can't think of a better word... creamy white,
but he didn't burn in the noon day sun. He just tanned.

Me?

Thick black hair. The colour of a raven, said mum. Eyes so big, I was
sometimes called 'Bushbaby'. Long dark eyelashes, mum said every girl must
be jealous of them. Slim, like Harry. Not skinny, slim.

By nine every morning, we were out and about. Usually down to our favourite
spot. The lake - the large pond at the far side of the woods - and a
babbling stream that kept the water cool and fresh.

Off with our t-shirts, off with our sandals, off with our shorts, and into
the pond. We were already in our speedos.

Splash!

Both of us were good swimmers - Harry a bit better because of those
legs. We mucked around for half an hour, then lay down under a sycamore
tree. Only 10 o'clock, and it was already in the low 20s.

It was the start of our second week together. We'd decided we liked each
other and were free to chat about anything.

We lay side by side, facing each other.

"Harry, do you know what a blow job is?"

I still don't know where that came from.

"Yeh," he said... "but I'm not really sure what it is. I think it's what
girls do for boys when they're in the right mood."

I'm not sure he meant the girls or the boys or both.

"Why you asking?"

"Nothing really. It's just my cousin Laurence - he's 11 - said his friend
had given him a blow-job."

"What's her name?"

"It's not a girl. It's a boy. Kip. He gave Laurence a blow-job in the
school toilets before we broke up for the holidays."

"Cool," said Harry.

That took me by surprise.

"Do you want to try it? I mean I'll do you if you do me."

That was bigger surprise.

"It's just sex... we've seen each other's dicks - and we've been in the
pond... so we'll be really clean."

I felt my dick harden beneath my speedos. Have you ever tried hiding a
hard-on beneath your speedos? Can't be done. I was relieved when I saw
Harry was hard too.

"Come on, Dylan," he smiled, pushing his speedos down to his knees. Out
sprang his erection. I was relieved to see we were both about four inches,
though his was a bit fatter than mine.

"Come on. It doesn't mean we're gay or anything like that."

He reached forward and slid my speedos down my hips.

"Lift your bum."

I lifted my bum. He slid my speedos to my knees. He leaned across my
tummy. Lowered himself and took my dick between those red lips.

Fingers held the lower part of my stiffy. Other fingers gently squeezed my
balls.

I closed my eyes. Not because of shame, but because I knew it's what I
wanted.

Half of me was in his mouth. He slid his lips up and down. Down a little
further each time until all of erection was inside him. Then he'd slide to
the top and, with his lips, push back my foreskin, and suck the head of my
cock. Neither of us were circumcised - not a word I knew then - we were
English.

Looking back, it was hard to believe Harry had never done this before. He
hadn't. I guess he's what you call a natural... he let my cock slide out of
his mouth, and - oh shit - he was kissing, licking and sucking my sac, and
my hairless balls (testicles).

We were eleven years old. Both of us were hairless. I had the faint outline
of a moustache. I guess that's because my hair was raven black.

He set one ball free. He giggled. He took the other ball in his mouth. He
tried to get both balls in his mouth, but that was a little too much. His
lips ran from my sac, up and down my shaft, took in the head of my cock,
and tried to suck the sperm out of me.

It's not that I could cum yet but I could get gooey down there. We'd had
sex education in school just before the holidays, so we knew what was what,
more or less.

My bum began to bounce off the tartan rug, my hips rose and fell, pushing
me into him. Butterflies really do flutter in your stomach. In fact, your
tummy flutters too.

I put my hands round the back of Harry's head and pulled him into me -
deeper and deeper until there were sounds of choking. He pushed me away,
not roughly, and I got the message. Wanking on your own was nothing
compared to this.

Harry slid up my body and... kissed me!

Kissed me!

Deep and long and sloppy.

And I kissed him back, each of us pushing our tongues into each other until
the saliva made us choke.

It was fabulous.

We fell back on the rug... our chests rising and falling as we fought for
breath.

We heard the stream babble. We heard the birds sing. We heard our deep
breathing.

Could there be anything better than this?

Yes.

For me there was.

We lay back and dreamed awhile... then.

I began to kiss Harry's neck. Why? I don't know. Instinctive. I slid my
lips onto this chest and fastened them round a nipple. Because of his
creamy skin, his nipples stood out like little cherries and I was able to
fasten my lips around them. I suckled on each one in turn. I took my
time. There was no hurry and I could have spent the day...

My lips slid down to his tummy, and ran circles round his belly button. It
was an innie. I pushed the tip of my tongue in, crazily wishing it would
open and let the whole of my tongue inside.

Down to his pubic area. Silk. Satin. No trace of the hair to come. Felt his
erection against my face. Slid my mouth and eased down his foreskin as he
had done mine. Licked his piss hole - again for some crazy reason wanted
the tip of my tongue inside him.

"Suck me, Dylan . Suck me."

Harry's hands were round the back of my head. Pulling me down. Sliding his
four inches of hard, warm flesh into me. Letting my slide up and down on
the shaft.

Although we'd been in the pond, I could smell pure Harry, and the more I
smelled the more I wanted.

"Inside me. Put your finger inside me."

I couldn't make out what he was whispering.

"Your finger... your finger... inside me"

He wasn't whispering.

"Your finger, Dylan . Push your finger up my hole. My bum hole. Go on. Do
it. Do it!

And I did it.

It took me time to find his bum hole. The tip of my middle finger found
it. I pushed. Gently at first. Then harder, harder, until something gave
way, and my middle finger slipped down to the knuckle, past the knuckle, to
the palm.

"Fuck me - fuck me," he whispered.

I finger-fucked him.

An eleven-year-old boy finger-fucking an eleven-year-old boy.

Instinctive.

Sucking his penis and finger-fucking his boyhole in rhythm... with Harry
moaning, swearing, shoving himself into me as I shoved myself into him.

And Harry came!

I mean: really came!

Little spurts of cum hitting the back of my throat - and sliding down into
my tummy.

We must have rolled away from each other. We were lying on our
backs. Laughing and panting at the same time.

No blushing.

No shame.

No embarrassment.

"Swim?"

"Yeh, let's go for it."

We stood up. Harry did the most beautiful thing of the day. He stepped
forward. Put his arms around me. Pulled me to him, and then he kissed me.

We lay back under the shade of the sycamore, relaxed, and chatted about
this and that. Nothing about sex. I don't think we were avoiding it - I
wasn't - it just turned out to be no big deal at that moment.

The sexiest thing - for me - was kissing Harry, and Harry kissing me. That
memory still gives me a hard-on as fast as anything else.

About an hour later, Harry stood up and laughed: "A boy's gotta do what a
boy's gotta do."

"What's that?"

"A dump. I gotta take a dump."

"Okay," I said. "I need a dump too. We'd better get home. We can come
back."

Harry laughed louder.

"We don't have to go home. What do you think the pond is for?"

"The pond! You mean shit in the pond. That's really dirty."

"Not the pond then, the stream. Let's take a shit in the stream. It'll get
washed away."

I felt my face go bright red. The sex was okay. But shitting in front of
someone else shitting in front of me - well...

"Don't be such a wimp," Harry laughed. "You go into the woods, if you
want. I'm going into the stream. That's much cleaner, if you come to think
of it."

"Can I watch?"

Where the fuck did that come from? It was out before I could stop it. My
neck was ablaze now. Was I turning into a fucking perv?"

"Yeh," Harry said. "But only if I can watch you."

Two eleven-year-old boys watching each other take a shit.

What next?

We took the half a dozen steps down to the stream. Harry pushed his speedos
down and stepped out of them. I copied him and stood their watching.

He took a couple of steps into the stream and squatted down, holding his
bum above the water. I guess it was much colder than the pond. I squatted
on the bank.

He pulled the cheeks of his bum wide apart. I could see everything. His
cheeks spread. His puckered anus opened. He held himself open with his
fingers. His ball sac hung down between his thighs.

"All right," he grunted.

He must have contracted his stomach with each grunt. His anus puckered
outwards with the pressure. He took a deep breath and pulled his stomach
inwards.

His opening began to expand. A dark pointy tip appeared. His ring
dilated. A thick, knobby turd appeared.

Harry gradually pulled himself upwards. The turd continued downwards.

"Never pinch it off," he called. "Just let iot all slide out."

Every day's a learning day, as our teacher told us every day.

Splash!

Into the water went the turd.

Down the stream it floated - then raced - then disappeared.

Was that it?

Not quite.

Harry's hand was between his cheeks. He was wiping himself. Wiping then
washing in the water. Wiping - washing. Wiping-washing... until

"See. Finger licking good,"

and he licked his fucking fingers.

I should've been disgusted, but I wasn't. It was my turn, and now I wasn't
embarrassed at all. Down and off went my speedos. Into the water I
stepped. Down I squatted. The water was cold enough to limit the erection I
was getting - and that would have been embarrassing.

Down I squatted.

Behind me, Harry squatted.

"In for a penny, in for a pound," he laughed.

I started bearing down. The turd that was pressing on my rectum wasn't
shy. It emerged into the sunshine right away. I breathed and
pushed. Breathed and pushed. Until the last couple of inches slid past my
sphincter.

Plop!

Plop!

"Let me clean you up."

Before I could protest, Harry's fingers were between my cheeks, his finger
tips running backwards and forwards across my pucker. Three - four times -
wipe-wash, wipe-wash...

"There. You're so clean I could kiss you there," he giggled.

Kiss me?

There!

I'm not sure how I would have reacted if Harry had kissed my anus. All I
can say is I made no move away from him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's dry out in the sun. Then we'll get home. Get
some lunch. Grab a couple of jars. Come back, and catch some minnows and
take them home."

"We can't eat minnows!" I said.

"They're not for us," Harry laughed. "They're for the cat. Sometimes you're
a fuckin' moron, Dylan ."

Harry was right. Sometimes I was a fuckin' moron. Still am.

The next three weeks were amongst the happiest in my life. Not just for the
sex, though we had plenty of that.

It turned out Harry loved tennis - my second favourite sport - and in the
cool of the evenings we played on the local courts. They were usually
empty, so many people had gone abroad "to get some sun and a bit of a tan"!

Harry was good. I was better. Only because mum had given my first racquet
when I was five. And old-fashioned wooden one that was light enough for
me. Mum had played for the country. She was patient with me, but she was
the boss at the same time. Tennis has always been my summer sport. At
school I opted for tennis, and didn't have to play cricket - a waste of
time I detested.

All too soon the three weeks ran away.

I know what you want to ask.

Did we fuck each other?

No, we didn't.

Why not?

Fucking seemed too big a step, and we were both sure it would hurt like
fuck. It was hard enough getting two fingers inside each other, so we stuck
to tongues.

Tongues?!

The amazing thing is we found "rimming" by experimenting. Neither of us had
heard the term, and we only had a vague idea of sticking tongues up
bumholes is one of the things boys did.

I loved rimming Harry.

In fact, I loved Harry's hole.

How the fuck can one boy love another boy's hole?

I don't know. I just did.

In fact, I loved looking at it - tiny as it was. A little starfish. Licking
it. Kissing it. Tonguing it. Wiggling my tongue as far as I could, or until
Harry yelled: Stop it!"

Three weeks gone with the breeze.

Harry couldn't come and stay the next summer, nor the next summer.

We were thirteen when we met again... and, believe me, we fucked like bunny
rabbits - but that has to keep for later in my biography.

Harry was gone.

And that afternoon I lay under our sycamoure tree... and I cried.

Can an eleven-year-old boy love another eleven-year-old boy? Can young boys
love other young boys? Sex, yes. But love?

I don't about other boys.

I hardly undersood myself.

But I do know I loved Harry.

Still do.

Always will.


02 - Mr. C and ME

The autumn after the summer of Harry, I was seduced by my football manager,
Mr. C. I was never that good at lessons but I was good at tennis and
football.

Although I was still small for my age, I had terrific reflexes and
reactions. I scored most of my goals inside the penalty area by getting to
the ball faster than anybody else.

I was also a quiet boy: (a) because I was shy (b) because I've always
preferred listening to speaking. Even when I'm happy, people keep on
telling me to cheer up. But I had my own circle of friends and I had my
football.

And I had my dyslexia. I didn't know I had dyslexia. I don't think anybody
else did - not at that time. All I knew was that I couldn't spell and I
couldn't read very well. This was probably what made me so shy. I lacked
confidence - except when I was playing football or tennis, because then the
only thing that mattered was playing the game.

So in my last year at junior school Mr C. arrived. We had the team trials,
and I was amazed as everyone else when the manager, let's call him Coach,
said at the end of the session: "Right then, first match Saturday. Be here
at 9.30 for a 10 o'clock kick off. Dylan , you're captain."

He turned and walked off. I just stood there blushing. Nobody'd ever asked
me to captain anything in my life. My mates, from my school, came rushing
round clapping me on the back. It was all pretty embarrassing, but as usual
I said nothing.

The season got underway. Our team did well. No, we did brilliantly, winning
every game, most by a margin of goals. Coach treated me like everyone
else. Life was very good. Though to be honest, I was anxious about going to
secondary school. Because of my brithdate, I was one of the ones who
started in January, not next September.

I might be good at football but I was shit at reading, writing and
spelling.

My mum liked Mr. C. and she knew he liked me, and when she found out he was
also an English teacher she asked him if he would tutor me.

"Okay, I'll tutor him," sighed Coach as if he was doing mum a great favour,
which, of course, he was.

"Wednesdays after school, 4 till half past five. Your place or mine?"

I jumped at the chance. We agreed on his house because it was much closer
to my school than ours. Best of all, Coach agreed not to tell any of the
other boys I was having 'private lessons'. They would have taken the mick
out of me something rotten.

Coach was a brilliant football manager. He was just as good at teaching
reading and spelling, which takes some doing with some who hated both. he
turned everything into games, competitions and quizzes, and most of the
time you learned without realising you were being taught. We measured my
progress every week and I was making amazing progress.

It started about the fourth lesson. We were sitting close together on a
couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was reading out
loud. I always forgot the full stops and read on into the next sentence. It
didn't matter how often Coach told me, two minutes later I'd forgotten.

"This'll help, Dylan ," he said. He put his hand just below the bottom of
the book. His hand was resting at the bottom of my stomach. Every time I
came towards the end of the sentence, he pressed my stomach a little.

It worked!

I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about fifteen
minutes. I read and Coach applied gentle pressure to the bottom of my
stomach. No big deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I sat
there utterly expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Coach pressed a
couple of inches away from my stiffy.

It was embarrassing at first, but Coach didn't seem to notice anything, so
I assumed it was an accident and went on reading. It was embarrassing but
also very pleasant.

Of course, after my time with Harry, I wasn't scared of sex. But I was a
boy and Mr. C. was a man, and I wasn't too sure if I was misunderstanding
him.

And I'd heard the obligatory filth in school and in the football changing
rooms, but it seemed to have nothing to do with me. I was small, slight,
dark-haired, hazel-eyed, tight-lipped, and practically not there, except
when doing sports. Why would a nice man like Mr. C. take an interest in me?

Next week the same thing happened, and, to tell you the truth, I was sort
of hoping he'd do it again. This time there was a variation that showed
what was happening was no accident.

Despite the pressure on my stomach, despite my hard-on, I still forgot to
stop at the end of some of the sentence.

"We have to get the all right," laughed Coach.

He slid his hand under my school jumper, then under my school shirt, just
above the waist band of my trousers. Every time we reached the end of a
sentence, he's pressed his cool hand against my warm stomach, and I'd
pause, then read on. Could he still be unaware of my reaction? Could it
still be an accident?

As he pressed, he ran his little finger along my skin just where it emerged
from my trouser waist. My penis was hard and throbbing.

I suppose I shouldn't have gone back the following week. I could have found
an excuse. I spent most of the week thinking them up. But when Wednesday
rolled round, I found myself looking forward to the lessons.

You have to remember the lessons really were brilliant. I knew I was making
progress, and I wanted to make more. Okay, my Coach liked fingering by bare
skin.

So what? He was hardly your typical 'dirty old man'. I don't think he was
young, and he was good-looking. He might have played professional football
if he hadn't done his knee in. And he liked me and he wanted me.

Halfway through the lesson he told me to lie on the carpet and read to
him. Lying flat out would help with my breathing, he said. It was so
comfortable lying there, one hand holding the book, the other pillowing my
head. I wasn't surprised when he lay down, full length, alongside me.

Lying flat out that way meant I was totally vulnerable. He began the
familiar pressure and stroking on my bare stomach. My prick hardened. There
was no way I could hide it. He stroked lower and lower until his thumb
brushed my erection below the thin grey flannel of my school trousers.

I think if I'd protested in any way, even drawing up legs, he would have
stopped, and that would have been that. I didn't. I was curious and
aroused.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. This was
further than I'd expected him to go. He edged aside the flaps of my flies,
exposing my white underpants. His fingers stroked the bare skin above the
elastic, then slipped underneath.

He held my stiff penis between his thumb and forefinger squeezing gently as
I read on, missing more full stops than I managed. This only lasted a
couple of minutes. Then he closed me up, zipped me up, closed my clip, and
tucked my shirt in.

The lesson went on as if nothing had happened. It was crazy to lie there on
the carpet in the living room and do what he did. The living room had a
huge window but it looked onto a shared garden and none of the old folk
ever passed by.

The lesson ended and, as usual, Coach walked me home because he had tea
every Wednesday with friends who lived near us.

As we walked we chatted about the coming Saturday match. Coach did most of
the talking; as usual, I listened. I loved to listen, especially to someone
who was really enthusiastic about something I loved. We never mentioned the
sex; neither then, nor in what followed afterwards did we once mention the
sex. Perhaps that's what made it possible.

Next week's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my
spelling. Then Coach said, "It's time we used the computer."

I followed him into a small bedroom. It was clean and tidy with a pleasant
smell in the air. On a desk beneath the window stood a computer.

There were two chairs in front of the desk. There was a single bed. We did
a quiz on the computer, all about football, it must have taken ages to
prepare. It was great fun.

Coach indicated the bed. "Get on and read this."

I didn't think twice. I lay on my back on the bed. "Read this, please,"
Mr. C. said, "Putting some papers in my hand." My other hand went under my
head. It was a funny story about some of my friends and me. There was some
light sex in the story. It made me smile and want to read on. I had to fill
in the blanks. Coach sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Read it to yourself first, and then out loud."

I felt him push up my jumper and my shirt. I wasn't surprised.  He undid
the clip of my trousers and unzipped me.

"Lift," he said.

Still reading, I raised my bum and let him slide my trousers and my
underpants down to my ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach, my pubic area,
(not even a single hair), then take my cock between his fingers.

I already had an erection. I vaguely wondered if he was disappointed. I'd
seen lots of boys in the shower, and I was least as big as most of them,
and Harry had been happy with I had.

Mr. C. played around, stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand
tracing patterns over my stomach, my chest and my nipples.

"Should I read out loud now?" I asked.

"Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt his lips around my stiffy. His
mouth was hot and wet. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster, his
head bobbed up and down on my cock. It was weird.

When I really got stuck over a word, he'd raise his head, pronounce the
word, and then go back down on me.

Once I stopped and asked him what a word meant: the word was 'erect'. Coach
raised his head. "It means sticking up or standing up. That's where the
word 'erection' comes from." I hadn't understood the word 'erection' before
then.

"Should I read it again?" I asked. He obviously wasn't finished.

"Yes, please, Dylan . No mistakes this time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips. "Turn over."

I turned over so that I was lying face down. His fingers ran over my
buttocks. Then his lips. He pried the cheeks of my bottom open.

I felt his tongue run along the inside of my cheeks several times, then the
hot tip touched my hole. I was nearly sick with excitement. This was the
dirtiest thing I could think of anyone doing, yet it was the most exciting.

I felt the hot tip of his tongue run up and down the little serrated
edge. He gave a push and the tip slipped in. I lay there, willing my ring
to open so that he could more of his tongue inside me, but it was far too
small.

I wasn't worried he'd try to fuck me. I'd just say no. And I was so
small-built that he'd have real trouble getting a finger in my hole, never
mind his prick. In any event, he didn't try.

Looking back, I think it's weird I just accepted what Mr. C. was doing. He
was licking and kissing the hole where my shit came from. I knew it was a
tiny hole, but, after all, it's the hole I used every day for shitting, and
Mr. C. was making love to it - making love to my hole, to my anus.

I didn't know these expressions then I do now, and this grown-up was making
love to my hole. There's only one thing that embarrassed me. I farted. Not
a big one. Not a long one. But he must have heard it, smelt it, but he kept
right on trying to fasten his lips round my the tiny lips of my bumhole.

"Over," he said.

I turned over. He kissed my chest, my nipples, my tummy. He licked my pubic
area and slid his lips over my hasrd-on again. This time he sucked me hard
and fast. His finger pushed against my bumhole until it slid right it. His
saliva had made my hole slippery so his finger didn't hurt much as it slide
in.

He finger-fucked me - that was an expression Harry and I had worked out for
ourselves. My bum and hips bounced up and down. My stiffy slid in and
out. I pushed his head down. Then I was bucking and thrashing as I had the
first cum of my life - and it was a wet one!

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Then: "Up you get."

Up I got.

I stood in front of him. He pulled up my trousers and underpants, then did
up my clothes as if I was three years old. He tucked me in and tidied me
up.We went into the living room, finished the lesson, and had tea and
sandwiches. Then he walked me home. That, more or less happened every week.

At the end of the year, I said goodbye to junior school and prepared for
the adventure of secondary school.

I shone at football again, and was Captain of Year 7. I coped with all my
classes. Sometimes I met Mr. C. when he was refereeing one of our
matches. We talked about my progress at school, but never about what had
happened on the bed.

That was for the memory box.

But I sometimes wonder if he remembers what I tasted like the way I always
remember Harry.


03 - ALAN and ME

Maybe when you've had sex, you give off a scent that lets other boys know -
other boys who had started giving off the same scent.

Alan Aitken certainly helped me speed things up. And this was strange
because Alan and I'd been friends since we were four or five years old. In
fact, I can't remember a time when Alan wasn't around.

Alan was cute.

It's not a word I like much, but 'cute' is the best word I can think of to
describe Alan. Ever since I can remember women liked to ruffle Alan's curly
glossy brown hair; women were charmed by his impish good looks, the bow
mouth, the sparkling eyes. I've never met anyone else with genuinely
sparklin eyes but Alan's were.

Sometimes you thought they were the deepest of purples, but closer
inspection revealed, yep, genuinely violet, set against the purest of
white. upturned nose, the bridge spattered with freckles, the high
cheekbones, the dimples when he smiled, and Alan smiled most of the time.

His family was well-off; they lived on the top floor of a... I'm not sure
what to call it. If I write tenement, you'll get totally the wrong
idea. Poor folks lived in tenements; the Aitkens were anything but poor.

You might find it odd that Alan and I even attended the same junior school,
but that was because... wait for it... Alan's dad was a chimney
sweep. Well, he'd started out as a chimney sweep, but in a few years had
built a chimney-sweeping empire with a monopoly over the whole city. There
were few chimneys in our city that were not swept regularly by Aitken &
Son.

The 'Son' was Alan though he hadn't, as far as I know, had that much
contact with a sooty chimney yet. The Aitkens never forgot their roots,
never moved out of our district, and got on with everybody like a house on
fire - maybe that's not the best image for a chimney-sweeping business
-with everybody.

Alan and I had become instant friends from the moment we pulled on our
floral pinafores at nursery.

I've just noticed I've been writing in the past tense. Fair enough, but
Alan is still very much part of my life though not my sex life nowadays
because Alan has got a man, a real, live, grown-up, with a deep voice, big
muscles, and a cock like....

But I'm not going into Alan's private life here. That wouldn't be
fair. Maybe I will later, but not now, not right at this minute.

Alan Aitken

What happened was this.

After Harry and Mr. C., after the unexpected introduction to the delights
that lay beween my legs, I was hungry for more. My hand was okay, my
fingers were even better, but I wanted more, I wanted someone else's flesh,
male flesh, pressed up against my flesh.

I wanted a hot hard penis against my lips, I wanted to feel the tip of a
cock bouncing against the back of my throat, I wanted to exchange the taste
of semen with another mouth, I wanted to... but with whom, and when, and
where, and how?

I spent lots of time at Alan's. We'd both passed the 11+, both pulled on
our new blazers and long flannels, both caught the bus to Bruce Academy,
both ended up in the same Form Class, and in the same classes for most
subjects.

Alan is very bright, but I'm brighter; at least I usually come top of the
class while Alan follows in second or third place. It's a rivalry we both
loved.

After school we often go to his home. His mum makes tea, and there's iced
buns or scones with real dairy cream. We stay at the table, get our
homework done - Alan's crap at Latin, my Geography is erratic - swap tales
of the day, then retire to Alan's room for half an hour.

I was going to write bedroom because there's a bed in it: a fucking double
bed! For one person. Not even a grown-up person: just Alan! But it's a lot
more than just a bedroom. Alan Aitken's bedroom is bigger than our living
room.

Fuck it!

And he's got great stuff. Like a real hifi set. His own TV. Toys
galore. And a fuckin' full size snooker table! I kid you not. His own full
size snooker table.

We were on the bed. Laughing and joking. I was looking at Alan. His eyes
were sparkling. That curly hair needed cutting. The sun had brought out his
freckles. I was listening to his voice; it hadn't even started to break; it
tinkled through the scales.

We were stretched out on our backs, heads on the same double-size pillow,
looking at Alan's collection of model aeroplanes; he was explaining the
comparative merits of the Spitfire and the Hurricane.

My head was turned to him. I couldn't take my eyes away from his face. And
then it happened... so slowly that I wasn't aware of it until it was too
late.

A fuckin' erection!

There I was, lying on Alan's double bed, with an erection like a
milkbottle, outlined underneath the thin grey flannel of my school
trousers. I wished it to go down. I concentrated on the merits of the
Spitfire and Hurricane. I tried desperately not to look down at my tummy
and below, nor to look into Alan's eyes. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he
wouldn't say anything. Maybe Batman could beat Superman in a fair contest.

Alan's hand slid down my chest, down my belly, down to my belly button,
where his fingers grasped my hard-on and measured out its inches. I lay
there paralysed, stricken into silence.

"Shit, Dylan , you've got a big one. Where the fuck did you get that? I've
seen it in the showers, but, fuck me, you and Eric Merry make a right
pair."

As he spoke, he continued to tweak and measure, tweak and measure out its
length from root to tip between his thumb and finger. I tried to speak. My
voice box betrayed me, and whatever I was going to say, escaped as a
strangled squeak.

Alan laughed.

"Let me see it."

I said nothing. I didn't trust my voice to get anything meaningful out. But
I didn't push his hand away. I lay there on the verge of wishing and
hoping...

"Let me see it."

Was that a note of exasperation in Alan's voice?

"Look, fair's fair. You show me yours and I'll..."

Alan started to laugh again. I couldn't see what was funny.

He reached down, unzipped himself with a flourish, fumbled into his
underpants, and fished out his own erection. Fuck it! His own erection was
as hard as mine. Not as long, not as thick, but definitely as hard.

And it was pretty. Lovely. Beautiful. A four-inch column of ivory. The
foreskin pulled back to reveal the shapely purple head, wet and slick with
what I'd learned is called pre-cum.

"Can I?" I mumbled.

"Remember it's 'May I... not Can I..." he laughed, and added, "That's one
up for me."

Alan reached down and pulled his trousers wide upon, wriggled his bum up,
and pushed trousers and underpants down to his knees, then turned to me and
did the same.

"What about your mum?" I whispered though my blushes.

"Are you deaf as well as dumb?" he giggled. "Didn't you hear the door close
about ten minutes ago. She's gone round to Auntie May's. Back around
6. That gives us... mmmm... nearly an hour."

Alan pulled my hard-on away from my body.

"A little kiss to start with."

He leaned over me and kissed the head of my penis.

Aw, fuck it, lots of kisses to start with."

His pursed lips ran the length of my erection, up and down, up and down,
his lips open to edge the shaft between his lips. He stopped a moment,
looked up at me, eyes glazed, and whispered, "Whatever you want to do, just
do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I love it."

I understand the meaning of '69' now but I didn't then. It took me about
five minutes to discover the position. Was I the first? Probably not, in my
wilder moments I like to think so. Only joking.

Two naked 11-year-olds lying side by side on a double bed. Their fingers
clasped round each other's hard-ons. Their heads bobbing on their other's
stiffies. Mouths sliding the down until lips are pressed on each other's
naked pubis. The sweet liquid of precum already on their lips.

Fingers of each free hand manipulating hairless scrotums. Giving and taking
in unison, in harmony. Instinctly matching rhythms. So difficult to
concentrate.

Is it the pleasure of fullness in the mouth?

Is it the pleasure of the other's mouth seeking to absorb the other's
fullness. The naked limbs are twisted in a beauty few sculptors can ever
match.

Not only the sights but the smells. Sweat. Sour milk and honey. The
untainted smell of immature semen.

It was hard to focus on sucking Alan when my own senses were so
overwhelmed. The touch of his naked skin was overwhelming. The sight of
every vein, every curve of his scrotum, the pink of his shaft, the curve of
the head, the little eye that demanded to be probed with a tongue tip. So
much. So much. And always so much more.

I felt my legs pushed wider, felt Alan's head burrow between them, felt his
hot tongue lick my scrotum, his lips single out each testicle to find its
shape, assess its weight. To take one, then both, then the little sac into
his mouth.

For a moment I panicked. Could there be any great exposure than this? With
one little clamp of those little white teeth my balls would be gone. What
could I tell my mother? I was an adept little liar but it would be hard to
wriggle my way out of that one. I sighed and copied Alan, my mouth opening
wide to take in his own little sac.

Then I knew what it meant. That I could snap off the sac, his balls, and
swallow them in a single gulp. And the possibility felt wonderful. He
trusted me so much. Trusted me with the family jewels. Trusted me with so
much of his future. If my mouth hadn't been so full, I would have laughed.

Then he was gone. Deeper. Lower. Into the unmentionable. My legs pushed
wide apart by his insistent head. I felt his thick hair brush and tickle
the inside of my thighs.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. Fuck it. He did.

His tongue was deep between my bum cheeks, circling the dirty place, the
place you had to wipe clean three times, the place no one ever talked
about, and certainly not in relation to what was happening, not in relation
to... sex. How could there be any pleasure in this?

Of course you know that I knew... and you know how much I loved it.

The image, even then, was incredibly erotic. My cock pulsed even harder. I
couldn't keep the image out of my mind. It was wrong, it was wicked, it was
wonderful. Alan's tongue circled closer and closer to...

My bum hole. My arse hole. My anus.

Shit, I'd hardly ever seen my own bum hole, and here was Alan getting a
close-up in Cinemascope. I had seen it a couple of times... when I'd lain
on my bed at home, my legs hooked high by my elbows, a mirror strategically
placed. Why had I done that? I've no idea. Just my insatiable curiosity,
and an urge even then to be drawn to wards the taboo, the forbidden.

And the tip of Alan's tongue touched me there. Right on the centre
spot. The tip ran the tiny length again and again. Tiny pressures,
increasing with each run. My mouth took his cock in again. My lips swirled
around it. I sucked just the head, released it, and then took in the whole
shaft again.

"Whatever you want to do,just do it. I'll like it. Fuck it, I'll love it."

Had Alan really mean that - whatever I wanted?

Just do it.

Now my head was between his legs. He splayed them wide, giving me the
access I desired. It was dark in there. I wanted to see. I heaved his arse,
his legs around, a little rudely, a little uncermenoniously, until he was
facing the bedlamp.

The light focused where I wanted it. There it was. The centre of the known
Universe. And I was about to go there, to boldly go where... o for fuck's
sake, not Star Trek. Beam me in, Scotty!

Valleys, sand dunes of silk skin ran towards the centre. Creamy ivory
darkened to a darker centre. The eye of the Universe. The gateway to the
all and everything.

Cream gave way to a light flush of brown, to a slightly serrated edge, to a
pucker, to a rosebud that asked to be kissed. A rosebud by any other
name. A rosebud is a rosebud is a rosebud.

I closed my eyes, slid out the tip of my tongue, the serpent about to enter
Eden.

Bang!

"Alan! Dylan ! I'm home. Tea'll be ready in five minutes."

A light rap at the door.

"Damn, mum's back early," whispered Alan.

"Scones and cream. Real cream. Dairy cream."

Shit!

We unhooked ourselves and shot off that bed like bats out of Hell. A
scramble of clothes. When I got home, I found I was in Alan's underpants!
We dressed as if our lives depended on it; they probably did.

Alan snagged his dick in his zip. Hopped around in agony. I knelt and
unsnagged it. Gave it a little kissie to make better. Then neither of us
could stop giggling.

"Boys! Boys!"

We made final adjustments to our stiffies, emerged from the bedroom,
crossed the lounge, and entered the kitchen.  Alan was nonchalant; I was
terrified.

"Come on, boys, it's on the table. Sit down and tuck in. Auntie May wasn't
in, so I got us a treat for tea...

"Dylan , you look a little pale. Alan, you look a little flushed. I hope
you boys aren't coming down with something. You don't want to be in bed for
the rest of the week, do you?"

Alan fell from his chair, laughing, his mouth crammed with scone and dairy
cream.

"Oh, Alan, you are a silly. Thank goodness Dylan has a lot more
sense. You're lucky to have a friend like Dylan . You could learn a lot
from him."

Alan doubled up in helpless laughter, tears streaming from his eyes. I
tried but I couldn't help it; I joined in the laughter. Then Mrs Aitken
joined in, too.

She pulled herself together, she smiled.

"I don't know what's made you two so happy, but whatever it is, it's doing
you a power of good."

And it was.

And it did.

Believe me, Mrs Aitken, it did.


04 - ERIC

I've got lots of photos of Eric. That's because people never stopped taking
Eric's photo. At our secondary school, Eric became captain of just about
everything. I didn't know Eric well. We hadn't been at the same junior
school. He'd been to a school in the West End of the city while I came from
the east side.

Eric's family had money. Eric was fun, and I appreciated how much he
befriended me - this 'fish out of water'. Not very intelligent but
witty. Athletic. And extremely good-looking. Being good-looking is
important in all boys' schools, probably even more so than girls' schools
since prestige and status are all-important amongst boys.

It was mid-March and we had a sudden rush of summer weather. It wouldn't
last, but made trhge best of it.

At lunch times, a lot of boys used to go down onto the lower playing fields
for a game of football. The lower playing fields were at the bottom of this
huge crater in the ground which had been grassed over by the years.

Everyone had his blazer and tie off (strictly forbidden, but few masters
came near the 'crater'). We had a really good game. Everyone was hot and
sticky. The first bell went and most people grabbed their stuff and headed
up the hill.

A few of us die-hards went on playing. Then the second bell went. Seconds
later, there was only Eric and myself left, with Eric taking a few last pot
shots at me in goal.

We grabbed our blazers, ties and shirts (yes, Eric and I'd gone that far in
breaking the rules) and started to scramble up the grassy hill. Eric was
behind me. He slipped (he said), grabbed for something, got me, and
together we tumbled back down in the hill. We ended up in a heap of arms,
legs and clothing. Then it happened.

Eric shifted till he was sitting astride me. He put his knees on my arm
muscles, such as they were, pinning me to the grass. He was looking down
into my face. He reached behind him and stroked my genitals!

I was stunned.

My face, already red from our exertions, burst into flames. I tried to
heave him away, but he bore down on me, not enough to hurt, just enough to
pin me there and kept stroking me, his fingers fumbling till they found me
cock.

I'm not sure what I would have done if Eric hadn't kept looking straight
into my eyes. His hair flopped over his face. He was sweating. He pushed
the hair out of his eyes and kept looking at me. I turned my head way,
turned it back, closed my eyes, open them.

Horror of horrors. I was getting an erection. I had an erection. I was
stiff and hard under his touch. His fingers and thumb closed round my stiff
penis and began working the skin along the shift. At last he spoke.

"Do I have to hold you down?" he asked.

I lay there for a minute. I shook my head from side to side. Eric slid from
my body and we lay side to side. He was still manipulating me.

"We can't stay here," he said. "I know," I said.

"The sheds," he said. I nodded.

We scrambled up, grabbed our clothes and headed across the fields, away
from the school.

The 'sheds' was the polite name for the boys' latrines on the far side of
the playing fields. Smoking went on there. Everybody knew that. So did sex,
but we were too new to know that.

We got to the sheds and slipped inside. I was trembling, so, I realised was
Eric. He took our blazers and ties and hung them on a hook on the back of
the shed door. "I'll go first," he said. I nodded, not sure what he
intended.

Eric sat down on one of the toilets and pulled me towards him. He opened my
belt, unbuttoned my flies, then dragged down my flannels and Y-fronts to my
ankles. I was exquisitely embarrassed.

My cock was still hard and already slick with pre-cum. Eric fondled me for
a bit, then without a by-your-leave opened his mouth and sucked me in as
far as my prick would go.

I stood there and watched my penis slide in and out of Eric's mouth,
fascinated by the way it bulged his cheeks, and amazed he could get so much
of me inside him. Where was it all going - down his throat?

I put my hands on his head and instinctively, I suppose, began pushing and
pulling to find the rhythms I liked best.

One of Eric's hands worked the base of my cock while the other played with
my balls. Wonderful! But when his lower hand slipped into my crack and
headed for my bumhole, that was too much! I clenched my hole and clasped my
legs together. Eric didn't persist. I wish he had.

Eric brought me to the brink of orgasm at least five times. My prick was
going frantic, my heart was racing. Then when I thought I couldn't stand
any more, he let me come - and he let me come in his mouth!

I couldn't believe it. He waited until I'd relaxed completely in his mouth,
slipped me out, took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped my cock and
his lips. Sheer class!

I glanced at my watch. "Shit, we're going to be so late."

Eric laughed.

"Let me think. Yes, you got too much sun at lunchtime. You threw up. I was
worried, so I took you home. I live in Stirling Road. We'll go there. Look
sick. I can talk my mother into anything.

"We'll get a note from her. Then we'll come back to school; that'll look
good. No. On second thoughts, we won't come back to school this
afternoon. My mother will tell you - us - to stay at home at rest for the
afternoon. Then at half three we'll go swimming. How does that sound?"

"You sure it's okay?" I asked.

"Yeh, no probs... but you owe me one. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Anything."

"Anything?"

"Yeh, anything I want. Okay."

"Okay," I said beginning to wonder what 'anything' was.

To cut a longish story short, Eric's mum was brill. She fussed over
me. Phoned the school. Gave Eric's story, and then told us she was off to
"to play bridge with the girls... back in a couple of hours. There's plenty
to eat in the fridge. Find something to do but don't over do things."

Kissie, kissie, bye, bye.

I was pretty sure we were going to have sex, but Eric said: "Right, let's
get the bikes. I've got three. Choose the one you want. Let's cycle to the
pond at Inverbervie."

Eric was right. Inverbervie was worth it. High grasses, burned golden by
the unnatural summer sun, swished down to a river that still gurgled
merrily with the freezing waters from the Grampians in the distance.

Apart from the throaty bubbling river noises, all was still, even the birds
stunned by the afternoon heat. It felt like Eric and I were the only ones
left outdoors in Scotland; everyone else had fled to the shade of bars,
pubs, restaurants and hotels.

Our t-shirts hung on a bush. Shoes and socks were tucked in its shade. Eric
lay flat on his back, not in the tickly grass, but on the tartan blanket
he'd brought.

I sat above him, drawing a blade of grass down his chest, sweeping it
across his nipples, down over his muscly stomach, into his belly button,
and then down across the crease marks the elastic had made across his
waist.

"That tickles."

"I know. It's meant to."

"Do something."

"Do what?"

"Kiss me."

Kiss him! First it was 'sweetheart', and now Eric Merry, heart-throb
supreme, was asking me to kiss him. Straight out. No beating about the
bush. Kiss him.

"Kiss you where?"

I looked down at Eric's face. He was puckering up! Either that or he was
going to spit at me. I leant down and put my lips cautiously against
his. He grabbed the back of my head and pulled my lips tight against his.

Yahoo!

Within seconds we were crashing mouths, mashing lips, bruising skin. His
tongue pushed against my lips. I surrendered and opened to him. My tongue
was deep in his mouth. I tasted his saliva. Then his tongue was deep in my
mouth, mixing his saliva with mine.

I couldn't breathe. Who the fuck needs breath anyway? I felt my skin wet
and hot against his; I felt our chests slide against themselves; I heard
the popping of sweat bubbles. Then I was seriously short of breath. I
pushed myself up on my arms.

Eric dragged me back. I pushed away again. I looked down at Eric again.
His eyes were closed. Beads of sweat hung from those thick eyelashes.

"Kiss me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere."

My eyes gulped in his powerful shoulders, that sculpted chest with its twin
raised raisins, the flatness of his tummy, the little innie button, the
narrow waist, the wide hips, the creasy crinkles where the elastic had
been. I leaned across Eric and ran my lips across his chest.

My tongue lapped at his nipples. I wasn't sure what he wanted but I knew
what I wanted: to lick him, lap at him, chew him, drink him, swallow him,
make him mine, and keep him forever - keep this moment, this hour, this day
forever.

I made love to Eric Merry's body. There's no other way I can put it. I
worshipped his body with my tongue, my lips, my eyes, my skin, my hands, my
fingers... anything that could touch him I used to worship him.

I reached his shorts.

He raised his bum from the blanket. I eased down his shorts and his white
cotton slip at the same time. His huge cock sprang into the Scottish
sunshine. Na-na-na-na-na-na... Hey, Eric! I pressed its length, its girth
against my face. Hot, sweaty, sticky - pure male incarnate.

I circled my thumb and fingers to draw back the foreskin, revealing the
thick purple head that asked to be kissed. I kissed it, then ran my lips
the full ten inches of his shaft.

Seven inches.

It really was.

I wonder if I'll ever see a cock like that again. I don't think I'll ever
seen one like that on an 11-year-old boy again. I suppose on some boys it
might look freakish; on Eric it looked perfect. The perfect cock for the
perfect day, and they were both mine.  I felt the shaft pulsate in my
mouth. I wondered if Eric was going to shoot his load.  Was this another
ten-second wonder?

No matter. We'd solved that problem by letting Eric cum whenever he was
ready; then we'd go on for the second load, and the third when he was
particularly horny. As far as Eric was concerned, I thought I had
everything under control, there were no surprises left.

I was wrong.

"Just a minute. I want to get comfortable."

I released Eric from the back of my throat and from my mouth. He surprised
me by flipping onto his front. "I want to lie here and listen to the
river," he said. "You do what you want," he added.

Taken by surprise, I blurted out, "And what am I meant to be doing?"

Eric looked back over his shoulder. He was smiling, but his smile was
almost solemn.

"You said you want to kiss me all over. Do whatever you want... and take
those shorts off. You must be boiling in them.  And they look fuckin'
silly." He lay back down, his head resting on his entwined fingers.

Self-consciously, I struggled out of my Lycras, and sat there, listening to
the river, wondering what I was meant to be doing. Then I looked down. My
eyes ran the length of Eric's body, and I knew.

I sat naked, cross-legged and leant down over Eric's naked length. I
pressed my lips to the back of his neck. Shit, this was sexier than kissing
his front. I reached for a thermos of raspberry pop and drizzled some down
the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. I kissed and licked
the sweet liquid away.

"Mmmmmmmm..."

That might have been me, but it was Eric.

I let the cool liquid run down his shoulder blades to gather in the hollow
of his lower back. I applied my lips again. I kept my hands away. Hot skin
to hot skin was not needed on a day like this.

Eric turned his face to the side. I poured some of the sweetness against
his lips. I returned to his back and observed the way it fitted into the
rounded curve of his buttocks. Those muscled buttocks with their big
dimples on either side. Oh, things of beauty are a boy's buttocks
forever. I wondered... "whatever I want".

Oh well, all he could do was kill me.

With my left hand I eased his left buttock away from its twin. Dare I? Dare
I? Dare I?  I dared. The dribble of raspberry pop ran into the cleft of his
bum and collected at its sweet little centre. I wasn't afraid to admit it
to myself. Boys' bottoms are beautiful. Boys' bottoms hypnotised me,
mesmerised, enchanted and entranced me.

"I can't let the raspberry juice stay there," I rationalised to
myself. It'll just get sticky and uncomfortable. I lowered my face into
Eric's buttocks, into the abyss between.

I cast aside the thermos flask. This was a two-handed job. It was also
terrifying.  What if this was too much for Eric? What if he found it, found
me disgusting and dirty? What if he sprang up, hit me, and cycled off home
without me? He'd have to put some clothes on.

That would give me time. Time for what? Time to beg for forgiveness. Time
to promise him that I'd never never try anything like this again.

Like this.

The tip of my tongue touched his ring.

Like this.

The tip of my tongue pushed and probed his little back door.

The tip of my tongue rubbed Eric's magic lamp. Open, open, sesame. Says me!
I wasn't sure what I'd do once I got into the cave of wonders, but I'd
figure out what to do once I got there.

"Is that all you're going to do?"

That was Eric's voice. Impatient. Urgent. "All...all..." Was that all I was
going to do?

"You won't hurt me, you know." Then added mysteriously: "Your dick's long
but a wicket is much longer."

What the fuck did he mean? Surely not. Oh, surely he didn't mean that.

Despite the heat, I was trembling. I looked down at myself. My erection was
hot and hard. I waddled on my knees between Eric's legs. I moved them
apart. I wasn't sure what to do next. Or even if that's what I was meant to
be doing.

Eric's hands came round behind him; he grasped his buttocks and pulled them
apart. There could be no misunderstanding now.

I pressed the tip of my finger against his sphincter. Hot, moist, giving. I
ran the tip of my finger backwards and forwards, increasing the
pressure. Nothing would give until it did. My finger was outside, and then
it was in, straight to the second knuckle.

I finger-fucked Eric. I hate that expression, finger-fucking, but only in
relation to Eric.

It was so much more than that. I heard him grunt. Was that intended as
encouragement? I added a second finger. It took another five minutes before
it slipped inside.  I continued the sawing motion, staring intently as the
little brown eye opened wider. Then I tried for it.

Pressing the head of my cock against where I imagined Eric's rectum to be,
I leaned forward, resting my weight on out-stretched arms. No luck. I was
nowhere near it. I tried a third finger, and now Eric's grunts were closer
to a steady moan. Tried my cock again. It stayed rock hard but I just
couldn't get that initial entry. Come on, Dylan , think, think.  You're a
Bruce boy, trying to fuck another Bruce boy, by the banks of the Tay at
Inverbervie.  You're top of the class, so think, think.

Peanut butter!

No, that was ridiculous, outrageous, out of the question. But what the
hell. I loved the feeling of my lips pressed against Eric's anus; I loved
peanut butter; it was the perfect solution. And thank God, I used the
smooth creamy kind. Thank goodness, I'd kept the peanut butter in its jar,
intending to do the sandwiches at the last minute.

Twisting like some circus contortionist, I managed to extract the jar from
the carry-bag, twist the lid off, get out a great gob on my middle finger,
and apply it to Eric's hole.

If Eric knew what I was doing, he didn't let on. I tasted the peanut
butter; it now had a sourish taste but was far from inedible. In fact, it
was finger-licking good, so I licked it from my middle finger, then shoved
another gob up Eric's bum.

Then the delicate part. I looked around. No wasps - yet, but be quick. A
huge gob in my right hand, grip my seven inches and run the butter up and
down its length. The butter was already running in the heat. I leaned over
Eric and whispered in his ear, "Help me."

"I'll hold myself open as wide as I can," he whispered.

Ah, teamwork, nothing like it!

Eric held his buttocks wide apart. The creamy butter was frothing at his
hole a a bit.  I felt the head of my hard penis touch his hot spot; he held
me in place as I leaned forward on my hands.

How could it be so easy now when it'd been so difficult only a few minutes
ago. I felt Eric open up to me. I felt myself slide in. He was hot and
tight, and I felt the friction against my shaft, but it wasn't difficult.

I was in, all the way in!

I felt my pubic bone against his buttocks and knew I was all the way
in. Eric returned his hands to rest his head. I knew what to do. No lessons
were needed. In one way or another, men had been doing this ever since they
discovered the pleasures their bodies could give them.

I raised myself on my hands, extracted my cock to its head, and then
lowered myself to slide deep into Eric's arse. I could see us both as if I
were having a near-death experience.

I saw two boys, on a tartan blanket by the river, making love. The smaller
boy driving his penis again and again into the bigger boy below. I wanted
this to last forever.  I could feel, or imagined I felt, the walls of
Eric's rectum take and hold my shaft, reluctant ever to release it.

As soon as the shaft was released, all it sought was the joy of that dark,
warm, moist place again. But Nature has its own imperatives, and my hips
began to speed up almost against my will.

I found myself driving harder and deeper into Eric, the long thrusting
became short little stabbing thrusts. I could hear my grunts and Eric's
groans above the babble of the river, above the tinkle of whatever was
playing on the radio.

What was that song that mum wouldn't let us hear every time it came on the
radio: Moi, je t'aime non plus. I was slamming into Eric now; I could hear
my flesh slap hard against his. I wanted to slow down, make it last, but my
body said "Fuck it! We're going for it."

If I were a dog, I would have howled.

Something exploded in me and out of me. I felt my body disintegrating into
a million fragments. I felt as if I were shooting stars. For the first time
in my life, I felt the sperm leave my balls, race the length of my urethra,
and squirt into whatever awaited it in that dark cavern. I felt as if every
pore in my body were open, every hair standing on end, my nakedness exposed
for the Universe to see - and applaud.

Of course, there were no words at the time. Nor even thoughts. Nor
emotions.  Only feeling. Naked, exposed feeling.

I'd lost any sense of time. I was lying along Eric's back, my penis still
inside him.

"Hey, hey, Dylan ."

"What? Where?"

"Hey, Dylan . Let's clean up in the river."

"What? In the river? Okay."

"Take your prick out first."

"Pardon?"

"Your prick. It's up my arse. Take it out, please."

Gently, slowly I raised my own arse up, felt my incredibly sensitive penis,
still half hard withdraw, heard a kind of plop, and smelled for the first
time the totally overwhelming smells of all-the-way sex.

I rolled onto my side on the blanket. I felt arms go around me. Felt Eric's
lips against my own. Opened my eyes. His eyes were an inch away. They were
smiling. I told you eyes can smile.

"Come on. Let's lie in the river."

We lay in the river. The water was freezing. We lay side by side. The water
was wonderful.

Memories of Harry flooded back.

"Eric, can I ask you something?"

"'Course you can."

"Today, when we came here, before we came here, I mean, did you know, did
you know we were going to... you know..?"

"Make love?"

I was grateful for that.

"Yes, make ....."

"No. At least I wasn't sure. I knew I wanted it, but I wasn't sure if you
did. I was hoping for today, but, no, I wasn't sure."

A thought struck me.

"Eric... Eric, do you want me to do that for you?"

Eric was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. "Me up you? What do you
think?"

I looked down Eric's body. Even in the freezing water his cock looked like
a young python.

"Well, maybe not. Not yet anyway."

"I wonder," said Eric, "I wonder if girlfriends will like it, be able to
take it, I mean.  I guess they will. They're built for it, down front, I
mean."

Eric must have seen the look in my eyes.

"Hey, Dylan , I'm not a homo. I'm gonna have girlfriends. I'm gonna fuck
them. Then I'm gonna have a wife, and I'm gonna fuck her, and I'm gonna
have kids, maybe a dozen of them."

"But... but..." I wasn't sure how to put it. I was always the one with the
words, but I just couldn't frame what I wanted to say.

"But what am I doing here with you, doing this, you mean?"

"Yes. I don't understand."

Eric rolled over on top of me in the clear running water. He looked into my
eyes.

"Because it's you, you silly fucker, only because it's you. You seduced me
- and sure took your fucking time doing it."

I felt his cock harden and lengthen against my belly, and I understood.


05 - Alan, Dan and Me

I think I'll pop in how I met Alan's grown-up 'lover' because it's an
important part of my biography.

On the next Sunday, Alan's mum and dad were away for the afternoon, and
Alan told me it was a chance to meet Dan.

The first I saw of Dan was his arse bent over the snooker table. I didn't
recognise him at once, not yet being on speaking terms with his arse, but
as soon as he turned round I knew it was him, Daniel, Dan, the man Alan
claimed he loved and who loved him.

"Dylan meet Dan. Dan meet Dylan ."

Dan beamed and his smile lit up the room. Alan hadn't lied. The man was
seriously handsome.  Somewhere between 30 and 40. I'm no good at
ages. Tallish and well-builtish. Shaggy brown hair, needing a trim. Strong
eyebrows, a favourite of mine. Brown eyes that smiled. Hell, I know eyes
can't smile, but they can add to a smile.

A generous mouth with little laughter lines. Five o'clock shadow even
though it was only 10 to 3. White socks, light denim jeans and an Arsenal
football shirt.

He stretched out his hand to me. Automatically, I raised mine. Bruce
Academy is strict about etiquette. He took my hand. His grip was strong but
not oppressive. His skin was warm and dry. Mine was damp.

"Hi, Dylan . Nice to meet you at last. Alan's told me lots about you. He
wasn't fibbing."

I tried for nonchalance but it came out as a squeaked "Same to you," though
that didn't make much sense.

"Here," said Dan, "have my cue. You two have a game. I'll just lie back and
watch you.  Just get yourselves warmed up." An alarm bell went off in my
head. What the hell were we warming up for? Dan took a few steps and let
himself fall backwards onto the bed.  "If you need any help," he added,
"just whistle. You know how to whistle don't you. Just put your lips
together, and... blow."

Alan smirked at me. "That's what Dan calls a blow-job." I must have looked
nonplussed because Alan frowned and added, "I'll explain later, dummy." He
kicked off his school shoes and booted them into a corner; I followed
suit. The carpet pile was thick below our feet.

We'd been playing for about 10 minutes and I was just finding rhythm and
concentration when Alan called: "Show me how to play left-handed again,
Dan?"

Dan swung himself from the bed. I admired how fluent his movement was, and
wondered for a moment if he played tennis. He stood behind Alan who leant
on the left side of the snooker table holding the cue awkwardly.

Dan slipped one arm round Alan's waist, the other arm helped steady and
sight the cue. His face was very close to Alan's and I couldn't help feel a
twinge of jealousy.

The boy half turned and smiled at the man; the man returned the smile,
leaned forward and kissed the boy gently on the lips. My treacherous penis
twitched into life.

I knew Dan was murmuring in Alan's ear. I couldn't make out what he was
saying. Then I saw his hand move inside my friend's white school shirt and
I knew he was stroking my friend's chest and tummy.

I saw Alan's eyes close in slow delight and guessed Dan was concentrating
on his nipples; Alan's nipples were ultra-sensitive; we had a standing joke
you could get anything from Alan as long as you stroked his nipples.

I watched Dan's free hand slip lower, then heard a familiar click, the
click of a school 'snake' belt snapping open, followed by the long slow
sigh of Alan's zip being lowered. Dan pressed against Alan from behind and
I saw the bulge at the front of his jeans press into the crack of Alan's
buttocks.

Surreptitiously, I hoped, I worked my lengthening penis from the horizontal
to the vertical.

I could hardly believe what I was watching.

Dan reached round Alan's front, unsnapped his belt, unzipped him, and
pulled down his trousers and underpants to his ankles. Then he stood back
and did more or less to himself until he could press his lower half into
Alan's lower back, bum and legs.

The man had a hairy bum. It was the first big hairy bum I'd ever seen.

He began to press crotch into Alan's naked arse. I couldn't see my friend's
bum but I saw his legs spread and guessed Dan's hard cock was between them.

"Fuck snooker," I heard Alan whisper.

Alan took small steps backwards, moving Dan backwards with him. He giggled
as man and boy backed towards the bed. The sight was erotic and comical. I
wondered if they remembered I was in the room.

I picked up a cue and pretended to concentrate on the snooker but worked
the white to the other side of the table so that the bed was in my line of
sight. I watched man and boy tumble backwards onto the double bed.

"Hey, Dylan . Come and join us when you're ready."

That was Dan.

"Fuck the snooker," said Alan. "Come on, Dylan . This is a lot more fun."

I mumbled something about needing to practise and bent my head over the
table. I could still see what was going on - a wrestling match, boy
giggling, man laughing, as they wrestled each other's clothes off until
both were naked. Alan looked tiny against the bulk of Dan's body.

Dan really was a man. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep, his nipples
intimidatingly big, and he had hair on his chest. Not lots of it, but there
was fine black hair, and just below his belly button a thin line of dark
hair widened into a delta that fanned out below stomach. And balls, big
hairy balls, beneath his erect cock.

I'd never seen balls that hairy. Dan raised his hands and entwined them
behind his head. Hairy armpits!  Seriously hairy armpits. A man's
armpits. I'd noticed a few hairs in Eric's armpits; actually I'd licked
them a few times. I knew there were dark shadows in my own armpits, but
nothing like Dan's. Nothing like the thick forests of hair that hung
glossily down in each armpit.

Alan's looked pale and vulnerable against the strength of the man. He
looked much younger than his 11 years.

He lay there, stretching along Dan's body, chest to chest, so that he could
reach up and exchange kisses and nibbles. I watched as he chewed at Dan's
lips, actually chewed on them, then slid his face down to the man's chest.

I saw his pink lips close round the brown nub of Dan's right nipple and
chew on it. He lay stretched out along Dan's body sucking on the man's
nipple like an infant at its mum's tit.

Dan caught my eye again, and he held me. He smiled and patted the side of
the bed. I laid the cue against the table and moved to the bed. I sat
down. I don't think Alan knew I was there. I could hear the sounds he was
making, wet, smacking, gurgly sounds.

My eyes moved to Dan's hands and my friend's buttocks. Using his big hands,
Dan gently prised Alan's buttocks apart, then just as gently pressed them
together again. He continued doing this - apart, closed, apart, closed,
apart, closed...

As he opened the boy's cheeks, his middle fingers slid closer and closer to
the little pinky brown button at the centre until the tips of his fingers
met right over the hole. It was very warm in the bedroom.

The skin of Alan's buttocks was damp with sweat; his little hole looked
greasy.

I watched as Dan held the boy's buttocks open and let his right middle
finger tip move backwards and forwards over Alan's hole. I heard Alan sigh
and watched his arse push up towards the invader.

With a shock I realised this wasn't the first time for Alan, that he and
Dan had done this lots of times. I'd resisted Alan's assaults on my own
most intimate place because all the old taboos were still in place.

Now I was fascinated by my friend's little brown pucker, the little pink
rose at the centre of his being. This spot was as much a part of him as any
other part, and as such it deserved to be loved just as much as any other
part. The frown on my face was one of concentration, not one of
disapproval.

Alan's little ring of muscle, the sphincter, seemed to surrender all at
once, much as I surrendered my own prejiduce. Dan's finger slid in to the
first knuckle. Gently he began finger-fucking my best friend. I'd seen my
brother's mate Oscar finger-fucking Maria O'Doherty. I knew what Dan was
doing.

Surely he wasn't going to play stinky finger with Alan. Looking up, I
realised Dan was gazing at me. I blushed furiously.  He smiled in response,
looked down at his handwork, looked up at me again, and nodded.

I knew it was an invitation. Well, fuck it, Alan was my friend,
too. Tentatively, I reached a hand and felt Alan's arse; it was smooth,
satiny, warm, and rounded, almost like Maria O'Doherty's breasts.

My fingers were drawn inwards, but I snatched them away when they came into
contact with Dan's hands. He said nothing, only smiled.

Slowly I returned my hand and fingers until they lay the length of Dan's,
my middle finger resting on his, the tip touching Alan's backdoor.

Dan pulled his finger upwards. I winced but Alan only grunted. I saw the
little space that had been created for me. Everything seemed dreamy, out of
kilter, unreal.

I slid my finger forwards and watched the tip slide into my friend's arse;
bolder I pushed forward and was surprised when my finger, much slimmer, of
course, than Dan's slid all the way in. It was an incredible sight: Dan's
big man-finger and my slim boy-finger sliding in and out together of Alan
Aitken's anus.

I shifted a little on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. Dan looked
at my crotch and smiled, and nodded. I took this for approval. I unzipped
and hauled my aching cock into the open; it was stiff and hard, the
foreskin already retracted, the head already slimy with pre-cum.

Dan whistled; I took that as approval, too. I played with myself for a bit
but couldn't resist beginning a steady wanking rhythm. It was stunningly
erotic: Alan's pale, slim, boy's body, his buttocks high and curved,
stretched along Dan's much stronger, darker man's body.

Dan's middle finger, my middle finger aligned together stroking in and out
of Alan's anus, the sphincter gripping tightly like a little hungry
mouth. My trousers and underpants at my knees, my erection gripped by the
fingers and thumb of my right hand, throbbing over my best friend's bare
bottom.

It was too much. I tried to hold back, believe me, I tried. Then it
happened. The squirts, the spurts, the semen spitting onto Alan's
backside. I didn't tried to avoid it; in fact, I pulled my shaft down and
directed the semen onto Alan's hole, onto my fingers, onto Dan's
fingers. Four, five, six spurts splattered into the valley between my
friend's buttocks.

I was mortified, ashamed. My desire and my cock collapsed almost
immediately. One moment I was on fire with lust, the next all I wanted to
do was get out of that room. The smell of sex was over-powering. I pulled
up my underpants, scrambled from the bed, pulled up my trousers, zipped
myself up, and couldn't find my shoes.  Where the fuck had I kicked them?

"They're under the bed."

Who the fuck was that?

"Dylan . Your shoes are under the bed."

It was Dan. I didn't look at him. I dropped to my knees and peered under
the bed. Yes, they were there! I grabbed them at hauled one on. It didn't
fit. Shit, it must be Alan's.  No. Alan's were over there. I realised I was
cramming my right foot into my left shoe.  Fuck it. I got my right shoe on
my right foot, my left shoe on my left foot. I headed for the door.

I couldn't resist turn for a last look.

Alan was under Dan. The man was straddled across the boy's chest as they
lay on the bed. He looked huge compared to that tiny body. He was holding
his stiff cock with one hand. The fingers of the other hand were opening
Alan's mouth. The man was jacking off into the boy's mouth. Alan's eyes
fluttered open. They looked glazed. His eyes caught mine. He smiled weakly.

"Don't go," he whispered. "Dan's not going to hurt me. He does this lots of
times. Then he's gonna let me fuck me. He says he'll let you fuck him
too. We can fuck him at the same time. Think of that. Don't go."

Dan turned his head to me. "You don't have to go. Stay with us, baby."

This baby went.

I never saw Dan again. At least I never saw him in flagrante delicto (I'm
actually pretty good at Latin.) I did have a hamburger or a pizza with Dan
and Alan a few times, and he was always good fun to be with, and he never
mentioned that time in Alan's bedroom.

It turned out Dan was a solicitor, Alan's dad's business and family
solicitor. That's how Alan met Dan. Alan told me they liked each other
instantly. Alan explained how he had come on to Dan, not the other way
round. How Dan had resisted his charms for ages but then had finally given
in after Alan had persuaded him to come round "for a bit of snooker".

I knew how persuasive Alan could be.

They are still together. In fact, Alan says he's going to study Law at
university though he wants to be a barrister rather than a solicitor. Alan
will make it; he's a determined little bugger; whatever Alan wants, Alan
usually gets. Alan wanted Dan, and he got him - little bugger.


06 - Alan and Marshall and Me

Alan was...

How can I put it? Alan was a voracious little predator who enjoyed sex
simply because it was there, and, above all, he enjoyed having sex with
boys (and men) who were or seemed to be unattainable. And since I'd spent
most of my life going along with Alan, I went right along with that, too,
and loved every inch of it.

Take Marshall Cooper.

And in the end we took Marshall Cooper.

Marshall was beautiful, ridiculously, absurdly beautiful. He was in our
Year. He was tall, willowy, thick blond hair, blue blues, with the face of
a China doll that somehow managed to be more boy than girl. He was sweet
and kind, he was gentle and considerate, he was polite and helpful, he
was... just about everything wholesome and good.

And Alan wanted him.

It was the card school that did it.

Alan and I had always played cards. We usually played 21, vingt-et-un, but
Alan also knew how to play poker. He taught me and we introduced the game
as a lunch-time entertainment.

We played for pennies, and we won a lot of pennies. On a good day, we'd
play for sixpences, and we won a lot of sixpences. When someone ran out of
money, he could play with his lunch tickets. Lunch tickets were worth were
worth 12 pence or 1 shilling each, no mean sum in those days.

Alan would advance the credit, win the lunch tickets, and then sell them
back at half price. He didn't mind waiting a few days for the
payment. Bruce Academy was a grammar school, and there was honour amongst
boys. Better starve than be known as someone who reneged on their debts.

So Alan was a good player, and he was also a cheat. Probably the most
bare-faced cheat I've ever known. His deck of cards, actually he had three
decks, were marked, professionally marked. Even when Alan showed me the
markings, I couldn't find them again seconds later. But Alan could whiz
through a deck calling out each card almost as fast as he could deal them;
and he could deal them fast.

Marshall lost his lunch tickets. In fact, he lost two weeks' worth of lunch
tickets at one session. Marshall wasn't perfect; he was a compulsive
gambler. Worse than that, he couldn't afford to gamble.

Marshall's dad was dead, or at least AWOL. It wasn't done to ask personal
questions. We'd met his mum. One look at her and you knew where Marshall
got his looks. She was all woman, and he was all boy.

So losing his lunch money was no joke for Marshall. In fact, it was a
disaster. No one would ever mention it, but Marshall's blazer was
second-hand, his grey flannels too short, his tie frayed, and he had two
white shirts. You knew which was which by the ink splats.

"God, you are an idiot, Marshall. I told you to stop playing when you lost
this week's dinner tickets. It's only Monday. But you went on and on, and
what happened? You've lost next week's as well." That was Alan softening
him up.

We were standing in the toilets on the top floor, the third floor, where no
one went unless you had serious business to negotiate.

None of the classrooms on the third floor were used, and there were vague
stories about a suicide, a murder, Mary Queen of Scots, and a headless
horseman.

I could never quite fathom what the hell a horseman, headless or otherwise,
was doing on the top floor of a boys' grammar school, but History is full
of weird stories and even weirder characters.

"Could you let me have...? I mean, you know I'll..."

Marshall's big blue eyes brimmed with tears. I choked and felt like handing
over my lunch tickets for the week. After all, my pocket was stuffed with
them. Alan and I had already divided up the day's spoils.

"Well, I would," said Alan. "Remember I did try to get you to stop
playing."

Yeh, Alan, right, Alan. Deal someone a hand with a straight run in it, and
then try to persuade them to fold. I think not.

"And if it was only one week... well, I might... but two weeks. No,
Marshall, no can do. Everyone would think I was losing my touch. We've got
to play by the rules, and stick by the rules. After all, we are Bruce
boys. Remember the school motto: Play up, and play the game. Well, you
played and you lost. So it's time to pay up."

I turned away for a moment, blushing on behalf of Alan.

"I understand that, Alan. Honestly I do. But I can't go home. I can't tell
mum..."

He choked, he couldn't go on. A single teardrop hung from those thick
eyelashes. I wanted to stick out my tongue and lick it away.

"Well, we could always trade, I suppose," murmured Alan, making it sound
like a concession dragged from the depths of his soul.

Hope springs eternal, and at that moment it sprang into the heart of
Marshall Cooper.

"I've got some Dinky cars," he said brightly. "I collect them, but you can
have the best ones, the best three, no, four, if..."

"Marshall, Marshall..." Alan cut him off. "Do I look like the kind of man
who collects fucking Dinky cars?"

Man! Fucking man! I felt like kicking Alan Aitken's fucking arse.

"No, I don't think you've got anything we really want except... naw, naw,
forget it."

You might as well tell a man dying of thirst not to bother about that
mirage on the horizon.

"What? What?" asked Marshall, not quite frantically, but not far from it.

"No, no, don't even think about it Just forget it."

"What? What? Anything, Alan. Anything. Just name it."

Alan didn't more than that. He stepped forward and felt it.

Marshall stepped back. His eyes widened. He looked down at his crotch,
probably expecting Alan's hand to be still there. It was.

Marshall looked at Alan.

Alan stood there smiling.

"I've heard about you," Marshall said.

"Oh, and what have you heard?" asked Alan sweetly.

"I--I--I've heard that you like, that you do...stuff."

"What have you heard? What is it that I do?"

A couple of weeks before I'd seen the film 'The Jungle Book'. There was a
bit in it when the snake was trying to hypnotise the boy.

"Trust in me... trust in me-e-e-e-."

For the life of me, I couldn't get that image out of my head.

"Look, Marshall, I said to forget it. I'm not going to make you do anything
you don't want to do. I know you'd like it, but if you don't want to, fine,
let's just get downstairs. There's twenty minutes to the bell. I've got
time for another card school."

Marshall stood there. Alan stood there. I stood there. Baby, baby, can't
you hear our hearts beat?

"What would I have to do?" Marshall's voice was tiny.

"You wouldn't have to do anything. We do everything. You stand there and
enjoy it." Alan stepped forward and ran his fingers against the thin grey
flannel.

"All of them, Marshall. You can all of the lunch tickets back. Fifteen
minutes, that's all."

As he spoke, Alan ran the back of his fingers up and down the front of
Marshall's crotch. Marshall said nothing. He looked at me. He ran that
little pink tongue of his his across those pink lips. I shrugged my
shoulders, gently. He turned and faced Alan.

Alan kept eye-contact as he found Marshall's zip and began to edge it
downwards. He stepped forward. Marshall stepped backwards into me. I put my
arms round his waist. He smelled like freshly-baked bread. I wanted to kiss
the nape of his neck. I touched my lips to the nape of his neck.

Alan kept his eyes on Marshall.

"Get his belt, Dylan ."

My hands round Marshall's waist wandered and found the clip of his
snake-belt. I flicked it open. Alan had lowered his zip and was now edging
the flaps of his school trousers apart. I could hear Marshall's
breathing. His head tilted back a bit. I knew where Alan's searching
fingers were now. Marshall's Y-fronts slid to his knees.

"Hey, Marshall, that's nice."

I looked down Marshall's front. He was fully erect. His erection was hot
and hard, and suprisingly brown against the pale ivory of his skin. His
stiffy was about 5 inches long. Not in my league.

Definitely not in Eric's but he could give Alan a run for his money. I
watched Alan's index finger and thumb make a circle as he pulled the
foreskin back from the head of Marshall's penis. I watched as Alan raised
Marshall's surprisingly floppy sac.

I sat on the toilet seat and pulled Marshall towards me, my hands caressing
his bum cheeks.

A little moan escaped from Marshall's pink lips. Maybe I was the only one
who heard it. Alan was working his stiffy, and I knew how expert Alan was
with hard-ons. He could make me moan when he set his mind to it.

Alan pulled the erection towards him, let it go, it boinged healthily back
into an upright position. Three or four times Alan did that: boing, boing,
boing.

Sitting behind Marshall at just the right height, I used my thumbs to prise
his bum cheeks apart. He was too far gone to notice it. What a sweet little
starfish and not that little.

In fact, it looked like a used little starfish but nonetheless appealing
for that. I slipped a fingertip onto the little mouth. Surprisingly sweaty
and greasy.

I ran my fingertip along the little mouth, applied a little pressure, and
surprise surprise it slide into the first knuckle. Why had Marshall's dad
disappeared from the family home?

Nothing ventured, I pushed my finger all the way in. Maybe Marshall played
stinky finger every night. What boy doesn't? And begin to finger-fuck
him. And, surprise, surprise, I felt Marshall lowering himself down onto my
finger until my while middle finger was in his anus.

I was only twelve, so I wasn't deep enough in to stroke the velvety walls
of his rectum but I wiggled and circled by finger around as best I could.

By now you'll have guessed I'm crazy about bottoms, bums, backsides, holes
with tiny lips, anuses and what lies beyong the puckered openings. Why? I
haven't the faintest fucking idea. I just do and I accept it.

Marshall shuddered and gasped, his head falling back to rest on my chest. I
managed to whip my finger out of his anus before I suffered any injury. I
sucked it just to make sure.

It turned out Marshall really enjoyed the experience in the third floor
toilets. Alan got his sex, Marshall got his lunchtickets back, and I got a
real friend. It turned out Marshall really liked me, but he was a bit shy,
and he thought I was 'out of his league', so to speak.

Now, here's something Alan didn't and doesn't know about - in fact, only
and me will know about it.

I fucked Marshall Cooper.

In the toilets on the third floor.

And it was Marshall not me who asked for it. Not in so many words, but on
the Friday lunchtime, Marshall Cooper whispered: "Can we go up to the...?"

He didn't have to finish the sentence, and when we got there...

"Mmmm... Do you and Alan - do it - I mean all the way - I mean do you...?"

"'Course we do," I laughed.

"It's just sex."

Marshall looked relieved.

"You live in Aston Road, don't you?"

"I do... and you live round the corner in Monroe Road," I said.

"How do you know that?"

"I've watched you walking to school a lot of times. I try to say 'Hi', but
you're so fukin' shy.!

"Watching me? Why? Why would you watch me?" "'Cos you're fukin'
good-looking, Marshall. 'Cos you're fukin' sexy. 'Cos I'd like to have more
sex with you."

Marshall smiled.

At last Marshall Cooper smiled.

"Look, Marshall, do you want to walk home with me.  Maybe we can stop at
your house. What time does your mum come home?"

"Not till six."

"That'll give us plenty of time."

I didn't have to spell things out...

The three ... mean I'm jumping foward."

We'd been on Marshall's bed, naked, for about half an hour. He was a quick
learner. That seems funny coming from me. I was surprised how ready he was
to try whatever I suggested, and I suggested lots. Then Marshall surprised
me.

"Can I see your bumhole, please?" he whispered. "Close up, I mean."

By now you'll have worked out I have a fetish for bumholes - if fetish is
the right word.

"I'll show you mine if you..."

I got onto my knees and pushed my bum up towards him. I reached behind me
and pulled my cheeks apart - falling flat on the bed. I pushed my arse up
as comfortably as I could.

His fingers ran around my little pucker. My dick hardened beneath me.

"May I push my finger inside you? I do it to myself a lot. May I try
pushing my finger inside you, Dylan?"

"Go for it," I whispered.

"Spit on your fingers first. They'll slide in more easily."

I heard him spit. I felt one finger slide in. Then two.

"Finger fuck me," I said.

"Pardon?"

What a polite boy.

"Fuck my hole with your fingers. Slide them in and out. Start slow. Then
faster. Then deeper."

Hold on!

I should be doing that to Marshall.

I let him have his way for about ten minutes.

"My turn now."

We changed positions on the bed.

His legs spread. I could see his tight sac, smooth and pale, with balls
like walnuts. I could see the space running up to his arse, smooth and
pale, split by the seam, leading to a his hole. I leaned down and made love
to his anus - French kissing, sucking, licking, tonguing, probing, urging
his sphincter to give way.

I drew a long string of saliva from my mouth, leaned round Marshall and
whispered: "Suck it. Get it ready for me. Get it ready for your hole."

Then I knew what I wanted to do.

My hands stretched his bum cheeks wide.

"Hold your cheeks open."

His hole opened - just enough.

I pushed the head of my cock against the opening. Marshall pulled himself
wider apart. He groaned.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, no... go on."

I pushed hard, gently but persistent.

I felt impossible.

Then it happened.

The head of my cock popped into his anus.

You might think that highly unlikely. Afterwards, I did. But eventually
Marshall told me he used to shove his mum's hairbrush up his hole. The
narrow end. So my luck was really in.

I lowered my weight - slowly - steadily - and I slid all the way in. The
felt the warm of his insides close around my stiff cock, all the way to my
balls. He raised his bum towards me. Held himself open.

And I fucked him.

I rabbit-fucked him.

Harder - deeper - faster.

And he moaned and groaned and I thought he was crying - he was - but he was
loving every minute.

Which was only three or four minutes till I...

came!

My first real cum - and it was into this beautiful boy's body.

I slid out and rolled way. He turned over. We were on our sides. Face to
face. And we were kissing.

I slid down his body. He was hard. I took him in my mouth. I shoved a
finger up his arse. I finger-fucked him as I sucked him off. Until he came
in my mouth, in my throat.

I was inside him.

He was inside me.

And it felt right - for both of us.


07 - RAYMOND & ME

I'm not sure when I became a predator, but I'd become an opportunist, and
Raymond was an opportunity I couldn't miss.

It was standard procedure to hide in the upper boys' toilet if you were
going to be more than fifteen minutes late for the first class of the
day. And that's where I was when...

The door swung open, and in stepped Raymond.

Raymond, ah, Raymond, how can a boy, so well-built, so good-looking, be
such a nonentity. Raymond was 13, he was in my Year, in some of my
classes. I'd even sat beside him in class a few times, and Raymond, with
those big sheep's eyes, those freckles, that tidily-combed fringe was
utterly fucking boring.

And so passive!

I always felt, when I could be bothered, like giving Raymond a sharp kiss
up his fat arse - not fair, it was big and round and firm, definitely not
fat - telling him to lighten up, unload, have fun.

Raymond was an over-looked boy. Last to be picked for the rugby team, not
because he couldn't play, he could, not because he wasn't strong, he was,
but because he was hardly there. At cricket Raymond always fielded in the
deep, as far away from the action as possible, and he always batted number
8 though he could belt a a cricket ball into the stratosphere with those
arms, those shoulders of his.

Pointless trying to have a lively dialogue, conversation, or debate with
Raymond to pass the time. All you could get out of him was 'Yes', 'No', 'I
don't know'.

Sample:

"Fuck it, I missed the bus this morning." "Mmmm..." "Did you miss the bus?"
(I knew Raymond didn't take the bus, but might as well try for
conversation.)

"No." (I swear Raymond blushed when he said the one word.)

"How the fuck do you get to school, Raymond." (Pause for thought.)

"Car." "You're too young to drive." (That was me being facetious. No
effect.)

"I know." "Well, who the fuck drives you?"

"My mother."

The entire exercise was pointless.

"How long till the bell?" (Raymond studied his watch.)

"38 minutes."

"That'll do."

I ran my hand across my flies suggestively.

'Suggestively' is the wrong word. I was suggesting nothing. This was an
open direct, invitation.

Have I mentioned that Raymond was queer? Well, he was. Fucking raving
queer. Though I doubt whether he'd have done anything about it until I sat
beside him and stroked his cock through his flannels during an
R.E. (Religious Education). (Well, how did 'you' pass the time during
R.E. lessons?)

Raymond responded! And I mean 'responded'. His face lit up like a Halloween
lantern. He shuffled that sweet arse of his, but made no attempt to move
away. Bingo! And when I let my sweet little fingers slide across his fly,
he had a stiffy like a half-pint milk bottle.

Big, too. Big and fat and hard.

Big balls, too. When I slid my cute little fingers beneath his balls, he
opened his legs wider and let me explore.

Meanwhile he gazed straight ahead, listened raptly to 'all things bright
and beautiful' ringing from the hall.  while I naughtily aroused him to
where I wanted him.

You'll notice that those Sex Ed. lessons weren't totally a waste of time.

The Devil in me, and there's a lot of Him, was trying to make sweet Rayond
'cum' in his Y-fronts. He'd go around the rest of the day with dry cum
sticking his skin to his Y-fronts and I would be the author of the
achievement. Bravo for me!

So I gazed at Raymond and ran my fingers across my fly. I already had half
a hard-on anyway. One of the reasons I'd been delayed was I'd been playing
with my dick too long before breakfast. Not that I was intending to cum,
because I was aroused.

And why was I aroused? I hear you ask... because I was going after Eric. I
was going after Eric that morning. Going after the first prize, the big
one, the school idol, at least the sports idol of the junior school.

So I was playing with myself that morning, giving myself an edge, making
sure I didn't turn back... with the result I'd missed the bus and had to
stroll-sprint all the way to school.

Raymond stepped forward. I stepped back. Into a cubicle. Raymond
followed. I turned on tiptoe, probably looking like a fucking ballerina,
and plonked myself down on the toilet seat. I gave him my best 'yes please'
smile and he stepped forward.

He reached tentatively forward and let his fingers brush across the front
of my flannels.

 Knowing Rayomnd, I suspected he might take his time, time we didn't have,
I undid my school belt, unzipped my flannels, sat back, and gazed into
Raymond's big brown eyes.

He dropped to his knees, worked my underpants and trousers to my ankles,
leaned forward and took me into his mouth. Yes, I'd gone from half-hard to
tent-pole hard in a matter of seconds. Hell, I was only human, only 13, a
mess of hormones and insatiable desire. "Oh what big red lips you have!
-All the better to..."

I looked down at Raymond. His nose was up against my dick. I wondered just
what he could see. He was enraptured, I could see that. He was worshipping
my dick, my 6, well, nearly 6 inches of hot hard flesh.  I felt The shaft
of my penis slipped between Raymond's thick lips, his tongue caressed the
unsheathed head, little kisses slid up and down its length. Felt him take
me deep again till the head of cock touch the back of his throat, tickling
his tonsils as it were.

Then I raised my legs and plonked them on the toilet seat. I was wide
open. I whispered what I wanted.

"Kiss my bumhole, Raymond. You know you want to. Just do it. Lick it, kiss
it, try to get your tongue inside me."

And, like the good boy he was, Raymond agreed to my request while I tried
to breathe through my hole to give him easier access. Amazing how the
handle of mum's hairbrush had made life so much easier.

I sighed and ran my fingers through Ray's thick rather coarse dark hair and
thought about... thought about myself actually. I found it a fascinating
subject: did then, still do.

Thirteen years old. Not that short, not that tall. Maybe about 5' 4". Slim
but not thin. Dark brown hair in a sort of bowl cut, the fringe parted at
the middle and swept away on either side. Lovely skin.

I've always had lovely skin. It sort of glowed, even in the winter, now it
was sun-kissed. Brown eyes set fairly wide apart with curving eyebrows, and
thick up-turned eyelashes that made me seem permanently cheerful and
inquisitive and cheeky. No little upturned nose, but nicely shaped, and
framed on either side by round cheeks that dimpled when I smiled, and I
smiled a lot.

Nice, white, shiny teeth. Thanks, mum. I'd served my time in braces, and
here I was now with a lovely set of nice white, shiny, even teeth. Little
ears. Legend has it that mum had sellotaped my big brother's dumbo ears
every night when he was little. No need of that for my small pointed elfin
ears.

What else?

Oh, yes, I had/have a big penis. Have I mentioned that before?

For my age anyway. Touching six inches and still growing.  Not like Eric's,
not that jumbo-sized beauty, but big compared with boys my age, my Year,
and in the Years above. I'd seen senior boys gaze at it in the showers, so
it must have impressed some people.

As I think I said, we all bundled into the showers after sports. No
curtains. No cubicles. No separation of the ages. All for one, and one for
all. Bundled into a big marbled shower room where the pipes rocked and
rolled and the shower heads spat either scalding or freezing water with no
Mister In-Between. And we all compared.

What boys don't? And, wow, I was big for my age, noticeably big, pleasingly
big. I saw other boys eyeing me up and staying to linger. No hair
yet. Smooth as marble. And a dick many a Fifth Year could envy. Surrounded
by naked boys, all sizes and shapes. But none as big and shapely as Eric,
my Eric. Not my Eric yet, but if he was human, if he was seducable, I'd be
the one to seduce him.

I turned my attention back to Raymond. Though, for obvious reasons, I could
hear him slurping and slobbering down there, and I could feel his tongue
licking the inside of my bum cheeks, and the tip of his tongue probing at
my little starfish.

I know it looks like a starfish 'cos when I'm really horny I like to lie
naked on the bed as close to the wardrobe as I can get. Then I can watch
the handle of mum's hairbrush - the one I've stolen -working its way past
my sphincters into my rectum. Out comes the handle so I can give it and
good licking and then... but more of that later.

I was proud of Raymond. At that age, I wasn't the most fastidious in
keeping my bumhole clean but he didn't seem to find.

In fact, it sounded like he was relishing whatever he found there. Slurp
and slobber - lick, lick, lick - a taste of shit will do the trick.

My sac tightened, my balls rose in my scrotum. I felt the pulsation that
leads to the shudder, the uncontrollable shaking, the heavenly squirting
and spurting.

No, no, not yet. Keep the edge. Keep the hunger. We had German second
period. German, where I sat beside Eric, the seats so small, his thighs so
big, where contact was guaranteed.

Gently I eased Raymond's head off my penis. He looked up at me,
glassy-eyed. My pre-cum glistening on his lips. Shit, he had beautiful
eyes. I'd never really noticed them before. He lowered his head to graze
again. I eased him away.

"The bell," Raymond. "Listen. That's the fuckin' bell."

"Oh, yes," he mumbled. "Thank you," he mumbled.

"No... thank YOU," I whispered, pressing my erection against my belly,
stuffing my shirt tail back in, zipping myself up.

"Raymond. Raymond."

"Mmmm... yes?"

"Get off your fuckin' knees, Raymond."

"Oh... yes."

"Drop your trousers, Ray... and your underpants. I'm going to fuck
you. Have you ever been fucked, Ray."

"No."

"Would you like to be fucked?"

I didn't get the answer. At least not then, not there. The first buzzer for
the next class buzzed.

"Shit. Come on, Ray."

He pulled up his underpants. Pulled up his trousers.

"Thank you, Dylan."

"What for?"

"For calling me 'Ray'."


08 - FALLING IN LOVE

R. Elwyn Lamb

That is his name.

R. Elwyn Lamb.

The R stands for Robert, but he uses Elwyn as his first name. Why? I don't
know. I've never asked him. Life is full of little mysteries. You can go
around solving them, or pretending you've solved them, or just accept
them. I just accept them.

R. Elwyn Lamb - a First Year, and I, a Third Year, fell
head-over-heels. Actually, Elwyn was the one who nearly fell-head-over
heels, literally, and I was there to catch him when he fell.

Friday, 3.30, the end of school, and the end of the school week. For some
reason, lost in the mists of time, I had to go down to the city centre. I
guess I was on an errand for mum, otherwise I'd never dream of going into
the City centre during the week because that meant taking a second bus
home. But that day into the city centre, diving on what for me was the
'wrong' school bus, going in the 'wrong' direction, I went.

As ever the school buses were packed, riotous and uproarious. I usually had
no difficulty scrambling onto the bus and parking my cute backside onto the
lap of whatever 6th Year would have me, and quite a few would. We'd sit
there as the bus trudged it way up Carnegie Avenue, me grinding my bottom
into the older boy's lap, feeling him harden beneath me.

God, what a little tart I was. But it was all in good fun, and, no, I would
not get off the bus early and let a Sixth Former walk me across to the
wooded area of Cairny Park. I valued what was left of my virginity.

But the city centre bus was alien territory, and I ended up in pack of
younger boys crammed onto the platform. I was just thinking "Fuck this for
a month of Sundays", when I raised my head and found myself looking into a
pair of impossibly beautiful eyes - grey, fringed with heavy
lashes. B-ring, b-ring went the strings of my heart. That was the sound of
the departure bell but to me...

I let my gaze scan the face that held those beautiful eyes. It couldn't
possibly live up to them. But it did and more. The clear skin, the
cheekbones, the straight little nose, not too little, the clearly defined
but not too full lips, the small ears, the freckles across the bridge of
the nose, the longish neck, the fringe of ash brown hair straight-cut
across the clear forehead.

I lowered my gaze to take in the broad shoulders, the slim torso that slid
hipless into the school trousers.

The bus jolted along, and I was happily thrown into the bearer of those
beautiful eyes. The platform was packed, dangerously packed, we couldn't
have separated if we'd wanted to. I mumbled a 'sorry', and realised I was
apologising to a First Year - unheard of!

I knew it was a First Year because we all wore ties to signify the Year we
were in. This was a First Year - tall, elegant, beautiful, but,
nevertheless, a First Year; and I was a member of the mightily-feared bunch
of nutters in the Third.

"It's okay. It's always like this."

The vision spoke. The vision could speak. And the vision was speaking to
me.

"Is it?" I managed to reply. "I usually take the Muirton bus."

There it was: Muirton. The most unsalubrious sector of our fair metropolis,
and I'd just admitted to coming from there.


"I know," he said.

It took a few moments for the reply to sink in. It took a few moments for
anything to sink in. With each jolt, I was thrown into contact with this
mysterious sprog and you know what the 'nearness of you' does to the brain
- scrambled eggs.

"How do you know that?"

"I watch you play tennis."

Full alert. Full alert. Note the use of the present tense: watch, not
watched. Not the past tense signalling a single, fortuitous occasion, but
the present tense signalling a delightful continuity.  (Told you I want to
be a writer.)

"You 'watch' me." I emphasised the word 'watch'.

The boy blushed. Not much. Just enough to make the skin at his colour
glow. Just enough to make me want to reach forward, pop out my tongue,
and...

"On Tuesdays. When Year 7 does sports together. I mean, we don't get to
play with you..."  (Play with me! Play with me!) "...but we're all at
Elliot Road together. I love tennis; my mum teaches me." The last was
offered as justification for watching me. Fair enough. "You're very good."

"Thanks..." It was my turn to pink up a little. "Hey, this isn't fair. You
know my name, but I don't know yours." I'd jumped the gun a little because
he hadn't said he knew my name.

"It's Elwyn," he said. "It's Elwyn Lamb. Actually, it's R. Elwyn Lamb."

Elwyn was akin to Eric; wrong side the tracks for me.

The conversation didn't happen in a vacuum. The bus continued to bounce
along the cobblestones of Telford Road; boys were hurtled against each
other like marbles in a sardine can; boys jumped off without paying; the
conductor hurled abuse at them; and Elwyn and I held onto each other,
laughing between exchanges as if we did this every day.

The bus swung into the city centre as if the driver was desparate to
disgorge each and every passenger.

"My stop," said Elwyn.

"Mine, too," I lied.

Not a huge lie. This was only one-stop early. I wasn't that desperate -yet.
But I was curious to see what Elwyn did next. He jumped down from the
platform; I jumped after him. He swung his school bag over his shoulder; I
had none to swing. If you were still carrying a bag in Third Year, you were
a fucking nonentity. Bags indicated willingness, and the Third Year were
rarely keen about anything other than avoiding work and having a good time.

We strolled along the High Street. Only about 500 yards. Elwyn stopped.

"I live here."

Live where? There was nowhere to live. This was smack in the middle of the
city centre. Nobody but nobody lived 'here'.

"Here," he said, pointing at the Bank of Royal Scotland.

"You live in the fucking bank?!"

"Not 'in' it. Above it. Up there."

Elwyn pointed to the top storey of the five-storey building.

"We've got a place up there." Pause. "My mum my little sister and me."

What is it about me? Why do I keep falling in love with people who have no
dads, or only a dad, or an absent dad. Maybe it's because I never had a
father myself. Hold on, I'm not claiming Immaculate Conception; I know who
the fuck my dad was; or at least I take my mother's word for it. I
refrained from asking where, if anywhere, Elwyn's father was, but, to tell
the truth, I hadn't the slighest interest. It was Elwyn I loved, not his
mother, father, or little sister - him!

Loved?

I don't know. Is there such a thing as love-at-first-sight. All I knew
right from the start was I wanted to spend time with Elwyn. I enjoyed his
company. I loved his smile, I drowned in his eyes. I...

"I'd better be going."

Was that a note of reluctance in his voice?

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky.

"Oh, yeh, sure. See you again," I said, and he was gone, skipping up the
marble steps of a door at the side of the bank. He turned, smiled, waved
and was gone.

I strolled across the High Street towards the bus stance where I'd find the
bus to take me the long way home. The afternoon sky was blue, the sparrows
were twittering, the diesel fumes were Coty L'Aimant, my mother's favourite
perfume. I sat upstairs and watched the world go by in rainbows of many
colours. I worked out the hours and minutes till I'd have the chance to see
Elwyn again - a long long wait till Monday but I had his image engraved in
my heart and all I had to do was turn my gaze inwards to see him.

I went into the bathroom, pushed down my trousers and underpants closed my
eyes, imagined Elwyn, and wanked myself silly.

Where was Eric in all this?

I don't know.

On Monday when I got to school - late - Eric squeezed up against me during
Period 2. "Tell me about the weekend. Touch me if you want to."

Funny thing was I didn't want to. Well, I did and I didn't. I certainly
didn't want to use use my imagination to conjure up erotic images. I had no
need of them. I had R. Elwyn Lamb. Well, I would have after school when I
planned once again to take the double trip home.

I sat there stroking Eric's thigh in a desultory fashion. I glanced at his
crotch. He had an erection fit to break a plate, but try as I might, I
couldn't muster much enthusiasm.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" I whispered back.

"What's up? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Just thinking, that's all."

"For fuck's sake, you get me all worked up, and then you sit there doing
nothing about it." The note of exasperation in Eric's voice broke my
reverie.

"Well... mmm... well... my cat, it's my cat, it got run over at the
weekend. We buried it in the backyard."

"Your cat? Your fucking cat!"

"Yes, our cat. Her name is - was Lucky. I'll tell you about her if you
want."

Even to myself I sounded moronic.

"No, forget it. Hey," Eric went on, as if were an afterthought, "what about
coming up to the Sports Ground after school? A bit of cricket, a bit of
tennis, a bit of..." Eric grinned. "You know a bit of..."

"Sorry, no can do. Got to go into town. Doing something for mum. Maybe on
Wednesday."

Maybe on Wednesday. That was to Eric Merry, the No. 1 pin-up, heart-throb,
dick-throb in the entire school, and there I was saying I'd help him out on
Wednesday - maybe.

I felt his cock deflate beneath my finger-tips. I gave it a couple of
strokes for luck, but my heart wasn't in it, and I think Eric knew it.

Funny thing was, he put his arm round my shoulder, in open class, and gave
me a squeeze. Then he whispered, "Your cat really was Lucky - to have you."

For a moment I wondered what I'd call Lucky if Eric ever got round to
visiting our house. I decided on Blackie, but I knew Lucky would have
ignored the name with disdain. I sighed and dreamed on.

The day wandered aimlessly on as if 3.30 was an ever-receding mirage, but
at last the bell went and we were all charging up the ramp and out of
school. I headed for the wrong bus again and leapt on at a single bound.

My eyes swept the seats and the aisle - no Elwyn, no fucking Elwyn! Maybe
upstairs! I bounded upstairs: no luck. No luck and no Elwyn - shit and
damnation. And the bus was moving off. I bounded downstairs.

The bus was moving off - and there was Elwyn, running helter-skelter for
the bus. Shit, the bus was gathering speed. I stood on the packed
platform. I tried to reach the bell, impossible through the wedge of
bodies, and still Elwyn was running, tie askew, blazer open and flapping,
leather bag bouncing off his back. He'd never make it.

But he tried. And he did - almost.

His left hand grabbed the upright rail and held on. But the bus was moving
fast now, so fast that Elwyn was lifted right off his feet, and his legs
went up into the air. He couldn't hold on for long, but if he let go, he'd
go crashing into the road where other buses were barreling along behind us.

I grabbed his wrist with both hands, jammed my right foot against the
bottom of the rail, and held on. I'd hold on forever if I had to. I didn't
have to hold on forever, it only felt like it. I held on around 500 yards
until the bus reached its first stop. It slowed down. Elwyn found his feet,
ran along behind the bus, and jumped aboard just before it stopped.

He was grinning at me. The fucking idiot was grinning at me.

"What the fuck are you grinning for, you idiot?" I shouted at him.

He didn't reply. He couldn't. He hung on to me, gasping for breath.

"You could have caught the second bus," I stormed.

He held on to me and grinned.

"I know," he said. "I know."

"Well, why the fuck didn't you?"

"Because... because..." He got enough air in his lungs to get it out.

"Because you weren't on the second bus. You'r on this bus."

The funny thing was - have you noticed there's a lot of funny things in my
life? It's probably much the same in your life, in everybody's life - The
funny thing was that all of this was said at the top of my voice and with
what was left of his while we were surrounded by other boys on the platform
of the city-bound bus, and it didn't seem to matter at all. The only thing
that mattered was that he'd made it, I'd made it, we'd made it together.

By the time we'd got to Elwyn's stop arrangements were finalised. Tennis,
together, next Saturday morning. We could've managed Wednesday but I
wouldn't do that to Eric.

We stopped outside Elwyn's door, that weird entrance into the flat above
the Bank.

"I'd say come up but..."

"It's okay," I interrupted not sure I could face any kind of rejection. Did
Elwyn read my face?

"But I've got to go and collect my little sister from nursery. Mum works in
the bank till half past four. Come in and say 'hello'. She'll like you... I
do," he added with a shy smile.

It was my turn to decline the invitation, but in my case it was fear - fear
that Mrs Morrison would take one look at my face and know instantly that I
was in love/lust with her son.

"Thanks, but I've got to..."

My pause gave Elwyn his chance.

"You've got to come and collect my sister with me. Only if you've got
time. Only if you want to."

We strolled down Union Street towards the harbour. We didn't say much. We
didn't need to. At one point we caught each other's eye and burst into
laughter.

Elwyn's little sister was as sweet as him, and as daft as my own little
sister. It was difficult to leave them, but I'd be an hour late home at
least, and questions might be asked. Not that my mum didn't trust me; she
just liked to know where her kids were. Good parents do, don't they?

On Wednesday afternoon, after school, after cricket, after tennis, in the
showers Eric sucked my cock.

Put that way it sounds brief, perfunctory, a matter of routine, but it was
anything but that. I made no move towards Eric, though I had to admire the
hose swinging between his legs. But in the showers he put those strong arms
round me, pulled me into him, chest to chest, groin to groin, trembling
knees to trembling knees. Then he dropped to those trembling knees and took
me in his mouth.

I knew this wasn't easy for Eric. I knew what a commitment this was. Eric,
the man-boy of our Year, was on his knees sucking on my erection, sliding
the skin all the way back from the head, running the head against his lips,
his cheeks, then taking me deep again.

I couldn't help it. I pumped my hips against his face, my hands pulling his
face into me, I saw him squatting on those muscled legs, his cricketer's
arse muscly and solid.

I tried to warn him.

"Eric, I'm gonna, I gonna," but he only pulls me in tighter - and I'm gone.

I'm spurting and squirting into him. My hips are bouncing uncontrollably. I
feel his lips flatten my pubic hair. I try to draw back, but he won't let
me go. It's over now, sensitive, too sensitive, but still he holds, still
he pulls me in.

"Eric, for fuck's sake. Let go."

And those big dreamy eyes are gazing up at me. He looks dazed. His lips are
puffy. He is Adonis, he is the young Alexander, the splendid Achilles, and
he is on his knees before me, me, his little lover.

"It's my turn. Let me."

And we are sitting on the warm wet floor of the shower room, face to face,
legs splayed apart so I can sit between his, and his erection is like a
small tree trunk, and I'm holding it with both hands, my fingers and thumbs
meeting round it girth. I want to suck it, but I want to see it more. I
want to see Eric cum; I want to see the semen shooting from this hot column
of flesh; I want to look into his eyes; I want him looking into my eyes, as
he spurts and squirts across my chest, my belly, my already-erect-again
cock.

And that's how it happens. Not ten seconds. But certainly not ten
minutes. And Eric shudders and shakes as I work the shaft. Then leans back
on both hands to watch himself erupt over me. And I go with my instincts. I
catch some up with my middle finger and bring it to my mouth. Lick it, suck
it, take it all in, then lean forward so that Eric can share himself with
me again.

Then we laugh. He hauls me to my feet. And we shower again in the last of
the warm water, the last of the soap suds, the last moments of another
first time.

We wander across the fields to Eric's home. And I have tea with Eric, and
his brother Max, and his Dad, who is early home from work. And it's so
unusual for me to be in the company of other boys and men; my own life is
full of women. And Max and Dad like me. I'm sparkling. I'm funny but a
little serious at the same time. Exaggeration comes easy to me. I'm not a
liar but I'm a born story-teller.

As I go, Mr Merry ruffles my hair and says, "You're welcome any time, son,
any time," and I go home to face the music, glowing like the rosy sinking
sun.

Life would have been so simple if it'd been Eric and only Eric. But that
night I jerked off to images of Eric, then fell asleep with Elwyn's name on
my lips.

Saturday morning and Elwyn sent another forehand whistling past me.

Cheeky bugger!

This will not stand.

I pepper his backhand. I assault his backhand. No matter what he hits to
me, I get it back on his backhand, his weaker side, his weak side. Bravely
he stands up to the pressure for all of five minutes, and that's a long
time, but then I force him wide on the backhand and then slice wide to his
forehand.

"Get that, you little fucker," I whisper to myself.

None of this is personal, but nobody belts forehands past me with impunity
- not if they have a weakness I can exploit they don't. I'm clinical,
vicious and relentless, and when my point has been proved, I call him to
the net.

"Hey, you're not bad at all," I grin, "but we've got to do something about
that backhand. Where'd you get it?"

Elwyn, still panting a little, confesses he'd inherited it from his mother
who'd taught him for a couple of years. Prepare to be disinherited.

"Right," I said, "for the next half hour, I'm putting every shot into your
backhand. Not away from your backhand, 'on to' your backhand. They'll be
easy to get, but it's pointless to get them unless you get them
right. We'll start with sliced returns, they're the easy ones. In a couple
of weeks we'll get onto topspin returns, they're far more difficult to
learn, but if you haven't got a decent topspin, you're fucked, technically
speaking."

We both laugh and get on with it. Elwyn picks things up quickly. I put
myself into a training trance and the kind of rhythm that turns you into a
metronome. Feet in place, racket back early, follow through. Easy - not. At
least not until you've done it a million times and you don't think about it
any more.

You may be wondering, or you may not, how a little shit from the wrong side
of town ended up a decent tennis player. It was the wall what done it.

The factory wall on one of the many factories on the Industrial Estate that
ran just behind the council estate where we lived. I found a wall with a
long white stripe about 3 feet high, got my auntie's wooden racket, and
stood there, sometimes for three hours at a time, banging my one and only
tennis ball back and forwards off the wall.

I don't know if there's any such thing as a 'natural' at a sport, but
hitting the ball against the wall seemed to be just what I should be
doing. The fact that it got me out of cricket was a bonus I never
anticipated.

It was Elwyn who gave in first.

"Hey, Max, Dylan we have a break? I'm knackered."

I tut.

The word 'knackered' was out of bounds in my family. I'm not sure why, but
it was further beyond the pale than 'fucked' or 'fucking', not that I'd
ever use any 'bad language' in front of mum.

"No breaks," I call. "That's it for this morning. You're okay. You can play
-a bit," I tell Elwyn who beams.

"What now then?" he asks.

"Let's get changed and wander down the Blackie. What about a milkshake at
Delanzo's?"

Delanzo's milkshakes are an extension of his Italian icecream, the best in
the world.

In the pavilion we strip off, fold our tennis whites and stick them in our
tennis bags, school bags actually.

Like me, Elwyn is naked but for his underwear and tennis socks. I wear
baggy Y-fronts; Elwyn wears a tight cotton slip. God, he is slim, not
skinny, just slim, and his chest is fuller and deeper than you might
expect, his shoulders are butterfly wings, his tummy absolutely flat, his
skin ivory pale, his nipples are surprisingly brown, like brown ten pence
pieces. His cotton slip shows the outline of his penis, not erect, surely
not erect, but pushed up vertically against his pubic bone, his balls round
like encased ping pong balls beneath.

I can hear his breathing. I see his damp hair strung across his forehead, I
step forward and with my left hand push the hair from his eyes. I know that
I can reach down with my right hand and run my finger tip the length of his
penis. I know he will harden quickly. He is blushing now but he doesn't
step back.

We stand there looking at each other. He reaches out to me and runs his
fingers through the thick dark wavy hair on my head. He waits. I wait. The
world waits breathlessly.

"You're hot," I hear myself say. "The quicker we get those milkshakes the
better... and get your jeans on. Anybody'd think you have a hard-on."

"Well, you do," he smiles back.

I look down and find I have!

Whoops!

"Come on, we both need that milkshake," I laugh.

You've probably noticed by now that I'm a little weird. Don't worry. You
won't offend me if you think that. I realised I'm a little weird a long
time ago.


My Saturday mornings were taken up by my own matches, tennis. Elwyn got
into the habit of turning up for these matches. He was completely accepted
by the Under-15s because it was obvious he could be a heck of a player if
he ever got his backhand grooved, and it fell to me to groove his backhand.

After every match, we'd catch the bus to the city centre, to Elwyn's home
where his mum fed us burgers and chips and Coke. I always felt a bit rotten
not being able to spend the afternoon with Elwyn and/or his family, but it
was tacitly accepted that a First Year couldn't sit and watch U-15 cricket
matches without having a damned good reason. Being with me couldn't supply
that reason. Elwyn also had a couple of hours' tennis practice with me
every Tuesday after school.

It wasn't too difficult to juggle these commitments. What was difficult was
to move from the affection and lust I had for Eric to the love, and, yes,
lust, I felt for Elwyn.

Wow, this has got awfully serious, and it wasn't like that at all. It was
just so damned busy, and so damned exhausting. I hardly ever tossed myself
off before going to sleep; my head hit the pillow and I was dead to the
world - the dreamless sleep of the damned.

09 - Elwyn and Me

It had to happen... and this is how it happened.

My mum met Elwyn's mum. Elwyn's mum liked my mum, and my mum liked Elwyn's
mum. They went out shopping together.

One day Elwyn's mum asked the "big favour".

"Do you think Dylan could stay overnight here, with Elwyn? They're playing
in a tennis tournament up in Perth tomorrow. I'll take the boys up there
and bring them back."

"That's fine... but don't let Elwyn be a chatterbox all night."

"That's fine. I'll stick the boys in the attic. That's our spare room."

And that was settled.

Friday evening we had an early dinner (can't remember what it was), then
mum took us out to see a movie I'd been dying to see all week (can't
remember what it was). We got back late. Mum pointed upstairs. "Bed you
two, and don't forget to brush your teeth."

For a moment I thought she meant we should brush each other's teeth, which
goes to show how spaced out I was.

It was early July. It was hot. We opened the bedroom window. A single sheet
on the bed was enough. Elwyn stripped down to the tiniest briefs I'd ever
seen and jumped into bed - more onto than into. He lay down and pulled the
sheet up to his waist.

I followed. Stripped to my boxers and slid into bed alongside him, careful
not to touch him - my dick was stiff enough to snap in two. Elwyn turned
his head, kissed me on the cheek, and said: Good night." Then he turned
away, cuddled his face into the pillow, and that was that.

I lay there, furious and frustrated. He should be chatting with me. We
should be lying there, heads on the pillow, face to face, chatting,
whispering, talking about the movie, about school, about anything, so that
I could look at that face, those eyes, that skin.

Maybe he was a fucking angel after all; maybe Elwyn was a fucking saint. At
least the bedlamp was on, and I could see how that golden hair lay next to
his skin, how his shoulder blades were like butterfly wings, how his back
tapered down to...

Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, and I edged down the sheet so I could see
those tiny briefs - and most of his butt - two creamy globes with exactly
the same curve as his cheeks. I promised myself I wouldn't, and I kept my
promise for all of ten minutes.

With two fingers I edged his briefs lower, a millimetre or less at a time,
holding my breath as his cheeks emerged and his briefs were tucked along
the top of his legs.

I inched myself down the bed until my face was level with his buttocks. If
Elwyn woke up, I could claim I'd been dreaming and didn't even remember he
was in bed with me.

One, two, three four tiny licks - one, two, three, four little kisses. That
couldn't do any harm could it. But my fingers had a mind of their own. I
had to see, I had to know. Slowly, gently, inevitably, with the thumb of
each hand I prised open his bumcheeks until I could see it - a tiny pinky
slit in centre of a creamy valley. If an angel had an asshole, this is what
it must look like.

Enough... enough... but of course it wasn't. In went my face, out went my
tongue, until the tip touched, then licked the tiny pucker. Elwyn
grunted. I froze. Elwyn shifted his position just a fraction, but God or
whatever was on my side, and the shift only made his anus more accessible
to my snakey tongue.

If I'd had the nerve and the stupidity, I would have slipped my hand round
Elwyn's front, found his penis and played with it.

Do angels get hard-ons? This was my chance to find out. But I wasn't that
stupid. If he woke up, I could pretend I was moving in my sleep, almost
believable, but tossing him off in my sleep - even a First Year wouldn't
swallow that.

My own dick was hurting now. Reulctantly I moved my face away from that
beautiful bottom, and edged back up the bed. I felt my cock; the head was
slimy. I got some of the 'pre-cum' on the back of my middle finger, edge
back down, slid the finger between his cheeks, and smoothed the pre-cum
onto Elwyn's hole. Then I gently edged his briefs back over his buttocks.

"I know what you're doing," came the whisper.

I froze in a state of shock.

"I know what you did last night," he whispered.

It felt like I'd been shot in the heart and punched in the gut
-simultaneously.

"I'm sorry," I squeaked before I'd the chance to think of an alibi.

The angelic smile.

"Oh, no," came another whisper. "I really liked it. You can do it again if
you want to... but..."

We lay there, two heads on one pillow, cheek to cheek.

"But what?" I managed to whisper.

Elwyn put his sweet lips to my ear and told me.

"Okay," I said, and started to slide down the bed.

"Wait a minute," he said. He took my face between his small hands, pulled
me closer, and kissed me on the lips. I couldn't think what to do. He
pushed my face back a little and said, "You've got to open your mouth,like
this," and I felt his open mouth against my lips.

In reflex I opened my lips and felt his tongue enter my mouth until his
lips were pressed against mine. He wiggled his tongue, moved back, and
whispered, "Your turn now."

I did as instructed and soon our tongues were taking it in turns to enter
our mouths; I could taste the flavour of the mints he'd been sucking in his
saliva. I wondered if he could taste anything in mine.

He pushed my head away and whispered, "How do you want me - on my tummy or
on my back?"

"On your back, please."

I slid down his body, slipped down his briefs, he raised his legs, and I
slipped the briefs all the way off. He spread his legs wide. Hungrily I
licked those round creamy globes, prised them open, and once again saw his
tiny pucker - his 'fucker pucker'.

'Pucker' is not the correct word because the tiny slit, the entrance to his
anus and his rectum was hardly serrated. I began to lick from the bottom
his balls, along the thin line into the valley of his cheeks, and onto his
hole.

Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards went my tongue. At the same
I sniffed those smells that sent my head spinning. No smell of shit.

His sphincter muscles were too tightly shut for that, just pure boy smells
until with my thumbs and forefingers I began to prise them apart apart, oh
so carefully.

I dragged the lips of his hole apart just enough to get the tip of my
tongue in, not far because he was so tight, but enough to release smells
that were definitely not minty.

I grabbed his hips to turn him onto his back. His prick was like an
asparagus stick, creamy white of course, about three inches in length, and,
like mine, not circumcised. I licked its length.

That giggle again.

"No, not like that, like this."

And, before I could make out what was happening, Elwyn had wriggled until
we were in what I now know is the 69 position, my face between his legs,
his face between mine, and the head of my stiffy was in his sweet little
mouth.

I couldn't believe this was his first time. His tongue swirled round the
head of my cock, his little fingers worked the skin of my shaft up and
down, and..... a finger of his other hand fiddled its way between my
buttocks, found my hole and pushed its way in.

No standing on ceremony for Elwyn; he was wanking me and finger-fucking me
at the same.

We managed to keep this up for about two minutes when our bodies began to
jerk rhythmically. My cum shot out of the head of my cock into his mouth as
his cum shot into mine.

A couple of minutes later we were lying face to face and Elwyn was telling
me: "It's better second or third time. You don't make so much cum but you
can last longer." Do they learn all this in Swedish sex education classes?

We spent the next half hour with Elwyn telling me how he'd learned so much
about sex. He'd been having sex for three months with his junior school
teacher before he moved on to Bruce Academy!

The teacher had refused to fuck him because as he told Elwyn: "I don't want
to lose my job," though just before the school year ended he'd been
teaching Elwyn to fuck him.

"I'll try to fuck you if you like, Dylan," he said.

"Better not," I said, "but....."

I didn't have to finish the sentence. Elwyn rolled over onto his tummy and
presented his beautiful arse again. This time there was no hurry and I
managed to get about half my tongue inside him before his inner sphincter
said: "That's enough, thank you very much," and closed the innermost
sanctum for the night.

We sucked each other off two more times before we fell asleep, and one more
time before we sat down to breakfast with sore pricks.

"Did you boys sleep well?"

"Yes, we did, thank you, Mrs Lamb."

The great news is Elwyn won both our matches up in Perth; his for the under
12s and mine for the under 15s. (I was now playing two years above my age.)

The not so good news is the Lambs were going away for two weeks.

Misery?

No.

Disappointment.  Of course.

But knowing Elwyn would be back, and knowing what our future was... well,
you can have everything.


010 - Men and Me

Another hot day. We'd a tennis match in the morning and I wandered into
town to catch a bus home. Don't ask me about my intentions, I'm not sure I
had any.

Five minutes later I found myself sitting on the steps outside the public
toilets - Men : Ladies. Guess which one I was sitting in front of. Men and
boys trotted in and out of the bogs (toilets). I sat there in the sun. I
hadn't even made up a story in case someone I knew came long.

A couple of guys glanced at me but the place was busy, it was a hot day,
and no one seemed interest in a 13-year-old sitting on the toilet step
dressed in his tennis kit.

Then I saw him, and realised this was the third time I'd glanced at him
standing on the corner. This time the man caught me gaze and held it for a
few seconds; that was more than enough. He was tallish, casually
well-dressed, about the age of my dad, early thirties.

He nodded at me, I nodded back.

He strolled over smiling as if he was my dad or someone like that. I got
up, the top of my head reached his chin.

"Where?" he said.

"Macdonald's," I said, hurriedly adding, "The loos there are clean," in
case he thought all I wanted was a Big Mac.

He frowned, "No good. Follow me."

Like an obedient puppy I followed him - straight to the fucking bus
station!

Of course I knew the bogs well there. Dirty, smelly, busy. We walked in. We
each stood at a urinal. The moment the place was empty, he ushered me into
the far cubicle.

What a stink- piss and shit! He put his hands on my shoulders, gave me a
little downwards push and I sat on the toilet. He lifted my hand and placed
it on his crotch, his zip. I unzipped him and struggled to get his dick
out, no easy job, it was as big and stiff as poker.

When it was before my very eyes, I wanted to inspect it closely; I'd never
seen a grown-man's penis before. Fucking huge, big mushroom head (I
couldn't figure out if he was circumcised or not), thick shaft, veins
running down into a big bush of black hair.

I started to play with it the way I play with mine - get him worked up -
but he didn't need any of that.

"Open up," he hissed.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could but I couldn't get more than the head
in before I started gagging. This man was no Elwyn. He pushed my head back
and hissed again: "Wide open."

I obliged until my jaws cracked. Then he started tossing himself off right
into my gaping mouth. His fingers and thumb were around the shaft; he
worked the skin up and down - he was circumcised - another first for me.

"Play with my balls," he hissed. I opened his trouser belt, the fastening,
and edged down his briefs (Calvin Klein), until I could set his balls free.

Fucking huge.

They hung in his sac like a pair of tennis balls. I thought of Elwyn's
walnuts. I played with them as best I could, though it was difficult with
my head shuddering backwards and forwards.

I tried to slide my middle fingers into the sweaty valley between his
buttocks but he clenched them tight (fucking spoilsport). If I couldn't see
his arsehole close up, at least I wanted to feel around it.

It was amazing how quiet he was as he masturbated. I couldn't do that. And
it took me totally by surprise when volleys of cum hit the back of my
throat. This wasn't the milky white spurts Elwyn and I could manage.

This was big dollops of yogurty stuff that hit the back of my throat, then
began to fill my mouth. I couldn't swallow it all. I gave a loud splutter
and gobbed it right down my chin.

I've got to be fair on the guy; out of nowhere he whipped a big white
handkerchief and wiped it straight over my chin, holding the hankie there
till I coughed out the rest. Then he wiped his dick, his pubic hair and the
lower part of his belly.

As he stepped back, I stood up, pushed down my football shorts and
Y-fronts, turned, bent over the toilet pan, reached round with a spare hand
and whipped my football shirt up over my back. I wasn't expecting him to
fuck me after shooting a load like that but I'd appreciate a bit of
fingering and rimming (I learned the word later.)

Smack!

He slapped my arse, and it hurt, it really hurt. I was too startled to do
anything.

"Dirty little fucker."

His ungenerous remark was followed by the slamming of the cubicle door, and
there I was, bent over the stinking toilet pan, bare arse in the air, with
a red handprint across it, my face halfway down the pan, and my cock so
hard against my belly, it hurt worse than the slap.

The encounter had not been a great success, at least not for me, but it had
shown that men would have sex with boys, and, for that alone, it was a
positive experience. I locked the cubicle door, sat down, and enjoyed a
leisurely wank in time with a leisurely shit.

All I had to do was find the right man - and it turned out he wasn't very
far away. You can never tell what someone's really like, can you?

If there was anyone in our school who was definitely a ladies' man it was
Mr. Cameron - we all called him Mr. C. He was not only in the
P.E. department, and taught some English as well, but he had a wife and two
kids, one about 8 and the other about 6.

We boys thought his wife was a model, like those women you see in magazines
like 'Vogue', my mum's favourite, not the old bags you could wank over in
mags like 'Busty Babes'.

Mrs. C. was tall, elegant and beautiful. Can you imagine the amount of
spunk the boys in our school produced over her?

Mr. Cameron ran the Year 7 football team. I told you I wasn't so hot on
academic subjects but I was good at sports, and at football, without
wanting to boast, I was brill, though tennis was my first love.

'A natural," said Mr. C. I used to catch him keeping his eye on me; I
guessed he was figuring how to make the best use of me - he was, but not in
the way I was thinking.

"Dylan could use some help with his English," he told my mum. (Mr. C. took
my English class.) "I'd be happy to him some 'coaching' in English as well
as football."

Mum was, of course, delighted and that's how it began.

It started about the fourth lesson. As usual, we were sitting close
together on the couch in the living room. I had the book in my lap. I was
reading out loud. I always forgot the full stop and read on into the next
sentence. It didn't matter how often Mr. C. told me, two minutes later I'd
forgotten and was reading along as if full stops hadn't been invented.

"This'll help," he said.

The book was on my lap. Slipping his hand under my t-shirt, he put his hand
at the bottom of my bare belly. Every time I came towards the end of the
sentence, he pressed my belly a little.

It worked!

I remembered to stop, most of the time. That continued for about fifteen
minutes. I read and he applied pressure to tell me when to pause. No big
deal. Except, of course, that it gave me a hard-on. I sat there
expressionless (I can do it for hours.) while Sir pressed my stomach a
couple of inches away from my erection. It was embarrassing at first, but
Sir didn't seem to notice anything, so I assumed it was an accident and
went on reading.

Next week the same thing happened. This time there was a variation that
showed what was happening was no accident. Despite the pressure on my
stomach, despite my hard-on, I still forgot to stop at the end of the
occasional sentence.

"We have to get them all right," laughed Mr. C. He slid his hand under my
school jumper, then under my school shirt, just above the waist band of my
trousers. Every time we reached the end of a sentence, he pressed his cool
hand into my warm stomach, then ran his little finger along my skin just
where it emerged from my trouser waist band.

It could still have been an 'accident' but when he ran his finger tip the
length of my throbbing erection we both knew it wasn't. Could this really
be happening?

Did Mr. C. want me that way? Could I be so lucky?

I think he was giving me the chance to stop him. He guessed I wouldn't
tell. No boy in a boys' school gives up a captaincy that easily. Next
Thursday we went to his house as usual. This time he didn't bother with the
preliminaries. He told me to lie on the carpet and read to him.

Lying flat out would help with my breathing, he said. It was so comfortable
lying there, one hand holding the book, the other pillowing my head. I
wasn't surprised when he lay down, full length, alongside me.

Lying flat out that way meant I was totally exposed, almost helpless.  He
began the familiar pressure and stroking on my bare stomach.

My prick hardened. There was no way I could hide it. He stroked lower and
lower until his thumb brushed my erection below the thin grey flannel of my
school trousers. I think if I'd protested in any way, even drawing up legs,
he would have stopped, and that would have been that. I didn't.

I felt him unclip the top of my trousers and edge down the zip. He edged
aside the flaps of my flies, exposing my white underpants. His fingers
stroked the bare skin above the elastic, then slipped underneath.

He held my stiff penis between his thumb and forefinger squeezing gently as
I read on, missing more full stops than I'd ever done before. This only
lasted a couple of minutes. Then he closed me up, zipped me up, closed my
clip, and tucked my shirt in. I almost groaned with disappointment.

How could he do that? Let me lie there with my hard-on pressing through my
trousers, demanding, begging for attention. Maybe just a few kissies, a
quick splurt, then back to fucking reading.

The lesson went on as if nothing had happened. It was crazy to lie there on
the carpet in the living room and do what he did. The living room had a
huge window. Anyone visiting or passing by couldn't have missed us. A
thirteen-year-old boy lying on a carpet, reading, beside a man with his
hand in the boy's unzipped trousers. It was crazy.

The lesson ended and, as usual, Mr. C. walked me home. As we walked we
chatted about the coming Saturday match. Sir did most of the talking; as
usual, I listened. I loved to listen, especially to someone who was really
enthusiastic about something I loved. We never mentioned the sex, we never
did.

Thursday's lesson started with some fun card games to improve my
spelling. Then Mr. C.  said, "Let's do some reading." I followed him into a
small bedroom. On a desk there was a vase of fresh flowers; the scent was
lovely. There was a single bed. Sir indicated the bed.

"Get on and read this."

I lay down on the bed, face up, reading some pages he'd prepared. They told
a very funny story about some of my friends and me. There was some light
sex in the story. It made me smile and want to read on. I had to fill in
the blanks. Coach sat down on the edge of the bed. "Read it to yourself
first, and then out loud."

I felt him push up my jumper and my shirt. I wasn't surprised. He undid the
clip of my trousers and unzipped me.

"Lift," he said. Still reading, I raised my bottom and let him slide my
trousers and my underpants down to my ankles. I felt him stroke my stomach,
my pubic area, (I had half a dozen wisps of brown hair), then take my cock
between his fingers. I already had an erection.

It was about five inches, not bad for a 13-year-old, but my balls were
still hairless.  He began stroking me, jerking me gently, his other hand
tracing patterns over my stomach, my chest and my nipples.

Then his lips replaced his fingers. He traced patterns with his lips and
tongue all over my chest and belly. He lifted up one arm at a time and
licked my armpits.

He tried to suck my nipples but that was like trying to suck raisins, I
guess. I willed his lips lower and lower.

He licked my belly all over, then my hip bones on either side. I felt like
a kitten getting licked to death by its mum. It made my cock so hard it
hurt. It was great.

"Should I read out loud now?" I asked.

He raised his head. "Yes, go on," he said.

As I stumbled through the story, I felt him swallow my hard-on to the
root. His mouth was hot and wet. Slowly at first, but then faster and
faster, his head bobbed up and down on my cock. It was weird. When I really
got stuck over a word, he'd raise his head, pronounce the word, and then go
back down on me.

Once I stopped and asked him what a word meant: the word was 'erect'. Sir
raised his head. "It means sticking up or standing up. That's where the
word 'erection' comes from." I hadn't understood the word 'erection' before
then.

"Should I read it again?" I asked. He obviously wasn't finished.

"Yes, please, Dylan. Take your time."

I started reading again, more confidently second time round.

He grasped my hips.

"Over."

I turned over so that I was lying face down. His fingers ran over my
buttocks. Then his lips. He pried the cheeks of my bottom open. I felt his
tongue run along the inside of my cheeks several times, then the hot tip
touched my hole. I was nearly sick with excitement. This was the dirtiest
thing I could think of anyone doing, yet it was the most exciting. I felt
the hot tip of his tongue run up and down the little serrated edge. He gave
a push and the tip slipped in - thank God for my hairbrush. I lay there,
willing my ring to open so that he could drive more of his tongue inside
me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be fucked, but I did want to be opened up.

Then I farted - three little farty spurts.

Fucking hell!  What would he think of me?  Would he call me a "dirty little
fucker" like the guy in the bus station bogs? He would he stop. Would he
give me a telling off, lines, a detention? Would he take my captaincy away?

I didn't have to wait for the answer. He fastened his lips over my hole as
best he could and tried to suck the shit of me. I don't mean that
literally, but that's what it felt like. If there'd been a log up there,
I'm sure he'd have drawn it down a couple of inches. I wanted to cheer as
if we'd just scored a goal! I wasn't the only one that loved bums,
arseholes, anuses, rectums, and whatever else was up there. Mr. C. was my
perfect man.

"Over," he said.

I flipped myself over without breaking a sentence. I felt the air brush my
body, especially my straining cock. Then his lips were over it again,
working their magic up and down the shaft. His finger was working its way
past my sphincters, one, then two. And he was finger-fucking me ruthlessly.

I couldn't take much more, I couldn't take any more, my hips bucked, spurts
of cum fired from the head of my dick into his mouth. He swallowed. H held
me in his mouth till my hips stopped shaking and my arse sank comfortably
into the duvet. He licked my belly and my private parts again.

"Up"

I swung my legs off the bed and stood in front of him. He pulled up
underpants, then my trousers, tucked in my shirt, zipped me up... all the
while explaining how he wanted me to play deep centre-forward on
Saturday. "We'll bang in a few more goals that way, Captain," he said. I
nodded. He walked me home. Came in for tea and tiffin - my mum's specialty
- and reported on my progress. Apparently I was making good progress but
there was still a long way to go, he said. (I hoped so.)

This went on for a few weeks but we didn't make the progress I expected. I
wanted to inspect his body as much as he inspected mine. He took off my
clothes but never took off his own. I lay on the bed naked while he licked,
kissed, carressed, fondled and sucked, back and front, almost as if he was
in love with my body. A couple of times he murmured, "God, you're
beautiful," but never said anything directly sexual to me.

I loved how he managed to open me up and get his longest finger deep inside
me. One finger, then two, though I willed him to go for at least
three. Sometimes he touched something deep inside me that made my whole
body jump, that sent shock waves through me, and I wanted desperately to
have his hard cock inside me. I presumed it was hard; I never had the
chance to find out. Sometimes, when I was lying on my stomach, he'd slip
his hand beneath me to knead and squeeze my belly.

At the same time two fingers fucked me. When he did this, I could feel the
shit in my bowels move - least I thought it did - and I thought he was
trying to work it out of me. It was so frustrating when he turned his
attention to my dick just as I thought he was getting somewhere, shit-wise.

Sir would always finish off by sucking my brains out, cleaning me up,
dressing me, then going on with the lesson as if nothing had
happened. There were times I wanted to scream with frustration, rip down
his pants, underpants, and jam my little fist straight up his arse. How
could he be so inconsiderate? Hewas the adult after all.

It ended as abruptly as it began - not the lessons, the sex. One Thursday
after training Mr. C. said: "We're going to your house. My wife's got
visitors. Your mum's expecting us. It's tea and tiffin. Yummy. Now, about
Saturday's match..."

This wasn't a one-off. I never went back to his house again, at least not
for sex, though I went a few times a couple of years later to babysit their
kids because I was 'trustworthy and dependable'.  I know you're laughing
but I never once laid a finger on them; not the way you're thinking at
least - even though I got the chance to bath them and tuck them in bed. (I
almost typed 'fuck them in bed'. LOL)

That was seven years ago.

A few weeks ago, my team staggered into our local pub. They were already
pissed; I was stoned (alcohol isn't good for you). Mr. C. was there. We
were all in the Sixth Form but they turn a blind eye to what we do outside
school as long as we deliver great A-level results. Mr. C. had moved onto
the local boys' grammar school.

We gave each other a big smile. He stepped up and we shook hands.

"Hi, Dylan, how's going?"

"Fine, sir," I said. "Going to Sports College in September. I'd like to be
a P.E. teacher - like you."

"You'll make it, Dylan. You can do anything you put your mind to.  You'll
be a great P.E. teacher, too."

He paused. "But I'll tell you one thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"We'll never have as good a player as we once had in our tennis team."

"And there'll never be as good an English teacher as I once had."

We laughed. We hugged each other. We said goodbye. We went back to our
futures.


011 - The Man in Me

I was in love, am in love, and always will be in love with Elwyn. But I
also loved sex. Perfection is love and sex together. But there are times I
was thrilled by sex.

I was 13. I was late out of school. I'd been kept in back in detention by
some sadistic bastard who'd driven away in the falling darkness while I ran
along the lane in the pelting rain towards the bus station.

The bus had gone. Half an hour to wait. Rain bouncing like hailstones on
the tin roof of the shelter. Only the station toilets sent out a beacon of
light in the gathering gloom. I made my way into its shiny tiled comfort,
only half needing a piss, but at least it would pass a few minutes.

There were two urinals with a tiny partition between them. I stood at one
fishing my penis out of my thin grey flannel trousers. It was half hard and
pleasantly warm.

The door swung open, then closed. A man took the urinal next to mine. I
kept my head down. I tried to focus on the wet tiles, but my eyes betrayed
me and slid to the left. Wow! He was big, and he was making little effort
to hide himself.

I jerked my eyes away, they slid back, the piss was squirting from him in
an almost continuous flow. It was beautiful.

Shit -was I sick or what? Between my own fingers I felt my own dick
thicken, harden and stretch to a fullness through which I could never hope
to piss.

The man half turned to me. He edged me backwards, I hardly resisted as he
edged me backwards into a cubicle. The back of my knees bounced against the
toilet seat. Reflexively I sat down.

I risked glancing up. The man was about thirty years old. Dark haired,
strong eyebrows, straight nose, cheekbones, good-looking. Good-looking!
Yes, he was! And wearing what looked like an expensive jacket.

"Don't do anything you don't want to do."

His voice was low but not whispered.

His voice was dark and warm.

I risked a look at his penis, his cock, his dick. Shit - it was huge. Hard
and huge. It looked tanned though the head sticking out from the foreskin
looked a mixture of brown and purple. And, like him, it was
beautiful. Don't do anything you don't want to do. That meant to anything
you want to do. And I knew what I wanted to do.

I raised my hand and fitted my fingers round his shaft. Shit! My fingers
hardly touched. It was hard and soft at the same, warm, satiny,
slippery. Pointing right at my face. At my mouth. I flicked my tongue out
and licked the head.

Shit!

Was I crazy or something? I knew people did that. I knew prostitutes,
fallen angels as my mum called them, did that to men for money. I even knew
that gay men had their own way of having sex. I knew that some men liked to
do things to boys. But here I was, sitting on a toilet seat, in the bus
station toilets, in my full school uniform, licking a good-looking man's
erection.

"Go on."

That must have been him because I wasn't aware of myself speaking.

Go on. So I did. I let the head of his cock slide into my mouth till the
tipped touched the roof of my mouth. Then I adjusted my mouth until his
cock was sliding in and out like a huge stick of Brighton rock you've just
started and you think you'll never finish.

My lips slid up and down the shaft, a bit of an exaggeration since I could
only take in about half of the hot hard shaft. Sometimes I let it slide out
and pressed its length along my cheek.

The pressure felt wonderful, but, to tell you the truth, it was the smell I
loved. You can't describe the smell to anyone who hasn't experienced
it. You might as well describe a rose to a blind man. It was the smell of a
man, of a man in heat, of a man who had the hots for me. It was me who was
exciting him, me who was arousing him, me who had taken possession of
him. And I wanted him as much as he wanted me.

I slid my spare hand under his balls. They hung heavy and low. I want to
feel their wten, feel their texture, feel the dark hairs brush against my
hand. My fingers slide past his balls to his crack, and he shuffled his
feet wider.

The man moaned! He fucking well moaned! And he moaned for me!

I had been scared. Maybe he didn't want me to touch him there. maybe I was
being too forward, or even dirty, in seeking out his most private place. I
put the tips of two fingers against his hole, not that easy to find as they
wriggled through the dense hair, but I found it!

The entrance to King Solomon's mines and I'd found it. The opening was hot,
sweat-slick, and hot. Do whatever you want? Go for it! I brought my fingers
back, raised them to my mouth, let his dick slide out for a few moments,
slid my fingers in my mouth and sucked them.

Bliss!

Okay, I am crazy. I was twelve years old. A grammar school boy from a good
family. And I was sitting on a toilet seat in the bus station sucking two
fingers that I'd just removed from a grown-man's arse.

Crazy!

I am not even going to try and describe the thrill, the terror, the ecstasy
of holding a grown man's hard cock in my mouth, letting it slide in and out
as he tousled my hair, as I heard his moans high above me, as I felt his
cock push deeper and deeper into me, until I gagged, he withdrew, and I
insisted he penetrated me again and again.

His cock seemed to swell, get even thicker, and suddenly it was exploding,
spurt after spurt, deep into the back of my throat. Too much, too much, and
I wanted more. So much that my mouth couldn't hold it all, and it came
squeezing out of the sides, through my swollen lips, until I was coughing,
choking, and trying to lick up every last drop.

It was the man who had to push me away from him. I didn't realise how
sensitive a cock could become, and I didn't much care, I wanted more, just
more of more, and more than more, and more forever inside me. I wanted to
eat him devour him, swallow him more, eat him till he became me, and me
him, and... I might have passed out for a few moments. I definitely don't
remember how I got into his car.

A BMW! And he was driving me home. Driving me home and telling me what a
wonderful, silly little fool I was. Having sex with a stranger. Swallowing
what he called his cum. Getting in a car with a bloody stranger. Didn't I
have any more sense than that?

Fucking hell, it was like getting told off again by that sadistic bastard
back at school. But the man was smiling at the same time, tousling my hair,
tracing my cheek with his fingers, showing me where his 'cum' had
splattered onto my school shirt. Thank god for that; at least I'd be able
to dump it into the laundry basket as soon as I got home. Stick it under
the tap first. Soak it. Tell mum it got soaked in the rain.

Silly little fool. Yes, that was me. Yet not that silly. I gave the man a
false name. Billy. I gave him a false telephone number. I told him to let
me off on a street two away from my own road. I went hopping and jumping
and skipping home in the rain. I wanted something, and I had got it. I had
made a man love me, not only love me, but take a desperate risk to show his
love. well, at least his desire.

The cubicle door in the toilet didn't even lock, was half off its hinges,
and I'd sucked off a grown-man when, at any moment, anyone could have
walked in! Not only that. I'd wriggled two fingers up his arse, then taken
them out and sucked the juices from them. I lay in bed and sniffed my
fingers. Nothing.

And I was disappointed.

I pushed down my pyjamas bottoms, rolled my legs over my shoulders, and
worked a finger in my arse hole. It wasn't easy but I got it in up to the
knuckle. Then I pulled it out and sucked it. Not bad. But no way as
exciting as his smell. I wondered what it would be like to wiggle my tongue
up there. "You're fucking crazy," I told myself, but I knew that someday
that's exactly what I would do. All I needed was a man to let me.

What if there hadn't been one man, but two, three four, half a dozen. And
they all wanted me to suck them off! I'd sat there for ages, sucking each
one, teasing, tormenting, bringing to the edge, backing off, sucking fast,
slow, shallow, deep, until even I was filled up, filled by their 'cum' down
my throat, in my belly, squirting out of my asshole. Crazy, crazy
-beautiful and crazy! And then sucking each man inside out through his
asshole!

It took me three visits to the toilet to find the man again, and, crazy as
I was, I let him take me home.


Then we were on the bed, naked. How the hell had that happened? I was on
top of him, my face between his legs, taking him into my mouth, afraid I
might choke, and afraid I might not be taking enough of him.

The man had thick black hair down there, not on his chest, but down there,
black and silky. It tickled my nose. I felt like sneezing but though that
would be cheeky. I felt him grow harder as the head of his cock moved
through the foreskin. I inhaled smells of soap and sweat, of unnamed scents
of sex.

As his prick moved back and forward in my mouth, in my throat, I tightened
my lips, then relaxed them, I sucked fast, then slow and prayed I was doing
it right.

I felt the man's tongue run from my scrotum backwards towards my most
private place. I gulped, almost bit him, prayed for more. I felt the hot
tip of his tongue press against my bum hole, my anus, probe and push its
way in. I grew almost faint with excitement.

Every nerve in my body seemed to rush towards his tongue pushed, probed and
wormed its way into me. Too much, it was too much to bear. I pushed him
away, swung myself round to lie beside him, keeping my lips round his
hard-on, and sucked, my head moving up and down, taking in as much as I
could without choking.

Suddenly I felt it, a rush, a squirt, a spurt inside my mouth and throat,
again and again. I kept my lips tightly round his shaft and swallowed as
best I could... I held on as he pulsed himself into me.

I opened my eyes and felt more than saw his stiff cock slowly draw back
into itself, leaving a big silvery drop hanging where the foreskin had
folded itself up like a flower as evening fell. I ran my tongue around the
inside of my mouth: I both tasted and smelled the after-taste of toasted
salted almonds.

The man pulled up and held me close, running his tongue over my eyebrows
and closed eyelids. I couldn't open my eyes; I was ashamed, but I wasn't
sure of what I was ashamed. Certainly not of the sex; I loved that. But
maybe ashamed that I wasn't enough for him, that I was only a boy, only 13.

Ashamed because his tongue had felt so good, down there, down there in the
centre of so many of my dreams. Ashamed that I couldn't give him what a
girl could give him. Though I ached to give him it, down there.

Did he read my mind? He was down there again, his hot tongue everywhere. I
thought I would faint. I whispered to him. Sex things, dirty things.

I whispered: "Put it inside me. You can put it inside me. If you want. I
want it inside me."

We kissed deeply while he pushed a finger against my anus, trying to slip
it into my rectum; my body betrayed me, resisted, contracted.

The man raised his fingers to my mouth. I sucked his digit and middle
fingers together. He pressed again, and down there I opened, slowly, until
he could slide in two fingers, then three. He moved them around, seeming to
open me, to widen me. Pain, dull then sharp cut through me down there. I
bit my lip.

"Tell me if it hurts too much," he whispered.

I said nothing. I lifted and swung my legs over his shoulders, closed my
eyes and tried to relax. "God speed your love to me..."  I felt his penis
against mt anus again.

He began to push and withdraw gently. I felt myself open, felt the head
bludgeon its way in. Excruciating pain, and I wanted more. The back of my
head buried itself in the pillow.

I was unable to speak; I was impaled and felt his cock slide into me deeper
and deeper. He asked if I was all right, and I pushed my arse harder
against him, sliding more of him into me.

Nothing mattered except what was happening everywhere and nowhere in my
body. "I'll be coming home, wait for me."

I was heavy and falling, light as a feather and drifting through the air. I
opened my eyes and saw his, huge and sparkling, as little bolts of
lightning were shooting through them. Huge dark pools in which I wanted to
drown forever.

Tears ran down my cheeks; I raised my face and kissed him as he drove into
me, withdrew and drove home again. My body was spiralling somewhere amongst
the stars. I was a constellation and I would be fixed in the night sky
forever.

The man stopped. I opened my eyes and frowned. "Do it," I whispered. I
clasped my legs round his back and humped him best I could. From behind
closed eyelids I saw stars spatter my eyelids, the universe exploding in a
million pinpoints of light. I thought I could feel him thicken and pulse
inside me. His hair tickled the inside of my thighs. He was cumming,
cumming, cumming.

No!

That was me!

I was spurting hard against his belly, and for a moment I felt ashamed
again. What would the man think? A little boy who couldn't even hold in his
own... And the man was cumming, too. And I thought of the million trillion
zillion little spermy-Adams swimming up my bum.

I fainted.

I know I fainted because Adam told me later. Because for a few moments he
was sick with worry. Then, he says, I stirred, opened my eyes, wrapped my
arms around his neck and pulled him to me. Cherry brandy kisses, kisses
sweeter than wine.

We showered together, in the hot and splashy water. The man checked my anus
to see if there was any damage. Just a little.

He put some cream inside my with his middle finger, and I started to hump
it.

Dirty little bugger, he laughed.

The man dropped me back at the bus stop.

Although I looked for him there many times, I never saw him again.


011 - OSCAR and ME

This is the most difficult to write. But what's the point of writing your
biography if you're not going to tell the truth an nothing but the truth.

This is the story of Oscar and me.

The first time I saw Oscar I stopped breathing and my heart skipped
beats. Maybe it was his red hair that did it. Maybe it was the way he
looked at me. Absolutely expressionless but with a look that said: I
know. I can see inside you. Straight red hair down his neck. Hazel brown
eyes. A small perfect nose. Pink lips. Lots of freckles. But it was the
look that did. It said everything by saying nothing.

It was the start of Year 4. Oscar was the new boy. He walked into out
French class and looked around.

"Mind if I sit with you?" he said. But he said it in a way that signalled
he didn't give a fuck whether I minded or not. That's where he was sitting,
and he sat. Very close to me. His thigh pressed against mine. I should have
moved way but I didn't, I couldn't. I didn't press back, but when he
pressed closer, I didn't move.

I sat there feeling the warmth of him burning through my school
flannels. My penis - I'd better say cock - started to thicken and lengthen
under the thin fabric. I was mortified. But Oscar said nothing, did
nothing, and, as I relaxed, my cock gradually went limp, and I felt safe,
or at least safer.

Remember - Elwyn was younger - two years below us.

Oscar and I became 'buddies' in school. Partners in most classes. He was
very good at Maths and Science and boring stuff like that; I was very good
at English, History and Drama. We were both good and, what was really
lucky, we were both very good at badminton. We got right into the under-13s
team, and, a few weeks later, Mr. Tweedie, our PE teacher, put us in the
under 15s as well!

That means we got lots of matches together, and, when, winter came we'd
have some away matches at other schools. If the school was far enough, we'd
stay overnight there and get to share a room together! That's what
Mr. Tweedie told us, so I practised twice as hard. Oscar was a natural; I
had to work at it.


Then one day, it happened. Not in badminton; in wrestling!

Everyone now and again, Mr. Tweedie made us do a wrestling session. Just to
strengthen up our muscles and agility, he said. I thought I'd hate it, but
I liked it, and I was good at it.

Anyway, I wanted to give Oscar a chance to pin me, so I maneuvered myself
around until I was underneath him. He was practically sitting on my face. I
didn't intend this to happen, honest, but when it did I realised I'd
reached heaven.

I thrust my head up, sticking my nose directly in the crack of his arse and
breathed in as deep as I could. He wiggled his bottom for a few seconds
before lifting up again and given two little farts. The smells flooded
me. I felt my cock hard and start to bulge my PE shorts. Shit! I could be
in real trouble. Above me, I heard giggling. That must be from Oscar.

"Get the mats away, boys," called Mr. Tweedie.

Oscar rolled off me, pushed me off the mat, face down, and, when I rose,
shielding myself with one end of the mat, we carried it to the store
room. Without a word, I turned and sprinted for the toilets. Behind me, I
heard the same giggling again. In the classes, for the rest day, Oscar was
just his usual self and said nothing about what had happened. I was
relieved and disappointed at the same time.

I'm not sure what I felt when Oscar slipped me a note during the English
period: Come over to my house after school.  Mom and Dad won't be home till
6:00. We'll have the place to ourselves. I want to show you something." I
nodded, he smiled and nodded.

As we walked across Westpark, I realised Oscar must live in one of those
'mansions' that circled the green lawns and the oak trees. We reached
No. 30 of the thirty in the circle and went up a set of marble steps to
double doors with stained glass windows, like you see in church, but was
dragons and serpents in these windows.

I waited for Oscar pull out a key but he simply punched numbers on a panel
and the doors swung silently open, to close behind us when we were over the
threshold.

There was an elevator across the hall, and for a moment I though the
'mansion' was divided into apartments, but no, this was theirs, all
theirs. "My rooms," said Oscar as nochalantly as he might claim a handful
of sweets. He opened a door, with the doorhandle, and I stepped in.

The first thing I noticed was a bed, a double bed, a huge fuckin' double
bed. What twelve-year-old boy gets a double bed to himself. And a bathroom,
en suite as they say, with a fuckin' jacuzzi in the middle. And French
doors, upstairs double doors, giving onto a balcony that looked onto the
park. And a huge office desk, and a tele (huge screen), and a computer (big
screen), and... I wasn't over-awed, but I was impressed.

Oscar dived onto the bed, rolled over, looked at me and said the last thing
I expected to hear:

"So did you like smelling my bum?"

I looked away. I felt my face on fire.

"Hey, it's no prob with me, Dylan. I've seen you looking at me. I like it
but I wasn't sure. That's why I sat on your face. When you didn't throw me
off, I knew you were like me. That's why I asked you if you wanted to come
over here."

I still couldn't look at him.

"Hey, I've got an idea. Just do what I say. Don't ask questions. Just do
it."

I nodded dumbly.

"Get out of your school stuff. Get naked. Lie on the bed. Get
comfortable. But close your eyes, and keep them closed till I say you can
open them. Promise."

I nodded.

I heard Frankie jump up from the armchair. I heard his feet on the
carpet. The door opened. I turned. He was gone. I stood up and stripped
off. It was like I was in a trance, like I was doing things without
thinking, just doing what I'd been told.

I folded my jacket, my shirt and my trousers neatly and laid them on the
armchair. I took off my socks and slid out of my underpants and laid them
on top of the clothes. The air was warm and fresh on my skin. My cock
stretched itself and I stretched myself out on the bed - naked. I closed my
eyes.

I heard the door open, feet cross the carpet. The bed creaked. Then
nothing. I figured Oscar was checking my erection. I was only twelve but
already my dick was touching six inches hard, so I'd nothing to be ashamed
of their. I even had a faint brush of hair down there.

"Eyes closed," came a whisper. The bed creaked again as Oscar shifted his
weight.

"Okay, open your eyes."

I opened my eyes. It took a few seconds to figure out what I was looking
at. It was naked arse - poised only a few inches above my face. Oscar was
kneeling so that he could hold his bum over my face! I could see his crack
and how his cheeks curved down to his hole. Oscar's hole!

His pale, smooth skin browned slightly as it reached what looked like a
vertical little mouth. The lips were a bit puffy, bruised even. I examined
them minutely, microscopically. Oscar's hole was beautiful.

"Kiss it, Oscar. You know you want to."

He lowered his bum. I raised my head, andmy lips made contact with a
Oscar's anus.

I stuck out the tip of my tongue and ran it over the tiny serrations. I
pushed higher and, as best I could, kissed his hole, once, twice... and
then again and again.

The smell was intoxicating.

Suddenly, Oscar farted and flooded my senses with the smells from his
insides. That giggle again. I pushed my lips back to his hole -kissed,
licked, sucked until my mouth and jaw ached. Above me, I heard little moans
and whimpers.

Oscar started to rise but I grabbed his thighs and held him in place.

"So you like it, huh?

I mumbled something and added: "Just a bit higher and hold there if you
can."

Oscar rose a few inches and I had clear view of his rosebud. I learned
later that's what you call it, his pucker, like a rosebud, or a starfish,
though Oscar's was bigger than mine, reddish and bruised. I wondered what
he abused himself.

Spreading out from his anus, the light brown skin gave way to
ivory-coloured, smooth as satin skin I couldn't help but lick. I returned
to his anus and was surprised almost the whole of my tongue slipped inside.

I began to tickle his insides with my tongue when Oscar let out a long,
ripping fart that made my eyes water. I heaved him off me and leapt on
him. I'm stronger and better at wrestling so it wasn't diffcult to pin him
below me. He didn't put up much resistance.

He looked up at me and whispered: "Spit in my mouth - as much as you can."

"What?!"

"Don't think about it. Just do it," and he opened his mouth wide.

I'd stopped thinking. I was on automatic pilot, though I'd no idea where we
were flying. I hawked up as much phlegm and saliva as I could, leaned down
and spat it onto Oscar's mouth. It took me three goes to get everything
up. He pulled me down and kissed me open-mouthed transferring gobs of
saliva into mine. I got the idea right away and transferred the gobs back
to him - to me, to him, to me, to...

"Spit in my hole, in my hole."

I didn't need to be told twice. He flipped over and held up his bum. I
jerked his cheeks open, used my thumb to prise his hole open and spat what
I had left inside him. I didn't need to be told what to do next. I fastened
my lips round the mouth of his anus and sucked as much as I could out of
him and into me.

I wormed my tongue around in Oscar's smelly anus, half-afraid I'd touch the
tip of a turd, and half-afraid I wouldn't. He smelled of shit but could I
reach it inside him. Only one way to find out.

There was a faint buzzing in my ears.


"Quick, that's mummy."

Mummy!

Whose mummy?

Oscar's mum!

And she was at the door!

Oscar started laughing as I sprang off the bed in panic.

"Hey, Dylan, there's no panic. That buzzer goes off in all the rooms. This
is a big house, lots of rooms - and we don't have to go down and open the
door. All that's taken care of."

By this time, my underpants were the wrong way round, and I was starting to
pull on my trousers.

I slowed down.

"You mean, she's not going to come in here?"

"Of course not, you silly billy. Mummy wouldn't ever come walking into my
bedroom without knocking and waiting. We're a civilised family... and wash
some of that stuff off your mouth."

I hobbled into the bathroom, washed my face, reversed my underpants, and
got dressed as calmly as I could manage, which wasn't much. By the time,
I'd finished Oscar was dressed and combing his hair in front of the full
length mirror. He turned and kissed me on the lips. "Now let's go down and
meet mummy."

As soon as I met 'mummy', I knew where Oscar got his looks. Mummy was
drop-dead gorgeous and looked like his older sister rather than his
mum. Oscar introduced us.

"So you're Dylan," she said, and leaned forward to plant a little kiss on
my lips. I wondered if she'd do that if she knew where my lips were ten
minutes before.

"Oscar's been telling us lots about you. He really likes you, and, believe
me, our Oscar is hard to please."

"Now, mummy, enough of that. Here's your Moscow mule."

What the fuck was a Moscow mule? I found out soon enough and I learned to
make them to Angelique's satisfaction, Angelique being Oscar's mother, and
a Moscow mule being: a cocktail made with vodka, spicy ginger beer, and
lime juice, garnished with a slice or wedge of lime. Oscar handed Angelique
a copper mug in which resided the afore-described Moscow mule.

I kid you not, that's the way Angel(ique) spoke, and, as she spoke, I saw
her longer fingers reach under a side-table and "bbzzzz". There it went
again, and, as if by magic, part of the wall opened, and a man walked
in. Not a man, really. More an older boy, about 18, I'd say, and he gave
the tiniest of bows to Madame.

"Ah, Henri," she purred, "take the boys down to the kitchens and see they
are fed and watered. I've got calls to make, and I'm not to be disturbed."

She kissed Oscar, on the lips, and trotted after Houseboy Henri through the
parition in the wall which closed behind us. It was only later I realised
Houseboy Henri had been in the house while I almost touched Oscar's turd
with the tip of my tongue!

That night, in bed, in my own home, I tried to make sense of what happened
chez Oscar, gave up, gave myself a deep finger-fuck, sniffed my finger,
gave it a suck, rolled over and fell dead asleep.

Next couple of days in school Oscar behaved like nothing had happened. He
was just friendly and anyway we had two badminton matches: first for the
U-13s (our team won 5-3), then U-15s (4-4), and we won our doubles match
that gave our team the draw! After the second match, mum (my mum) picked us
up and we have early dinner at our house - fish and chips, and no Moscow
mules: LOL

On Friday we went straight to Oscar's house. My legs were shaking a little
bit as we walked across Westpark. I wondered if Henri would be
around. Oscar didn't mention him, so I didn't. We went up to Oscar's
bedroom and got naked on the bed without saying a word.

I followed Oscar's instructions.

I took the face down, bum up position. He got on top, sitting back on my
buttocks and thighs. He pressed the heels of my hands into his back and
began giving him a deep massage, causing him to grunt in pleasure. Aften
five minutes, he settled his palms on his arse cheeks and used his thumbs
to pull open my bumhole.

H started sniffing his browny pink hole. He pulled my left cheek wider and
wormed his middle finger into my anus - again it was easier than I
expected, so he added another finger.

"Nngh!" I grunted, my rectum tightening around his fingers as he dug
inside. He pulled my fingers out and I was obviously excited to see brown
streaks on it. There were little brown lumps under his fingernails.

"Dylan, do you like me, do you really like me?"

"'Course I do."

"Would you do something for me?"

"'Course I would."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

He paused.

Then.

"Do you need the toilet?"

"Matter of a fact, I do."

"Will you please squat over me face when you do it?"

I didn't understand what he meant for a moment.

"Not just over my face... over my mouth."

I couldn't believe it.

The most beautiful boy I'd ever seen. His family was rich. They even had a
houseboy.

"Please, please. Don't think about it. Just do it.

...

I'm not going to write what happened. I'll never do it again.

...

After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

The door opened.

Henri put his head round the door.

No expression on his face, just:

"Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes."

And he was gone.

Not once during lunch did Henri mention the other stuff. Of course, Oscar
had to spoil things by looking at me and saying with his mouthful: "Wonder
what this will taste like when it comes out of me."

I blushed furiously and Henri gave Oscar a look that shut him up - at least
on that topic - for the rest of lunch - but there was a smile round the
French boy's mouth.

Henri's English was almost perfect but he had the sexiest accent I'd ever
heard. He explained he was taking a year off before he started at the
Sorbonne - that's a famous university in Paris. He's going to study
chemistry and then create perfumes for his mum's business. You won't
believe how expensive some of these perfumes are!

Oscar and I were going swimming. We didn't have to go far. Westpark complex
has its own swimming facility - residents' only - and they even have a
lifeguard at the weekend - the only time when under-16s are allowed in
unaccompanied.

We grabbed our bikes and set off - but not before Henri had given me a
quick peck on the lips and Oscar a long tongue session. I was so jealous I
booted Oscar up the arse and ran for the elevator. We could hear Henri
laughing behind us.

Merde!

012 - ONLY YOU

Elwyn and I stayed together through school. Our families sometimes went
together on holidays. I think they guessed their boys had a special
relationship.

Elwyn and I are at the same university. We share apartments with two other
young men. They are straight. They couldn't care less that we are gay - and
out.

Elwyn is studying Physics. I'm studying journalism. We'll graduate together
in two years time. Then we'll get married.

And then...

Who knows.

Life's what happens to you when you're busy...

Thanks for your kind comments on some of my stories. Some of you have asked
if I've written any others. I have indeed. Here are those I have been able
to locate. The rest are somewhere in the Nifty archives. Only God knows
where and He has yet to divulge their whereabouts to me. By the way, only
the email addy atop this story is functional.

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/those-blue-remembered-hills

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/urination/fearless-frankie

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/jason-carter/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/once-upon-a-time

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/first-time/true-colours

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/first-time/true-fiction

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/beautiful-game

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/loving-boys

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/oscar-my-love/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/sweet-william-mine

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/still-life-water-colours

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/urination/kaleidoscope

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/suddenly-that-summer

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/rescue-me

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/urination/life-with-the-darlings

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/falling-in-love-again

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/urination/boys-like-us

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/sweets-to-the-sweet/

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/you-never-can-tell

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/sandhaven

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/young-friends/loves-of-my-life

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/little-miners