Schoolie

Life in The Village, through the eyes of Tom Grant, the only teacher at the remote school.

This is an original work of pure fiction (just an expression of a fantasy)
by Robert A. Armstrong (a pseudonym)
(re-written from my 2013 version)

The resemblance of the characters by action, name, location or description to any real person is purely coincidental.

If it is illegal, or offensive, for you to read stories involving interactions of a sexual nature between adults and youths, then what are you doing here?

 

 

 

From Chapter 38

As I head for the bedroom to collect my `enema kit', I say, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I believe that I have an appointment," and I give Will a withering stare.

Marty, catching my expression, turns to Will and announces, "I think that you're in big trouble, mister!"

When I emerge from the bathroom, some many minutes later, Will and Marty are just sitting, talking. I say quite emphatically to Will, indicating the bathroom with a nod of my head, "Your turn!" leaving no doubt in anybody's mind what MY intentions are for the night!

 

 

Chapter 39 - Totally Stuffed

 

I ensure that I collect the essentials to take with me into Marty's room - towels, lube and deodorant then I bid him a `good night', forcing myself not to react to, or even acknowledge, his knowing smirks, eyebrow raising and exaggerated winks. Then I wait for Will.

As I lie, face up, modesty unnecessarily protected by the corner of a towel, I hear him emerge from the bathroom and there is a brief exchange of voices. Then, "Fuck off Marty!" resonates through the house.

Will strides into Marty's room and stands with arms akimbo, an exasperated look on his face.

"So, what did he say... this time?" I ask, with a somewhat bemused grin.

"It's not funny!" Will replies. "He said that he hopes that you don't squeal as much as I did last night."

"That's not so bad," I tell him. "Besides, you can be pretty noisy, you know!"

"Yeah, but then he said that if I couldn't finish you off to call him and he'd come and do it properly!" Will is not quite hyperventilating but is obviously miffed. I'm not sure whether he thinks that Marty is still intent on `making a play' for me, or whether Marty doubts Will's stamina and ability. Personally, I think that Marty was just playing with Will's mind. I hope it's all that he's doing.

I try to placate Will with, "Marty obviously underestimates both of us!" Then I chuckle, "Perhaps we should tease him with lots of noise after all, just to prove a point. What do you say?"

Will doesn't have to reply. His tacit, devilish and cheesy (as though posing for a photograph) grin is quite sufficient as an answer.

Our foreplay of kissing, nibbling, licking and sucking is accompanied by louder-than-necessary oohs, aahs, moans, groans and giggles. I think that Will and I are enjoying our overt play-acting as much as the physical stimulation.

However, the real love-making and stimulation soon overwhelm our specious noises.

The moment that I feel the cool gel applied by Will's loving, gentle fingers, Marty ceases to occupy any place in my thoughts. Will, his body, his fingers and his pulsating cock stimulate my senses. The thrill of him finding my prostate elicits genuine outcries, more guttural than I could have even imagined myself producing. I become inebriated by the feeling of him sliding in and out of me, `bottoming out' repeatedly while on my back, and on my knees and on my side.

While in his favourite spooning position Will unloads in me. His groans, so genuinely unrestrained, appear to echo around the room, and even from the hallway.

After resting, I give as good as I was given - slowly, sensuously and prolongingly.

With Will on his back and his legs on my shoulders, I push hard, slow and deep. We not only coordinate our thrusting movements, but also our noisy breathing and blissful exclamations.

I lean forward and kiss his neck, feel him thrust his hips upwards and I experience a lot of his wetness between us. His anal muscles clamp around my cock and I spurt deep, repeatedly. He groans. I groan. The echo from the hallway groans once, followed by an almost inaudible, whispered "Fuck!"

I hope that Marty has a towel with him tonight. I think that he wouldn't have made it back to the bathroom in time.

There is no nocturnal visitor tonight and we sleep soundly, roused only by the aroma of breakfast. We have even slept through the kookaburras' pre-sunrise territorial assertions.

I use one towel to mop the remnants of fluids from my body, and head to the bathroom for an urgent pee and a much-needed shower.

As I pass Marty, unexpectedly dressed in his favourite `going-to-town' jeans and blue shirt, I throw him a quick, acknowledging comment, "I hope that you've saved something for `him' and `her' today, buddy."

Grasping his dressed-to-the-left bulge, he replies, "Still got plenty of fuel in the tank; you don't have to worry yourself about that!"

We both laugh, knowing.

I shower then dress casually.

The aroma of shampoo and a floral-scented soap that surround me are in stark contrast to the pungent smell of love-making in Marty's room.

"Hey, lover!" I whisper in Will's ear. "Breakfast." That word is better than any alarm clock.

He rubs his eyes, scratches his balls and discovers his need of a towel. I throw him one.

"Clean yourself up and have a shower. I'll deal with the room," I tell him. I open the window to its greatest extent, spray deodorant profusely, including aiming one squirt playfully towards Will's backside, which elicits one of his captivating, boyish smiles. I tell him, "Just shower and throw something on. Marty's keen to get into Big Town."

"Yeah. And I know why!" Will grins. Then he adds, "Just picture it - two cannolis and cream with donuts as well."

"Donuts?" I ask.

"C'mon, Tom," he chides. "Even you know what's in the middle of a donut.

"Jam?" I tease.

"A hole, Tom! Think about it. Three donuts, a pair of melons and two cannolis with cream."

"Is that all you think about ... food?" I put to him, smirking.

"Well, that's number two on my list," is all that he says. We both know what really comes first!

"Incorrigible!" I tell him, swatting his firm, scented, naked tail on the way out of the door.

I pause at the kitchen. Will continues towards the bathroom, but not before throwing out a "Fuck off Marty!" on the way.

"What was that for?" Marty calls after him.

"For whatever it was that you were going to say!" Will shoots back, disappearing through the bathroom doorway.

I smile at Marty. "Still a bit early for him to be trading insults with you. I suppose he thought that he'd just get the last word in, first."

My unlikely challenge this morning is how to keep Will occupied so that he doesn't get to, and return from, Jake's too early and catch us putting up the new bed. I expect that Marty will be gone for about four hours - driving, shopping and for a ball-draining session with `him' and `her', probably giving up another two loads (at least) of his Marty seed.

I tell Marty to take off early and that Will and I will clean up. We bump fists and he heads out back for his SUV. The shops will be open by the time he gets to Big Town.

As Will re-appears in blue jeans and a Gold-Coast-souvenir polo shirt that was bought at the Mall, I tell him, "If you do the kitchen, I'll tend to the laundry and bedrooms."

I strip all three beds to wash the sheets, knowing that only one of them is going to be re-made today.

Will and I also spray, wipe and mop the bathroom and the rest of the place which, when we are finished, smells disinfectantly clean, hospital-like.

Now what?

"Do you know..." I ask Will, "that I've never seen all of the artwork that I believe you have stored in Marty's spare room? Apart from what you took with you on holidays."

He looks at me blankly and then smiles. "I suppose all of that could do with a tidy-up too," he says. "I can organise my paints and brushes properly and then separate the unfinished work and sort the others into some kind of order - maybe people, landscapes, horses and everything else."

Brushes, crayons, paint, pencils, paper, blank canvases and easel become aligned orderly along a hallway wall beginning from the `front door'.

Will begins to bring out dozens of pictures which he carefully organises by subject in the living area.

His landscapes show his clear skill development over a half-dozen years in the use of various media. A number of local buildings and sites appear in various colours, textures and detail.

His faces are all recognisable subjects, even his earliest ones. I ask him whether I may sort them by the individual people for him. He agrees.

The horses, his real passion from the early days, are unique. I didn't know that it was possible to portray a horse's personality or mood, but Will seems to have achieved it. Eyes, ears, facial muscles - they are all significant. My little brother has been blessed with a truly unique skill!

However, I don't think that I have ever previously seen pictures of male horses with their genitalia exposed. Will's sketches and paintings are studies in equine anatomy.

I don't know much about horses, so I take the opportunity to ask Will about his prolific recording of horse penises in various states of `extension'.

I sort them into what I roughly consider their chronology of creation dates and an interesting pattern emerges. The earliest ones simply record the emergence of the organ from its sheath (hey, I'm not totally ignorant!) Then, Will has captured them peeing and the later ones show erections. My initial guess is that they correlate fairly closely with stages in Will's own sexual awareness.

"When I was little," Will comments, "Uncle Reg had lots of animals - horses, cattle and pigs and, when I asked him about what I saw one day he told me how it was easy to tell boy animals from girl animals. `Boys have pizzles' he used to say, and I remember that I used to point them out to everyone saying, `That's a boy horse; he's got a pizzle'. At first, they used to laugh at me because it probably seemed `cute' but then I think it became embarrassing because I remember my mother yelling at me one day, and Sean told me that I'd better quit saying it."

"And it was round about that time that I first remember being conscious of the name `Little Willie'. My mother told me that it was because my father's name and mine were the same so he was `Big Willie' and I was `Little Willie'. But that's not what Marty told me. He said it was because my pizzle or `willie' was small, compared with my father's, and to the horses' and bulls' ones and to his and Sean's and Chad's. In my mind, I demanded that I have a big willie too. That's when I started drawing them. But I never showed anyone. Do you know, Tom, that you are the only person who has ever seen these?"

I'm honoured by the privilege and I take Will in a very emotional hug. "Thank you, bro."

He continues, "There were times when I wanted to be a horse. When nobody was around, I even tried getting on my hands and knees to pee. The only problem with that was that I used to splash mud all over myself. So that didn't last long."

"Later I realised that I used to get hard just like the horses do, and I was really happy. I used to crawl around with a stiffy and pretend that I was a stallion looking for a mare. The difference was that I really didn't care about mares; I was just totally fascinated by penises - horses mainly, but also cattle, pigs, and my naked cousins. Yeah, I reckon they were real animals sometimes!"

"Once I even drew Marty's, Chad's and Sean's heads on three animals with hard-ons. I thought that they were pretty funny but I burnt them in case somebody found them. I was terrified that the three of them would see them and bash me up."

I comment to Will that he has no picture of horses mating, which I really anticipated that I would find somewhere.

He replies, "Yeah, well, I used to see them doing it but I was just fascinated by those long hard things. I even pretended at night that my pillow was a mare and I was the stallion. One night it happened! I discovered what spurting was, and, later, I realised that I didn't need a pillow to make it happen. A hand was as good as a pillow." We chuckle.

"It was then that I caught on to what I had seen Marty and his brothers standing in a line and doing one day when I went over to the weir for a swim. They didn't see me, but I remember every little detail of it. I could probably still draw it from memory. I wonder what Marty would say if I did it and showed it to him."

I say, "Marty would probably laugh if I told him, but I'm not sure about the other two!"

Will's worried expression turns to a smile. "It's not like they could deny it!" he cackles evilly. The thought crosses my mind, knowing Will, that maybe he might actually do it! As bold as skinny dipping on a public Gold Coast beach!

He carefully wraps his `horses-with-genitalia' collection in a black cloth. Others are sorted. He checks with me, and some in which we agree that Monika, Uncle Bill's art-gallery-director friend, may be interested, are put aside for a potential exhibition.

`Unfinished' ones are separated out, including Marty's house in the afternoon sunlight which he had displayed to Monika.

Everything is neatly packed away and we head to the kitchen for a late-morning coffee and whatever we can find to go with it. No custard tarts, but some fresh cookies (probably courtesy of Anna) will be perfect! Their quantity is soon noticeably diminished.

I look at my watch - 11:15. Marty should be back within the hour.

I tell Will, "Probably a good time for you to head up and see Jake. I expect that Di will feed you lunch while you're there and, being Saturday, who knows what she has baked this morning!" Will smiles at me. I add, "And, don't eat too many scones with jam and cream or Marty will really have a reason to call you `tubby'!"

"Nah, that's not going to happen! Besides, I can always work off the calories... tonight!" I give him my car keys with one hand and a friendly swat on the tail with the other. I love his backside - even clothed. It snuggles so perfectly into his close-fitting jeans!

 

I'm not sure what to do now. Everything that I had planned, in terms of cleaning, Will and I have already done.

I could stroll over to Mum and Anna's place, say `hello' and be assured of something to eat while being quizzed about Tony and Rocco.

Or else, I could climb to the top of the windmill and water tank and take some photos of Marty's place from up high with my new tablet. On my previous `visit' to the windmill, I only admired its structure and function from the ground. I didn't climb the metal ladder, as I have once seen Marty do to inspect the higher mechanisms. I might probably see Acacia's place from up there and, maybe, as far as the road. However, I realise that I wouldn't be able to see The Village and the school because the river gums are even taller than the windmill. Yeah. That sounds like a plan!

I go to retrieve my tablet/camera in the bedroom and suddenly change my mind. Instead, seeing the two single beds, I decide to be helpful and disassemble them ready to take to Acacia's, thereby leaving space free for the bunks. I move the mattresses to the hallway and check out the beds - just two end-pieces with metal slots into which the sprung base drops. I look, and re-look. No screws. No bolts. The base should just slide out. This should be easy.

Wrong!

I try, desperately pulling the base up to separate the pieces, and I think that I might have strained a muscle in my back.

I try hitting it from underneath. My only achievement is bruising the fleshy part of my hand.

I kick it with an upwards motion. The whole bed lifts momentarily off the floor, then drops back mocking my sore foot!

I turn it on its side. I pull the end and push the base. It still won't budge and my back again starts to complain.

I'm beginning to think that some idiot has super-glued the bits together.

My tools are in my car - at Jake's.

Marty's SUV is (hopefully) on its way back from Big Town with Marty and his tools.

I need a hammer!

I check the garage and shed out back but the only things that strike me as remotely user-friendly are a large wrench and a length of cut timber. I take both.

With the bed still on its side, I try gently tapping with the wrench in the direction that the base must move. Not hard enough! So, I hit it with full force and the metal-on-metal reaction vibrates through my hands and up my arms to my shoulders and neck.

Not happy!

I take the lump of timber and I think to myself, `No mercy!', `Take no prisoners!' One almighty swing and ... a lot of noise, sore arms and one intact bed.

I throw the lump of wood onto the floor, rehearse my entire repertoire of profanities, retrieve my tablet and head for the windmill.

 

What a magnificent view of the surrounding land that stretches from the snaking river gums behind me away to the southern horizon! I could well imagine Marty and his brothers perching themselves up here to observe their Mum's comings and goings at the big house. I contemplate the multitude of imaginary games that they could have played: knights in a castle protecting the kingdom, the lookout in a crow's nest at sea scanning for land or whales or pirates, robbers in the Bad Lands keeping watch for the Sheriff and his posse...

I notice the plume of red dust first, then the small splotch of bright blue preceding it, and I follow its progress.

Despite the vehicle being obscured by clumps of trees, when I see no `new' dust rising, I know that Marty has turned off the road onto the track. I linger at my vantage point a while longer, catching glimpses of blue heading towards me as the track wends its way through the grey-greenness and treeless patches.

With my tablet tucked securely into the top of my jeans, the rungs of the iron ladder seem hotter on the way down, probably because I need to cling to them more tightly.

Marty's SUV pulls to the back door, and I reach it just after him. He's beaming.

"Nice morning's work?" I ask jovially.

"Totally stuffed!" he replies. I know that he probably intends it literally as well as colloquially to express his exhaustion. "But I enjoyed every minute of it. Let's grab a coffee and I'll fill you in." Smiling and remembering our previous discussion and use of that expression, he corrects himself. "I mean, I'll tell you all about it."

I follow him in and he stops at my bedroom door. Peering in he says, "What the hell...?"

"Don't ask!" I tell him and walk straight past him to the kitchen.

He takes in the scene and bursts out laughing. "Wrong bed!" he calls, then follows me.

"What do you mean, `wrong bed'?" I ask.

"The one that you have on its side used to creak so I splayed out the little flat plates a bit. When you press in the sides at the right place, they actually come out fairly easily. Otherwise it's almost impossible.

"Not almost!" I tell him, and then complain about my back, my hand, my foot and my ego.

"Come on. I'll show you," he says, still chuckling.

I leave the gurgling jug to look after itself, and I follow Marty.

With the bed still in its same position, he leans his full weight on the side of the base at one end and the bloody little mongrel metal tab just slides out of its slot. He does the same at the other end. The two on the opposite side offer no resistance.

We turn to my bed and, with one of us at each end, the base just lifts straight out.

"Easy!" he says. "You just picked the wrong one to start with. Now, let's have that coffee."

Marty describes his morning escapade in great detail. I'm almost embarrassed listening to it, but it's got me as stiff as a poker standing alongside a fireplace.

He tells me that they often play games, with `him' inside `her' and with Marty behind and inside `him'. Or with Marty and `him' swapping positions.

Marty said that, with his stamina, he is quite able to satisfy both of them. When the three of them play, Marty and `him' both get to do `her' and then the guys just do each other. Then the guys always shower together and sometimes `go again'.

No wonder Marty's exhausted! He'll sleep well tonight!

We place all of the bed pieces in the hallway, up past the bathroom, out of the way. The new flat-packs are unloaded, divested of the protective foam and all of the pieces laid out. Apart from the single and double bases there are only the two tubular ends (shaped like curvy slippery slides) and two optional stabilising rods that cross diagonally from top bunk to bottom bunk at the back, near the wall. I ensure that the stabilising rods are well secured (because the bed will be getting a real workout) and all bolts are tightened with the previously-useless wrench. 10 minutes. Simple!

There is an obligatory testing of the mattresses (or at least the bottom one). I flop down, bounce around a bit and declare it a `winner'.

"What's it like with two people?" Marty asks, joining me.

Despite the innocence of it all, now would not be a good time for Will to walk in!

Linen. Pillows. Finished. I put the new blankets onto the top bunk. I don't think that they, or it, will get much use in the immediate future.

"Have you had lunch?" Marty asks.

"No, not yet," I tell him.

"Come on. I know where we can get some."

We put the single bed bits and mattresses into the SUV and head to his Mum's.

 

Her dogs alert Anna who, in turn, tells her mother. Acacia has one of those `What do you want, Marty?' scowls on her face, but she conveniently switches it off when she sees me in the passenger's seat.

Hopping out, he declares, "Hi Mum, I've brought you two beds for the cottage."

She chirps, "Well, if you and Tom can go and put them over there, I'll fix us all some lunch." Marty winks at me.

Acacia doesn't ask whether we've already eaten. Mothers seem to assume that boys are always ready to eat. Not wrong!

Anna jumps up and down and claps. She squeals, "Now, if your Italian friends come, Tom, they can really stay over here!" Then she skips inside. She reminds me of a toy wind-up monkey! The only thing missing are the cymbals on her hands. Marty and I just look at each other and he shakes his head.

Beds done.

We eat.

I describe to Acacia and Anna what I'm sure they each want to hear - Mr Verdi's prosperity and Rocco's physique. I avoid any discussion of `marriageability', interposing a few times that Tony and his cousin are well-mannered young boys - a little younger than Will. That doesn't seem to deter either of them.

Unfortunately, I reply too quickly to Anna's question whether I know if Rocco has a girlfriend. My `no' seems to act only as encouragement for whatever is in her mind. I feel obliged to add, "Well, not that he mentioned."

For the time being, the mother and daughter are satisfied, as are the stomachs of the son and the schoolie.

We return to Marty's and tidy up the new-bed packaging, adding it to other recyclables out in the shed. Sometimes, Marty tells me, the unusable `rubbish' is simply buried even though it could be burned. Fires out here, especially with everything so dried up, are such that any escaping ember could trigger a disaster.

Sniffing his bedroom air, Marty comments on how fresh it smells and how clean the place is. "Hey! Nice work. Thanks, buddy," he comments.

I begin to extol Will's cleaning efforts when the dogs alert us to somebody's approach. It's probably Will. I think that the dogs should be accustomed to my car by now but, then, it's difficult to stifle their enthusiasm in what must be an otherwise boring existence.

I hear Will talking to the dogs.

When he comes in, he plonks himself, in a reclining position, in one of the corner armchairs, and exhales loudly.

"Good time at Jake's?" Marty asks. He and I both anticipate Will telling us of some exhausting wrist action and depleting activity.

Instead, Will smirks, then pauses before he says, "Wow... Aunty Di is one amazing cook! I'm stuffed."

"So are we," Marty tells him.

Will sits up somewhat and eyes us both suspiciously. I can tell exactly what Mr one-track-mind is thinking!

I laugh at him and say, "We've just had lunch with Marty's Mum and Anna. So, we're stuffed, too!"

"Oh, is that all?" he comments, leaning back again.

I think that it's time to clear the air. "Will," I start, "You look uncomfortable every time one of us mentions Marty and me being together. I want you to know that, even though we've played a bit together like yesterday, which you already know about, Marty and I have never done what you and I did last night or what he did with `him' and `her' this morning."

"Oh, and what would that have been?" he asks, all very falsely innocent!

"Cannolis and donuts," I reply.

Smirking, Will gets it. Marty doesn't, but I'm sure that he can guess the intent even if he doesn't understand the reference.

Marty says to him, "Come here, Cuz!"

Will looks at him with slight distrust - one joker to another - but, obligingly, he eases himself out of the chair and approaches to within an arm's length of his cousin. Marty opens his arms, inviting a hug. Will complies, albeit a little warily.

"Thank you," Marty says.

Will's expression asks the `what for?' question, without the words being uttered.

"Just for being you!" Marty replies to the unvoiced question. He adds, "You're a great kid and Tom is a very lucky man! I wouldn't do anything to hurt either of you. And, by the way, thanks for cleaning this place up while I was in town enjoying myself."

Will, ever the opportunist and striking while the iron is hot, comes straight back with, "So, can Tom and I sleep in your bed again tonight?"

"Definitely not!" Marty says, obviously trying very hard to keep a straight, serious face. "You're both banished to your own room tonight."

"Thanks a fucking lot for nothing!" Will snaps, prying himself loose from Marty's arms and chucking an `exit-stage-left' stomping tantrum towards our room, mumbling and cursing as he goes.

The stomping and cursing come to an abrupt halt. Silence.

"What the fuck is that?" he blurts out, hastily retreating to where Marty and I are chuckling together.

"You tell him," I say to Marty. "It was your idea."

"Hey, I didn't want you two wrecking the springs on my double bed, so you now have one of your own that you can bounce around on."

"Hell, Yeah!" Will shouts and grabs Marty in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and dancing around the room with him. "Thank you! OMG. Thank you so much! And I'm sorry for getting angry just now."

"No problem." Marty manages to squeak out, still experiencing a compressed diaphragm and lungs.

"Will drops him and runs back to the room, forgetting about me, it seems. Marty and I follow. He is sitting near the edge of the double mattress and begins springing up and down.

Will says, "Tom, come and see what it's like with two people!"

I don't mention that Marty and I have already checked that out. I crash-tackle him, football style, but gently (if that is at all possible) and we wrestle and roll over each other. Alternating being on top, we push our hips into each other or grasp each other's butts. I discern a faint squeak from among the springs. We will have to find and fix that!

"Hey! Don't stop on my account!" Marty says, reminding us of his presence. "I think that I'll go and have a bit of a cat nap. I feel a bit tired. Can't imagine why!"

We laugh and he leaves us alone!

"This is awesome. You want to christen the bed?" Will asks, rolling on top of me and pinning my arms above my head.

"Let's do it properly tonight," I tell him. "But there's nothing wrong with a bit of rolly-polly now."

We roll, bounce, grope, hug and kiss.

I have to locate the source of that squeak!

Will eventually rolls me onto my side, spoons up to me, hugs me tightly as if to keep me in place, and we indulge in our own contented siesta.

 

I wake to the sensation of my neck being gently kissed. I roll over to face Will and we practise a more passionate version.

"Everything's really quiet," I say. "What do you think about you and I making dinner tonight for Marty and us?"

"Great idea," he replies and we extricate ourselves from each other and our new `magic mattress' as Will has dubbed it.

I check out what's in the pantry and the fridge.

"What do you think about grilled lamb chops and roast vegetables?" I ask Will. "There are pumpkin, potatoes, onions and carrots that can go into the oven. And there's a bag of frozen peas with corn kernels that I can do on the stove."

"Great!" he replies. "Anything for dessert?"

"Cannolis and cream with donuts?" I reply. He smiles at me. I tell him, "Why don't you check whatever there is that we could have," and I begin to assemble out sufficient quantities for three hungry mouths.

"There's a Custard and Apple Danish and some ice cream in the freezer," Will informs me.

"That sounds good," I say. "The Danish can go straight into the oven when the vegetables come out."

Will disappears up the hallway towards Marty's room and then re-appears, smiling. "He's sound asleep," Will says. "He must have really worn himself out this morning!" Then he grins and adds, "And, he's got his jeans off with his hand down the front of his underpants."

"Happy dreaming!" I say to Will. "I'm sure that I've done that before. What about you?"

"Hehehe," is all the response that I get. Then he adds, "Well, not since I've been sleeping with you! I'm more likely to have my hand down the front of your pants."

And I think, `frequently!'

The Danish is thawing on the kitchen bench. The chops are grilling and the roasting vegetables are very happily cooking away in the oven with the others in a pot of water already on slow heat, before there is any movement from up the hallway.

"What's going on?" Marty mumbles while scratching the back of his head with one hand and readjusting the bulk in his undies with the other.

"Well, you're always cooking for us, so we thought that we'd poison you for a change," Will smirks.

"Unfair, Will!" I tell him, then add, "It's a small `thank you', Marty, for everything."

"Thanks," he says, looking towards me, and then he heads for the bathroom.

"Coffee?" I call, raising my voice to be heard over his loud peeing.

"Thanks," comes the reply.

"Be kind to him, Will," I admonish seriously.

"Yeah, sorry," he replies. "It's just a habit I've developed... which I caught from him."

Marty appears. "Sorry, Marty," Will repeats.

Marty nods acknowledgment. "No worries, Cuz," he says, punching Will on the shoulder, which appears to be a little more forceful than the usual playful jab. Will winces, but says nothing under my withering, unsympathetic, `you-started-it' stare.

Conversation over a nice meal is very friendly and non-provocative.

"Wonderful," Marty says, pushing his empty plate away from the edge of the table. "Thank you, guys."

The spicy aroma of the Danish fills the room as Will removes it from the oven and slices it into three generous pieces. And he is not stingy with the ice cream either.

Marty's next piece of information is not so cheerful. "Mum heard a rumour that the farm which Mr Andersen is managing for its owners is going to be sold." Then he adds, "Things are getting tougher, without rain. Any buyer will probably be offering only a fraction of the real value for it."

He carries on about the economics of farming and keeping stock alive but I don't really hear it. My mind is elsewhere!

I can tell from the sudden change in Will's expression that the `penny has just dropped' for him as well. Shock becomes sadness and then, almost, grief. Without saying anything, his eyes fill with water, his bottom lip begins to quiver, he gets up from the table, walks to the bathroom and quietly closes the door.

"If Mr Andersen has no job," Marty says almost matter-of-factly, obviously understanding the situation, but being in no way cognisant of the closeness of Will and his surrogate `little brothers', Karl and Kurt, "then the boys will probably have to go back to their mother."

"That's awful," I tell Marty, as I feel myself beginning to choke up.

"Yes," he says. "And, it's not the first time that it's happened out here. We've lost two really good families for similar reasons; one just before last Christmas."

I make three cups of coffee, put them all on the table and tell Marty that I'll be back in a minute.

I knock softly on the bathroom door then go straight in. Will has his face buried in a towel and I can tell from the movement of his back and shoulders that he is crying, attempting to suffer in silence. I close the door and go to him. I place my hands tenderly on his upper arms below his shoulders. He spins around and throws his arms around me, still clutching the towel in one.

"It's not fair!" he blubbers. "It's so fucking not fair, Tom! Karl and Kurt will probably have to go and live with their mum in Brisbane and we'll never see them again."

His profusion of tears creates a large wet spot on my shoulder and I rub his back. Again, his vulnerability is exposed. Maturely, he cares for people but, emotionally, he is still as fragile as a little kid.

"Do you remember," I remind him, "when we prayed for young Andy? We asked God to let him live. And he's alive! Why don't we ask God to work out the situation for Mr Andersen so that Karl and Kurt don't have to leave?"

"Can that really happen?" Will asks, and his sobbing diminishes.

"I don't see why not," I reply. "Anyway, if we don't ask, we'll never know. Close your eyes and think of what you would like to happen and then say, `Please, God.' You know," I tell him, "that there are probably solutions to this problem that you and I couldn't even begin to think of."

"Like what?" Will replies.

"Well, if I knew that, I'd tell you." I smile at him. He smiles back and his anguish subsides.

After some reflective moments, I say, "Come on. There's fresh coffee to wash down that Danish."

An idea, bestowed by some all-knowing force, enters my head. I decide to keep it to myself for a couple of days.

After coffee, Will and I both `brush our teeth' in expectation of `getting lucky' in our very own double bed.

 

Later, neither of us is disappointed and, with the door closed, the rogue spring continues to squeak well past midnight.

Marty is so much more animated than Will and me over Sunday breakfast. He comments, "You two look as though you had a bad night's sleep. What's wrong with the new bed?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Will answers. "In fact, if we didn't get enough sleep, it's all thanks to the `magic mattress' on the new bed."

We all know the truth, so we chuckle over it.

"How many times...?" Marty starts.

"Don't even go there!" I cut him off.

"Just once!" Will volunteers. Marty and I both look at him, dumbfounded. He adds, "Yeah, once we started, we didn't stop until Tom fell asleep."

Marty nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee.

He changes the subject. "I'm going over to Mum's to finish the cottage. What are you guys going to do? Go back to bed?"

Will turns and gives me a cheesy, expectant grin, but I shake my head. "I'm going to see if there are any emails. I haven't checked since we've been back. Then I'll go up to the school to make sure that everything's ready for tomorrow.

Will adds, "Yeah. Facebook and email. I need to send some messages to the friends that I made during the holidays. And, I'd really like to talk with Karl and Kurt about that rumour and to ask what their dad is thinking of doing."

"What if Mr Andersen hasn't said anything to them yet?" I ask him.

"Don't worry," Marty tells me with a smirk. "If Mum has heard the rumour, then everyone in the district will know about it by now." Then he adds, "I'll bet that even the crows and galahs that visit her place will be spreading it."

We chuckle at his irreverent treatment of his mother, which has become a little more light-hearted since his encounter with the snake. But, hey, he knows her better than I do!

Marty decides to take the worn-out truck to his mother's `to give the old girl a run'. I hope he's talking machinery and not his mother!

Will and I talk, and agree to go up to The Village early and to do the communications `thing' after lunch.

Will puts his hand out for the car keys.

"My turn," I tell him and point him in the direction of the passenger's seat.

 

We can see Mr Andersen's truck parked at the house.

"You can drop me near the pub and I'll walk the rest of the way to Karl and Kurt's," Will tells me.

Thirty seconds later, as I pull up at the school, I see Will just reaching the boys' place.

I open the school windows to give the rooms a final airing. There is no need to rearrange any furniture because everything works well as it is. I sit at my desk and begin to check the work plans for all of the cherubs for the coming week, listing on a notepad what preparation that I will have to do for each day. I'm good at planning and am soon totally immersed in it.

During a moment of contemplation, I look up and see him walking along the verandah.

He knocks on the door.

"Come in, Kurt," I call. I'm expecting to see Karl and Will as well but they don't appear. I anticipate that they won't be far behind.

"Good morning, Mr Grant," he says.

"How are you, Kurt?" I return his greeting.

"OK... I guess," he replies, somewhat subdued. He's not his normal bubbly self. I wonder whether the rumour is true and if he's reacting poorly to it.

He forces a smile. His full set of permanent (`twelve-year-old') teeth, perfectly straight, flash a brilliant white between his red lips (too red for a boy). His mop of sandy-blond hair is swept to one side. Freckles. Dimples. So cute!

"Where's your brother?" I ask. "I'm accustomed to seeing the two of you together. It's unusual to see only one of you by yourself."

"Oh, he's helping my Dad with a few things. I was too, but Will insisted on giving us a hand and, as my dad often tells us, `two can be company but three can be a crowd'. So, I decided to leave them and come to see if you needed me to help with anything instead, like cleaning up after yesterday's dust storm."

"That's very kind of you," I tell him. "Thank you."

Although there is not much for him to do, I don't want to discourage his helpful attitude. "Well, there's not a lot to be done, Kurt, but you could check the other room for me if you like, to make sure that everything is tidy and all of the things are in their correct places."

"OK," is all that he says and he walks through the store room to the craft room.

I resume my thoughts about the needs of individual children and think of how Uncle Bill's bringing of technology to The Village, as well as Jarrod's educational games, might be put to some good purpose.

I blink out of my contemplation and Kurt is standing beside me. I grip the desk edge and turn my chair to face him.

"All OK in there, Mr Grant," he says.

Something is on his mind, I can tell.

I have to ask. "Are you all right, Kurt?" I maintain my grip on the desktop and manoeuvre my chair towards him a little, in an act of interest and concern, fixing my eyes on his own. Their usual blue sparkle seems somewhat dimmed this morning.

He steps forward, right up to my desk and rivets my attention with his unblinking gaze. At first, he says nothing, gently shifting his weight from one foot to the other. It is only then that I realise he has leant himself not against my desk, but directly against the back of my hand. No, not just his body, but his boyhood; his boy-bulge; his ample balls and soft penis. His gear and my hand are in direct contact.

Has he done this unwittingly, or subconsciously, or deliberately? I wonder!

I am about to extricate my hand when he speaks, "Mr Grant...?"

"Yes, Kurt. What is it?" I answer.

"Something bad, Mr Grant." He continues to shift his weight, almost nervously, back and forth.

"Can you tell me?" I say with genuine concern, but also very aware of what he is doing with his body.

"It's my dad." He pauses. "He might have to go and find work somewhere else."

His shifting balance has the effect of rubbing his penis from side to side, across my hand. I think his `little guy' is getting firmer. I dare not look at it! I maintain our eye contact.

"He thinks that the owners of the property may not be able to afford to keep paying him and that they may have to sell up and move," he volunteers.

His body movements have become regular and, intentionally or not, the rubbing of his young cock on my hand is definitely making it chunkier. I move the middle finger of my hand, previously frozen, exploringly, and confirm that there is now a well-defined, almost-hardness there, like one of the chunkier crayons which the little kids use for drawing and colouring.

He is the one to break our eye contact. He looks down, then back at my face and he smiles appreciatively. His body movements become even more regular and deliberate.

His body backs away a few centimetres, providing an opportunity for me to remove my hand. I don't. He leans against me again and pushes his hips forward. Then he backs off again. What is he telling me?

In a gesture of openness and sincerity I turn both hands palm-upwards towards him and I reply, "That's awful, Kurt. I'm really sorry. What will your dad do? Is there anything that I can do to help?"

He takes full advantage of the opportunity that I have offered and steps forward, raising himself just sufficiently to ensure that his package comes to rest on my open palm. He says, "Dad thinks he'll have to go somewhere else, and..., and..."

And, his eyes fill with tears.

He's got me hook, line and sinker!

I extend outwards my other hand, inviting him into a consoling hug.

Instead of coming to me face-on, he swivels into my lap, grasping my hand that is cradling his package, to ensure that the contact is maintained. He turns his head and rests it lightly on my chest. He presses my hand firmly into his crotch as he parts his legs. He is no longer chunky, but very hard. I place my `free' arm around his body.

He finishes his sentence, "...and if dad goes somewhere else, then we'll have to go too, except not with him, but back to our mum in Brisbane. It's what she's wanted all along. But we don't want to go now. We want to stay here."

The moment that I attempt to move my nether hand, he covers it with both of his own, indicating that he doesn't want me to take it away. In fact, he starts to manipulate it to fondle him. I accede to what he wants, willingly. He nuzzles his head against me.

I'm feeling as guilty as all hell, but enraptured in the sensations of his soft touch on top of my hand, his twitching cock beneath it, and his young, warm body cuddled against my own.

While I continue to idly play with his stiffness and with both of us deliberately ignoring what is really going on, I say, "I'm sure that it won't come to that, Kurt. Something will come up for your dad so that you can all stay here."

"But nobody can guarantee that, can they, Mr Grant?"

"Maybe," I reply, allowing the germ of an idea to run around my head.

"Dad told us that we should never make promises that we can't keep," he says.

I reply, "And if I make a promise, I always keep it. And, I promise you that I'll be very sad if you have to leave."

Without saying anything he stands up and pulls down his shorts and underpants and sits straight back down, fishes for my hand and replaces it between his legs on the now-fully-exposed boy flesh. I'm shocked, but delighted.

This is a step well beyond what we did in the weir!

I run my thumb back and forth across his patch of soft, brown, pubic hair, then I encircle his young cock with my index finger and thumb while, at the same time, fidgeting to cradle his balls with my other three fingers. I fondle all of him.

Raising his hips momentarily, he relaxes into more of a reclining position in my arms and his body goes limp against me. He moans contentedly. Victoriously?

I know that he can feel my own firm cock below his naked, round, butt cheeks, but when he slips one of his hands onto it and lightly grasps it, I say, "Kurt, we can't do this."

Unfortunately, instead of stopping there, I add, "Somebody might come and see us."

"No, they won't!" he whispers, looking up at me. "Karl and William said that they wouldn't."

 

(to be continued)

 

There is a parallel version to this story, told through the eyes of Kurt.
Find it at https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-youth/kurt-series/

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