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)
(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 44:
My phone rings in the bedroom. I jump at the suddenness of it. Finally! Uncle Bill.
I hurry to answer it before it rings out, savouring a glimpse of Will's wet, defined musculature as I pass the bathroom door.
Looking at the screen, I see that it's not from the person I was expecting and immediately wonder what the reason is for the call.
I answer, "Hi Mum. How are you? What's up?"
Chapter 45 - Outsmarting Will and Karl
Knowing that Mum has been in hospital, I'm feeling really bad that I haven't kept in touch with her. But, things can't be too bad, if she's calling me! Or can they? Is she dying and wants to say good-bye? Why else would she be ringing so early in the morning?
Dad and Amelia are probably still in bed.
"Thomas, it's so good to hear your voice," the phone tells me. Mum's voice sounds weak. "I've missed you."
Uh-oh! Here it comes.
"I've missed you too, Mum," I say, feeling a little emotional and uneasy. "Are you OK?"
"I've been better," she tells me. "But it's nothing to worry about. I know that Amelia told you about me going into hospital, but I wanted to let you know that I'm back at home now. Your father picked me up last night and I had a good sleep. It was wonderful to be back in my own bed. Oh, I hope that I didn't wake you! Sorry! I'd forgotten how early it is. I'd become so accustomed to the hospital routine that I've been up for ages."
"No, it's all good, Mum," I tell her. "I've almost finished my first cup of coffee for the day too." I know that she loves her coffee in the morning. I hear a faint titter of laughter from the other end. She knows my body-starting routine in the morning. (Well, the coffee part, anyway!)
"I just wanted to let you know that the doctors have decided to delay the chemotherapy for a while. The reason I was in hospital was not the cancer, but the flu. It was so bad that the medical staff were scared that I was too weak for any other treatment. Because it would possibly finish me off. They don't know me very well do they? I haven't told them what else I'm doing. They wouldn't be happy." Knowing Mum's sense of humour, I have to giggle a little which evokes a similar response from her end. Like a shared joke!
"That's so good to hear," I say, breathing a little easier. "You worry me, you know!"
"I think I'll be around for a long while yet," she says. "I'm really looking forward to hugging you and that handsome young brother of yours again. How is he?"
A sense of propriety prevents me from telling Mum exactly what I'm thinking and from commenting on Will's energy and stamina. "He's great, Mum. He's a very popular kid. Everyone out here loves him. But he does like to sleep late." I don't tell her why. "I don't know what will get him up when he no longer has to go to school." That's not exactly true. I know exactly how to get him `up', and what to do with him when he is up. There are two separate conversations going on here: one into my phone and a completely different one in my head.
"And what about you?" she asks. "I think of you every day. Are you happy?"
"Happier than I've been for years," I reply. "I love my work with the little cherubs out here, and the people are all wonderful. After Uncle Bill gave them a ride in the helicopter, many of the parents have invited me to visit their homes for a meal." I instantly think of the tragedy which followed the `joy' flights and I pause, collecting my thoughts as to what to say next.
"Ah, yes," Mum says. "You know about the helicopter crash?"
"Yes, we do," I reply on behalf of Will and Marty too. But there are many who do not know about it - especially the children and their parents to whom I will say nothing right now. It could freak them out. "Our architect, Ashley Cook, has told us that Uncle Bill has taken the loss of his friend very hard."
"He certainly has," Mum adds. "Bill was here last night. He and his friend were close mates. Your father and I knew him well too: a wonderful man, so generous with his money and his time and advice. We talked with Bill for hours about `old times' and about the four of us growing up together. Talking seemed to help Bill to deal with his grief. He said that he will ring you on Friday night and talk to both you and Will. Oh, that's tonight, isn't it? Mercy! I really don't know where the days go!"
There is a pause. I'm not sure where to take this conversation next. It could become very morose. Then I hear, "Thomas, I have some good news for you."
"More good news? Apart from the fact that you are out of hospital and your chemo treatment is delayed?" I say, again reinforcing my relief at her improved condition.
"Yes," she says quietly. "Young Andrew Thompson is sitting up and talking. His mother and I have become very good friends. She visited me every day while I was in hospital, sometimes twice, while she was there seeing Andrew."
I feel myself choke up with positive emotion at this development with young Andy, but I manage to get the words out, "How is he, Mum? Are there any... effects of his trauma?"
"Unfortunately," she begins, "yes, there are. His mother says that he's lost his senses of smell and taste and that his speech is not what it used to be, slower and indistinct. I went to see him myself yesterday before I came home. He seemed OK but Mrs Thompson was right about his speech. He managed, with some difficulty, to ask if his `friend, Tom' was going to come and see him. I think that your kindness and concern had quite a positive impact on him."
"I don't know whether to be happy or sad," I say. "I should be happy that he's alive and awake but it upsets me that he's having problems, and that I can't be there to cheer him up."
"Definitely be happy, Thomas," Mum says. "The doctors are hopeful that some (if not all) of his functions may be fully restored, in time. It's just far too early to tell. I told Andrew that you had gone back to your school, but that you might phone and talk to him some time. However, I don't think that he has a phone in his room at the moment and his mother doesn't have a mobile phone."
I think about it and add, "The next time that you go to see Andy, can you please take your phone with you, let me know, and I'll call you so that I can speak with him?"
"Good idea," Mum says. "I'm not sure when that will be, but, in the meantime, why don't you send him a `Get Well' card? He would think that was wonderful."
"I don't think that I'll have a chance to buy a card any time soon, but I'll write him a letter tonight and ask Marty to post it when he goes into town tomorrow morning," I tell her.
"Wonderful!" she comments, then says, "I'd better go. It sounds as though the family is rousing. Look after yourself, honey! Love you! And love to Will! Oh, I'll ask Amelia to message you Andrew's hospital address. Bye."
"Love you too, Mum. Take care. Thanks for calling." I disconnect and ponder everything that I've heard. And I rebuke myself for not calling her. I must do that, often. I have to remind myself that I now have a phone that I can use out here. It shouldn't take me long to get back into the swing of my previous university telco-habits! Now, with a tablet and a social media account I think that communications with `the outside world' may all ramp up as I connect with friends again. Although, I have to admit that life out here was peaceful for three months without the electronic gadgets.
My thoughts are interrupted by a pair of arms around my chest and the warmth of a naked body standing behind me. For once, his wiry pubes on my butt are more discernible than his still-growing, and usually-hard, manhood. I love the feel of both. "Hey, bro!" Will says. "Where were you?"
"What? Just now?" I ask, thinking that I must have `drifted off' again.
"No, when I woke up. I don't like waking up alone!" he says, playfully acting miserable.
"You know, maybe you should try getting more sleep," I tell him, relishing his tightening embrace. I lay my own hands over his.
"Hey, it's not all my fault!" he remonstrates, nuzzling my ever-sensitive neck. "If you weren't so damned sexy, maybe I would get a couple of more hours of rest!"
Then, from the doorway, we hear, "Oh, god! Are you pair still at it? Isn't half the night enough for you two?"
"Very funny!" Will says to Marty, releasing me. "Let's see what you are like the next time that Ash is here!"
Instead of trading their usual banter of insults, Marty, jiggling his gear, responds provocatively with, "Yeah! I see your point! As you were, soldier!"
"Yes, sir, sergeant, sir!" Will responds standing to attention. Joker! Then he makes to take hold of me again.
"Sorry, private!" I tell him. "You have lessons to learn. Mess hall in 3 minutes!"
We all laugh. Marty leaves. Will turns his back to me and reaches for his school clothes. I wrap my arms around him, just as he did to me.
"Hey!" he says. "You heard the sergeant. Get dressed!"
Before I release him, I whisper, "Young Andy's sitting up and talking. Mum just rang to tell me."
Will spins around and gives me a powerful hug. "Wow, Tom! That's fantastic!"
"Oh, one more thing..." Marty says as his head pops around the doorway. Then he looks at us, exhales heavily as in exasperation and says, "Cut that out, will you! Now, what was I going to say? Oh, it doesn't matter! I'll tell you later." And, he retreats to the kitchen.
Will whispers in my ear, and we both call out in unison, "Fuck off, sergeant," then, with our arms still wrapped around each other, and our pubes meshed, we fall onto our bed, laughing.
We recover ourselves, dress hastily and march into the kitchen. We click our heels and salute. "Reporting for breakfast... Sir!"
"Righto, you two clowns, dig in!" Marty says. "I was only going to give you sausages and eggs this morning but I guess that both of you might have had your fill of those already, eh?"
We all laugh and eat heartily. Will, sucking a chunky piece of sausage, skewered on his fork, comments, "Hmm, almost as good as my midnight snack!" Marty just shakes his head. We continue to joke well into our toast and coffee.
I share that Uncle Bill has spent time with Mum and dad and that he will ring tonight.
Marty tells us his deferred information - that Acacia has some `jobs' for him to do.
Will and I clean up and head off to school.
Will drives. He doesn't have to ask any more. We both just accept that he has become the `keeper of the car keys', and my personal chauffer. Unlike so many young drivers that I've seen around the Gold Coast, Will seems to enjoy a slower pace. He also takes the time to point out local fauna. Having just passed a couple of overdue-for-shearing stray sheep, he indicates a few rabbits just off to the side of the road. On our approach, we see three white tails bobbing into a burrow.
Then Will stops the car. "Wow!" he exclaims. "Look at that!" I follow his outstretched arm towards the sky but see nothing that warrants such attention. He opens his door and gets out. I feel obliged to do the same.
"What?" I ask.
"Look at them," he replies, pointing.
I see two birds.
"That's rare!" he tells me.
Now before I make a real city-slicker fool of myself and ask the obvious question, having seen more than two seagulls together and pairs of magpies and dozens of squawking cockatoos, I look hard at the floating duo.
"Amazing!" I say. "They aren't flapping their wings at all." I hope my comment is appropriate and conveying a semblance of intelligence.
"Yeah," Will says. "Wedgies don't need to do that much. They just use the air currents."
I think, `wedgies'? The `wedgies' with which I'm most familiar are grabbing a guy's underpants or shorts from behind and wedging them up his crack, causing obvious discomfort at the front as well - the bigger his balls, the greater his anguish. But, hey, I'm not altogether stupid. These are wedge-tailed eagles!
"They're large, aren't they?" I ask, hoping that they are not actually small specimens of the species. I wouldn't know!
"And there are two of them!" Will comments, adding, "I've rarely seen two together like that; they almost seem to be dancing together. Every move by one is matched exactly by the other one. Hovering, turning, rising. That's beautiful. I've got to paint that!"
I stand with Will and observe the mesmerising motions above our head. "Those rabbits had better watch out," he says, climbing back into the car as the eagles glide directly between us and the sun; their shadows fleetingly passing over us. "Or they're going to be on the wedgies' breakfast menu!" He chuckles.
We continue driving. There is a look of concentration on Will's face, as though he might be committing to memory details that are to be transferred to canvas later.
A routine Friday at school! We spend the last hour of the day playing games with teams as evenly matched as possible with Jake and Jane as `captains', Karl and Kurt separated, and then members allocated by age. We have relays, tunnel ball and soccer.
Will and I are the `official umpires' but we sometimes provide intervening help when necessary, despite howls of protest from the `opposition', until it's their turn to benefit from a bit of assistance, then the roars of disapproval come from the other team.
Nobody wins, or should I say, nobody loses. A great time is had by all.
It's wonderful to see everyone capering off for the weekend, smiling and happy.
Reg checks with me that everything is still OK for tomorrow. We agree that Will can drive up and collect Jake and bring him back to Marty's so that I can talk to both of them about `girls and stuff'. Then I'll drive up to his place for my riding lesson, leaving Will and Jake to their own devices (and each other's `device') for a while. They'll have plenty of time alone together to `compare notes' and, if I know them, put a bit of theory into practice, in their own appropriate way! When I return home, Will can drive Jake back to Thunungara and be treated to some of Di's best morning tea treats.
"All good, Reg," I tell him. "See you in the morning." He chugs off with Jake and Jane waving, leaving the twins with Will and me to close up.
Will looks at me and winks. He has plotted this all by himself (maybe in collusion with Karl) and it seems that he hasn't even let Kurt in on his plan.
Kurt, though, has intercepted his wink. He turns to me and shrugs ignorance, obviously thinking something quite different to what Will is thinking. "Sure," is all that he says, heading for the Craft Room and sports equipment. Will and Karl close the door and head down along the verandah.
I hear my car drive away. Then, almost immediately, Kurt returns and says, "You know, Mr Grant, it's pretty obvious that Will and my brother just want to spend some time together... alone... without me watching them!" His comment has the air of both clear deduction and disappointment at his exclusion.
I look at him and comment, "Yes, Kurt, it sounds as though they deliberately made the place a bit untidy so that they could leave you here with me to help fix it, to give them enough time to have a bit of fun together. How long do you reckon they need?"
He begins, "Gee, I don't know, Mr Grant. I suppose about 20 minutes or so."
Then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, a smile of realisation brightens on his face... he has some time alone with me, `20 minutes or so' by his own calculation, without them. He says nothing but hastily retreats to the other room and I hear things being moved around.
"I'll get the store room, then," I call after him. Stacks of books appear to have been deliberately skewed. It takes me only one or two minutes to set everything straight again.
I return to my desk, thinking.
I'm ready for what may ensue, but what about Kurt? I don't want to shock or upset him.
I contemplate the emptiness of the classroom. The tidied desks are devoid of the familiar books, colouring pencils and various knick-knacks in which children take pride or comfort (including David's `lucky' rabbit's tail, unluckily for the rabbit). The chairs, so recently full of bobbing and squirming vitality, sit aligned and lifeless. The drawn blinds cast an almost-depressing brownness over the whole room.
Suddenly, everything is lit up by an animated ray of sunshine, in the person of Kurt Andersen. "It's all done, Mr Grant," he chirps, smiling and bouncing up beside me.
"You were quick," I compliment him.
"Want to come and see?" he asks, obviously seeking my approval, as if to reinforce his worth as a still-valued twin.
As I stand, this adolescent Adonis flips his blond mop to one side of his face, slips his hand into mine and leads me through the store room to the craft room. He guides me around, pointing out each of his efforts, with his hand still attached to mine.
"Hey. Nice job, sport," I say, and ruffle his hair with my free hand, whereupon he draws his thigh against my own and gives me a hug.
"Thanks," he says.
I turn to walk back to my desk. Again, he takes my hand, this time trailing slightly behind me. As we pass through the store room, he tugs me to a standstill and pointing, comments, "Hey. Nice job, sport!" I look at the cheekiest of grins on this most angelic of faces - gleaming blue eyes, dimpled chin, shining white teeth, blond, now-ruffled hair.
"Thanks," I parrot his own words to me then reach to tickle his ribs. He cackles with laughter and throws his arms around my neck. I try to break free but he persists in holding on, as Jan commented that he sometimes likes to do when he's in a playful mood.
I straighten up, lifting him a little off the floor as he bends his knees, thinking that he would release his grip. Nope!
Instead of returning his feet to the ground and letting me go, he lifts his legs and wraps them firmly around my waist.
"You're a cheeky imp," I comment to him, ruffling his hair with both of my hands this time. "So, you won't let go, eh?"
"No way!" he chuckles.
"I'm not holding you up, you know. What if you fall backwards onto your head?" I put to him.
"I won't," he quips, then adds, "I've got hold of you with my arms and my legs, and it's not a long way down, anyway. Besides, you wouldn't let me hurt myself, would you?"
"What if I tickle you? You'll have to let go then," I tease.
"No, I won't. Betcha!" He's taunting me.
I find his ribs and tickle, gently, cognisant that I actually relish how he's gripping me, and that I really don't want him to let go. I'm enjoying the interplay as much as he is. He squirms a little and giggles but is insistent that he's not going to uncouple himself, "no matter WHAT you do to me". Provocative!
I run my palms down his sides and cup his firm, round buttocks. He relaxes his body onto my hands as if settling onto a comfortable chair. I squeeze his glutes a couple of times. His only reaction is to lean his body against mine and, while maintaining his hold on my neck, allows his body to slide a little lower - his legs now around my hips.
My hands are now firmly gripping his butt cheeks and I am aware of the proximity of his `guy stuff' to my own, down there.
With each step that I take, he presses his crotch against that part of me which I know is starting to chunk up. I can feel it; so can he.
Instead of stopping at my desk, I keep walking, beginning to bob up and down with each step. He keeps rubbing, assisted by my hands, gripping and pressing him to me. I keep firming up, taking rhythmic paces around the perimeter of the room.
By the time I make it back to my desk, his shirt has worked itself free of his shorts and I am fully stiff, uncomfortably confined. I contemplate that if we were both naked, with every step my upright cock would be rubbing near his hole and pressing into the underside of his round, adolescent balls.
"I'm going to sit down," I tell him, "so be careful of your legs. I don't want you to get hurt." He unwraps his legs and positions them so that, as I sit, he eases himself onto my thigh, his legs between mine. He wriggles as close to my torso as it is possible for him to get.
I picture him as a ventriloquist's doll and run my hand up his back, inside his shirt. He shudders a little and finally releases his grip on my neck. He casually lowers his hand straight onto my waiting stiffness and reclines a little, overtly displaying his own prominence to me.
"So, you want to play a bit, do you?" I ask.
"Uh-huh," he replies. "I'll bet that Karl and Will are already playing with each other by now."
Turning slightly so that he can relax his back against my body, he sits, almost side-saddle, on my thigh, with his legs parted invitingly.
As we had done previously, we engage in mutual fondling and squeezing. He concentrates on trying to manoeuvre my stiff rod around while I run my fingers over, under and around his far-from-small, well-rounded balls. I cup them and, using my thumb and forefinger, occasionally feel the length and girth of his erection - not overly long, but not in any way short, and not at all thin - dancing and jumping to my every touch, rub and squeeze.
With his `unoccupied' hand, he lifts the front of his shirt, exposing his navel, lower abdomen and the waistband of his white underpants riding just above his school shorts. Is this an invitation?
He looks at me expectantly and says, "Go on!"
I oblige by sliding my fingertips between his shorts and his undies. They explore the white cotton deeper and deeper until my palm cups him completely. He taps my hand, indicating that he wants me to move it. I withdraw. He holds the white waistband away from his body. He and I both know what that is suggesting.
I don't rush it. I rub his lower abdomen and, gradually moving my fingertips lower and lower, I encounter his hair. I rub back and forth, at the same time causing his firmness, pressed onto the back of my hand by his underwear, to dance across my knuckles.
I separate a pair of my fingers and press downwards, `trapping' his hard penis between them. As I reach towards his balls this has the effect of causing his rod to stand upright, straining against the white cotton. He jumps off my knee and, in (seemingly) one quick motion, drops his shorts and underwear to the floor, steps free, then regains his former position. I resume my fondling, skin on fully-exposed skin, and he purrs.
Then, without a word, he one-handedly locates my zipper and pushes it down. I stop moving my hand and look at his face which is entranced by what we are doing. "I wouldn't want you to mess your pants, like last time, Mr Grant," he tells me cheekily, as if an explanation for his action was required.
"It's OK, Kurt," I say, releasing my belt and top button to give him full access. I feel my cock jerk, and look down to verify what I suspected - a dark, wet patch on my pale blue underpants.
"Just in time, by the look of things," he giggles. He slips his hand inside and `feels around'. The stimulation causes another release of pre-cum. He seems to know exactly what to do with it and uses it to massage my head and shaft. I have to keep reminding myself that he has, after all, experience with my own little brother.
"Hop off a minute, sport," I tell him and I shuck both layers of my nether clothing. We restart playing with each other, savouring the freedom of unconstrained, lower-body nakedness.
I wet my hand using my own pre-cum then begin to masturbate him. He matches my action stroke for stroke. "You like this too, don't you, Mr Grant?" he asks me without looking at my face, focussing, instead on his handful of me.
We continue and both make unrestrained moans of pleasure.
Then he says, "You know what you did last time, Mr Grant?" After I shot my stuff? You know... how you cleaned me up?"
"Yes, Kurt," I reply. "Did you like that?"
"Hell, Yeah, Mr Grant. I told you that it felt so good that maybe I might shoot again." There is a pause. "Would you do that to me again this time? Please?"
"What would you think about me doing it a bit sooner this time? Actually, before you shoot? I think you'll like it," I put to him.
"OK," he replies a little hesitantly, perhaps mentally processing my suggestion, but still displaying his full trust in me.
I stand, pick him up and sit him on the edge of my table. "Lean back," I tell him. He splays his hands behind him, reclining to about 45 degrees. I stand between his legs. His handsome, straight and thickened cock is pointing directly at the ceiling, that is until I bend forward and lower my lips to engulf it.
He gasps. I spend a few seconds massaging the head with my tongue and lips. He moans. Then, I suck him all of the way in, with my upper lip making contact with his hairs. I move my face from side to side, overtly `feeling' his silky pubes. The lateral movement of my mouth adds to his stimulation. When I start to slowly work up and down his shaft, he lets out a loud "Ohhh!"
Pausing for his response I ask, "You OK, sport?"
"Oh, don't stop, please, Mr Grant," he rasps. "That feels sooo good!"
I continue sucking. He continues moaning. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall backwards. I cup his balls with one hand and gently caress them. At my touch, I feel his muscles tense and his balls gyrate of their own accord.
"Mr Grant..." he gasps in warning, probably anticipating that I would pull my mouth off him. "Mr Grant..., I'm gonna..., Mr Grant!!"
Instead, I tighten my lips over his head and push slowly down his length. He trembles.
"Aaargh!" he lets out and his whole body spasms. I grasp his shoulders and lower him backwards onto the table. I swallow. It's nowhere near as much as Will produces but it's sweeter.
To avoid any hypersensitivity, I use the tissues on my table to make sure that he is clean and dry.
He lies motionless except for his heavy breathing. I move in close to him, with my rigidity lying alongside his balls in the crease of his thigh. I caress his abdomen and chest, up under his shirt. He reaches down, grasps my cock gently and opens one eye.
"Oh, Mr Grant, that was so... so amazing. Thank you." Then he adds, "Can I finish you off? With just my hand?"
"Do you want to, Kurt?" I ask. "Only if you want to."
He doesn't reply but closes his eyes and begins to move his hand around on my oily shaft. He's good. He's had practice at doing this. Will has taught him well!
I take in the splendour of his youthful body. I caress his semi-nakedness. His hand is working magic. I take hold of it, stop his movements and commence thrusting into his fist. Then I release my grip and say, "Finish me off now, buddy. I'm very close." He re-commences his hand movements and quickens the pace.
"Will likes it when I go fast at the end," he chuckles.
The thought of him doing this with my `little' brother heralds the beginning of the end for me. I grab a handful of tissues and hold them close so as to not spurt any onto his shirt. I gasp. I grunt. I close my eyes. I moan. I shoot. I cum so hard that it almost hurts. What exquisite pain! When I open my eyes I see him, propped on one elbow, staring at me, smiling at me.
"Are you OK, Mr Grant?" he asks, genuinely concerned.
"You have no idea, Kurt," I reply. "Thank you. It was..., you were... wonderful."
I let him use the tissues on me as I begin to go soft.
"I think that, maybe, you liked it even more than William does," he comments, grinning.
He wraps his legs around my backside, pulling me close and holding me tightly. He motions to reach for my neck. I oblige, lowering my head and he takes a firm grip. I stand and he hugs his body close to mine.
I begin to walk around the room, as I did earlier. His boyhood is still totally erect and he thrusts against my abdomen with my every step.
We return to my desk and he shocks me. "Mr Grant, can you do it again, please?"
"What, Kurt? Walk around the room again?" thinking that he must be enjoying the stimulation of the movement of our two bodies together.
He looks deeply into my eyes, grinning, but almost pleading, "No, Mr Grant. Use your mouth to make me shoot again."
"Do you think that you can do it twice?" I ask, recalling what Will told me about him only cumming once.
"I just feel like I want to," he replies. "Please."
"OK, buddy, but if it starts to hurt you have to tell me to stop. All right?"
"Sure, Mr Grant, but it'll be OK."
The last thing that I want is to overstimulate or abrade the skin on his rigid, chunky adolescent organ.
I settle him, and me, into position then run my fingers from his nipples to his knees, up and down to sensitise his body. Then I begin slowly, gently.
It's not too long before he moans, groans and bites his bottom lip. Then it happens. He jerks and shakes and lets out a sound that is a cross between a cry and a howl. His cream empties into my mouth and, lying on the table, he jerks like one or two aftershocks of an earthquake, or as if experiencing a minor seizure.
I'm worried. Is he breathing?
The first thing to move is his mouth - stretching into the broadest of grins. He opens his eyes, then gasps, taking in a huge breath. "Oh, my god!" he whispers. "Oh, Mr Grant." He pauses, then follows with, "Ohhh!" and "Wow!"
"Tell me you're OK," I say to him.
"That's the first time that I've ever shot twice in a row. Now I know why Karl likes Will to make him do it a second time." He sits up, stretches up to my face and kisses me on the cheek.
"I think we'd better get dressed," I tell him. He just exhales, lays himself back down, closes his eyes, hums and smiles - no, he is radiating pleasure!
I dress myself, then help him to stand. He lets me dress him as if he was a mere infant.
"Now, what am I going to say to Will and Karl?" I ask myself as much as him.
"Nothing!" he shoots back. "Tell them nothing."
"But they're surely going to be thinking that something would have happened!" I protest, "And they're bound to ask!"
He confesses, "Mr Grant, I've dreamed about doing this lots of times and I know exactly what words to say. Let me answer them both."
I reluctantly agree but silently admonish myself for the cowardice of leaving the disclosure to a 13-year-old!
This will be more than interesting! What on earth might he say?
"I need to pee really badly," he says. He collects all of the soiled tissues and heads off towards the toilet. I take the opportunity of raising one of the blinds - Will's suggested signal.
As Kurt returns, I hear my car starting up. Kurt says, "Mr Grant, I've changed my mind. If Will asks you anything else, tell him the truth. Tell him exactly what we did. Everything. He'll never believe you anyway!" He chuckles at his own words.
"Are you sure that you want me to tell him everything?" I ask, unconvinced.
"Yep. Trust me. You'll see. I've known him for a really long time. Even longer than you have."
I have to admit that he's right there! So, are there things about Will which Kurt knows that I haven't learned yet?
By the time we've locked up and reached the front gate, Will and Karl are already waiting.
From the car, Karl grins knowingly at me, or maybe hopefully, and he moves from the front seat to the back. Kurt piles in beside him. I get into the vacated passenger's seat, leaving Will to drive. He looks at me questioningly. I give him a `don't-ask-me' shrug.
The anticipated questions from Karl and Will don't come. On the other hand, Kurt is the one to break the silence by provocatively asking his brother, "So, did you and William have fun? Without me watching?" His question is answered by an audible thump from Karl.
But Kurt persists. "What did you two guys do today?"
"What we do every day," Karl snaps, with a touch of annoyance as though it should not be spoken of in front of me. "And, what about you and Mr Grant?" he flings back.
"What do you mean?" Kurt replies, feigning ignorance of the real question.
Will butts in. "Come on, Kurt. Did you and Tom do anything like Karl and me?"
As if I'm not supposed to know, I ask, "Why, what did you and Karl do, Karl?"
"He knows!" Will says emphatically, indicating Kurt, without dobbing in Karl for anything specific.
"I can't tell you," Kurt replies, acting embarrassed. "It's private."
Will looks at me. I'm not sure whether it's a smile or a scowl.
Karl says loudly to his brother, "You'd better tell us, or I'll squeeze your nuts till your eyes pop!"
"Do I have to?" Kurt implores, knowing full well what the answer will be.
"Yes!" both Will and Karl reply together and becoming a little agitated.
"I'm sorry, Mr Grant," Kurt says, generating an apologetic tone. "It looks like I have to tell them."
He begins, "Well..., you see..., Mr Grant and I tidied up the mess that SOMEBODY made, then he went off to the toilet. I sneaked up after him. When I crept in, he was peeing. He was just hanging out, letting it go. I asked him if I could just hold it for him (so I could have a feel of it) like at the weir. He protested a bit but finally said `OK', so I put my hand around it till he finished then he put it away. I took mine out to pee too and asked Mr Grant to hold mine for me. Fair swap! He did for a while and then took his hand away when I started to get hard."
"That's it?" Will asks.
"Yes," Kurt replies. "What did you think we did?"
"I don't know," Will says, shaking his head. "Maybe something else."
Karl is silent.
We drive to their house. Kurt stuns me with, "Are you going to come in, Will, and do something for me too, like you did for Karl?"
Karl thumps him again.
Will says, "Sorry, mate, not now, but definitely you first, next time."
"OK," Kurt says, putting on a false pout. "But I really wanted you to do it today, instead of me doing it myself later."
This kid doesn't need acting lessons; he could give acting lessons!
We say our good-byes and Will drives off.
He contains himself until we are about half way home. He turns his head, looks at me and says, "So what did you and Kurt REALLY do? You don't expect me to believe that he was satisfied with just what he said, do you?"
I deliberately pause then tell him, as Kurt suggested, "OK. I could never hide anything from you, could I? If you really must know... we both took our clothes off. I let him jerk me off and I sucked him off... twice!"
There is a moment's silence.
"You're a bloody awful liar!" Will laughs. Taking one hand off the steering wheel, he elbows me in the shoulder. "You did no fucking anything of the sort!"
I don't respond. Then he tells me, "Firstly, he's never been sucked off before, so he wouldn't let you do that. Secondly, I know that you didn't jerk him off even once, because he can only cum once. If you had jerked him off then he wouldn't have asked me to go inside and do it for him just now. Think about it! So, you're lying. You'll have to learn to do better than that!" He pauses, "So, did you actually feel each other's cocks, then?"
"Isn't that what Kurt told you?" I ask. "What? Does he tell lies?"
"Well, at least Kurt seems happy with that much, at the moment," Will replies. "Just make sure that you don't make him cry again because he thinks you don't like him. You should do whatever you can to make him happy." I can tell that Will is disappointed at not hearing some juicy details, but, then, I did tell him, didn't I? He can believe whatever he chooses to.
It appears that the precocious young Kurt not only knows what he wants but that he is smarter than I have given him credit for! I wonder how long we will be able to keep the pretence going. The charade in itself could become a challenging and enjoyable game.
Back at Marty's, it suddenly registers with me that the pub patrons don't know that the Jintabudjaree curse has claimed its next victim. Even if they have heard about the crash up in Cunnamulla, it's probable that they would not have connected the two. I'll have to drop in and tell them - perhaps after my horse-riding tomorrow. Standing up at the bar with the locals and imbibing a little alcohol may bring some relief from my aching backside.
I decide to write to Andy before dinner while Will makes a start on his painting of the wedge-tailed eagles.
I boot up my tablet and begin... <<Dear Andy, ...>> then I stop. I realise that I don't have a printer, so it's pointless typing it into a Word document. And I can't email it to him, unless I send it to Mum or Amelia and get them to print it and... But, then... I'd have to keep it really `clean' and `clinical'. However...
Oh, hell! I'll have to use 20th Century technology - pen and paper - instead. I scratch through my folders and find a blank sheet. Locating a pen is easier.
<<Dear Andy, I am so happy that you are recovering well from your fall. Yes, I know that you didn't actually fall, but it's easier to call it that.
<<I think about you every day, and wish that I had been able to prevent what happened to you that night.
<<I'm sorry that I didn't take you to the hospital when I had the chance. It haunts me. I blame myself for what happened to you and for your pain. I hope you can forgive me. I want to do everything that I can to help you.
<<You are a very special young guy and a gifted surfer. My sister, Amelia, and her school friends think that you are really cool. Actually, she told me that you had a great body and were really cute. So, more `hot' than `cool'! She would either die or kill me if she knew that I just told you that! LOL.
<<I look forward to seeing you again, and to seeing you smile, and to catching some waves with you. We can even do some tandem runs, if you like.>>
He will know exactly what I mean by that last comment, but anyone else (like his mum) reading the letter, won't.
<<Take care, my young friend. Get better soon, eh? If you can, write back and tell me exactly how you are doing and feeling. Mothers are not too good at passing on that sort of information correctly, are they? Haha.
<<Hope to see you soon.
Love and best wishes,
Your friend, Tom.
(hugs from Will too)>>
I check for messages on my phone, address the envelope according to Amelia's instructions, seal it and even find a stamp, secluded at some time past, into a corner of my wallet.
I ask Marty if he could post it in town tomorrow, and explain the circumstances to him.
"Sure thing, Tom," he says obligingly. "Although, I'd really like to be at Reg's to see your introduction to riding a horse; a REAL horse!"
We laugh about it, and, after Reg gets through recounting my efforts to Will and Jake over a cup of tea, I'm sure that there will be a surfeit of humour at my expense tomorrow night!
We have almost finished dinner when my phone rings. "Uncle Bill," I immediately think, aloud.
Will is quicker off the mark than I am. "I'll get it," he calls, heading for the bedroom. "Dad!" I hear him say. The floor board which I usually avoid between the bedroom and the bathroom creaks on his way back towards Marty and me.
"No, it's Will. Tom is still stuffing his face with dessert," he lies, smirking. I glare at him. I consider showing him a throat-cutting sign but, instead, opt for an indication of ball scrunching. He responds by grabbing his crotch and nods, upwardly, as if to say, `come on; go for it!'
Cheeky bugger! That's one of the many things I love about him.
I hear one side of what is being said, a monologue, so I indicate to Will that he should activate the `Speaker' function so that I can take in the complete conversation - both sides of it.
Will sits close to me, placing the phone on the table between us. We both lean forward to hear, and be heard, as clearly as possible.
Uncle Bill tells us that he's OK, having endured the initial shock of the crash and his friend's death. He expresses his alarm at the unthinkable disaster of something possibly going wrong while the school children were on board, or with him, Will and me, or even with Ash and Helen.
"The preliminary investigation can find no real cause for the helicopter to just fall out of the sky," he tells us. "It had been fully serviced only a few days beforehand and it was fitted with long-range fuel tanks, so it shouldn't have been short of fuel, even after the return trip to The Village and the sight-seeing. It's a mystery. They did an autopsy on Danny to see whether he had suffered a heart attack. Nothing."
It's the first time that I've heard mention of his friend's name.
He fills the next ten minutes with snippets of his impressions of The Village, the children, their parents, the building project, Jan and the twins and `the O'Brien clan'. I note that he mentions Acacia more than a few times. Then he remarks about Ash, "It appears that my young architect is very keen to get back there, and I suspect that it has a bit more to do with something more than his passion for restoring the pub!"
I gulp, hoping that he's not referring to me or Will. What has Ash said? "What do you mean?" I ask.
"I could be wrong," he says, "but the fact that Ashley mentioned `Martin O'Brien' or `Marty' more than a dozen times during the trip home..." He leaves the upward inflexion and doesn't have to say anything else. I look at Marty's face. I've never seen it so red!
What do I do? Do I confirm his thoughts? Or play dumb? Should I even comment at all? "It will be good to have Ash back," I say. "He certainly livens up the place!" I leave it at that. Marty gives me the `thumbs up'.
Thankfully, Uncle Bill doesn't pursue that topic further. He says, "Thomas, Will, it is probable that Danny's funeral will be next Friday afternoon in Cunnamulla. Is there any chance that the two of you would be able to drive over? I'd really appreciate it if you could be there with me."
"Can I get back to you, Uncle Bill?" I ask him. "I'd like to be there for you, and I'm sure that Will would like to as well. I'll need to check some things about closing the school and then to advise the parents."
"It's been done before," Marty whispers. "I don't see that there'd be a problem, if you don't ask official permission. The parents will be fine with that, especially after you gave them the helicopter experience."
"Dad," Will says, "Marty thinks that it will be OK with the locals."
I add, "Can you let me know as soon as you find out what time the funeral will be, Uncle Bill? Then I'll make the necessary arrangements at this end."
"OK, boys. Thank you. It will be good to see my two handsome sons again, even though it's only been a few days already."
After Uncle Bill has disconnected, Marty comments, "When my dad died, the schoolie closed the school. He told Mum that it would be much easier to beg forgiveness if the Department of Education found out rather than to ask their permission. Nothing was ever said. And there have been a couple of times since then when it has been closed for the day. Nobody from The Department ever comes out this way. I've never seen an `inspector', or whatever they're called, in all my years here."
We finish dinner and clean up. Discussion over our after-dinner coffee is chock-full of disparaging comments by Will and Marty - for once, not directed at each other. Tonight, I am the target; among other things, my ability to know which end of a horse to hang onto. And, Marty questions, rudely, whether Will or the horse is likely to treat my backside more harshly!
As if to test out whether the harsher proposal is, indeed, `him' or `it', Will is a little more active in bed than usual. Actually, much more!
After he's drained me in the same manner as I did to Kurt, Will has me in various poses, beginning slowly with his favourite spooning position, then face down, on all fours and, ultimately, on my back with my legs on his shoulders.
"Can you guys keep the noise down?" we hear at one point from Marty's end of the house. This acts as nothing more than waving a rag in a bull's face, and Will makes a point of being very vocal about his sensory stimulation. At the point of his release he actually screams out, "Oooh, yessss!"
This is followed, almost immediately by a great splash of cold wetness upon our naked bodies. Will and I both jump and squeal in shock.
"It's always worked on the dogs," Marty laughs, "so I thought that I'd try it on you two animals!" He adds, "Now settle down and let me get some sleep!"
"Fucking hell!" Will retorts. Then he warns, "You'd better sleep with one eye open, Cousin. That's all I can say!"
"That'd be twice as much sleep as I'm getting at the moment!" Marty replies, and he retreats hastily. We hear his door close.
Will and I both needed a hot shower anyway!
There is hardly any residual wetness on the mattress as we had laid towels beneath us earlier. Marty couldn't have used more than a coffee mug full of water.
Sleep and dreams are sweet! Will isn't the only young guy who figures in mine. Memories. And, a fantasy or two!
(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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