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 5

Marty punches me on the arm. "You know what's gonna happen now, don't you, you fool?"

"What?" I shoot back at him, partly in fear of his impending answer.

"She'll be cleaning out the spare cottage next to the house, and the next time she goes into Big Town, she will check out the preacher's availabilities to perform a wedding ceremony. Then she'll be inviting people to keep certain dates free `for a big event'."

"Bullshit!" I retort, missing him with an attempted punch to his shoulder as he steps aside and cackles with laughter.

As we set about completing the chicken coop, I can't get Anna out of my mind. Is she really the witch that Marty makes her out to be, or the nympho that Will dreads? Family exaggerations! Or is she simply a talented and very attractive young woman?

 

 

Chapter 6 - The Men's Room

Friday has rolled around again. The first two weeks of school have gone very well. Little ones have settled in. Routines re-established.

Jane is a natural leader and `mothers' my other students when they need it. She mothers me a bit too, helping me to settle in. She is a perfect `Assistant Teacher'.

I've let Reg and Di know what a great help she has been. As a reward, they are allowing her to spend this weekend with a friend in Big Town. With Jane away, Di has also invited Will to stay with Jake from this afternoon until Sunday.

As arranged, Reg picks up Jane straight after school for the three-hour round trip to Big Town.

With just the three of us left at the school, Will and Jake complete their assigned tasks, putting everything back in its rightful place and closing the windows. Jake does the classroom and Will, the craft room. Then they move to cross check the other room and pull down the blinds. Sounds like the routine for cabin crew on an aeroplane, doesn't it?

I do not miss the quick, playful groping of each other in the store room as they pass. Boys! Will, facing me, gives me a wink when he knows that I've seen them.

I lock the door and we all head for my car. Jake is well trained and, as the last one out, snaps the lock shut on the gate. I smile at this, musing that entrenched habits override rational thought. The padlock should keep out the rabbits, snakes, lizards, spiders and crows. Not!

Five minutes into the drive to Jake's place I spot a mob of emus running parallel with the road. The mottled feathers of the adults are waving up and down like huge feather dusters. I'm mesmerised by the rhythm of their strides and the bobbing of their plumage. Among the adults are about a dozen chicks, with their whitish stripes running head to tail, and I find it comical how quickly their legs are going in order to keep up with their elders.

As we pull into the yard, Di comes out to meet us, and says that she has afternoon tea ready, and that she's never known growing boys to say `No' to a basket of hot scones with home-made jam and fresh cream. The three of us `boys' all express our agreement and thanks.

I sit opposite Di so that we can more easily communicate with each other. I speak slowly and try to mouth my words distinctly for her benefit. I think she appreciates the effort, and her smile is a beautiful complement to her wonderful nature and hospitality. My ears become `tuned in' to her slightly indistinct speech and, with my eyes and ears all focusing on her mouth, comprehension becomes much easier.

I enjoy a very welcome cup of tea to go with the scones, while the two boys have a glass of fresh milk. Jake is sitting on his mother's `bad' side and has obviously learnt to shield his mouth when he doesn't want Di to read his lips. Will is next to him at the end of the table.

They are already into their plans for the next few days, and share with us that they want to go exploring along the river, rabbit trapping, horse riding, and more. There are also some whispers, girlish giggles and some betraying glances which tell me that they are planning a lot more than they want to share with any adult.

I wink at both of them. They look at each other and giggle some more. I don't know what Jake thinks, but Will can tell that I am `on to them', and he gives me the cheekiest cheesy grin!

I wonder what it would be like to share their fun.

After much chit chat with Di (and far too many scones), I thank her appreciatively and head back outside. Will follows me to the car. We do our secret handshake and I say, "See you Sunday night, bro. Have fun."

"Yeah, you too, bro," he replies. He gives me a wink, the O'Brien smirk, and the `H'. Now what the hell does he mean by all that? Is he just acknowledging that he intends having fun with Jake and wishes that I would be having some fun too, or can this kid actually tell what I'm thinking? Now that's scary! Am I so transparent?

As I drive back to Marty's I have time to reflect on my first fortnight in the outback. I replay in my mind my times with Marty, Will, Anna, `Mum', the twins, the cherubs, the school. What a change in my life in just two weeks!

Things are complicated - but good. Crossing the boundary of professionalism with Will still gnaws at my conscience, but the guilt is fading as pleasure and joy take its place. Not just my joy, but Will's too.

And then there's the new complication - Karl and Kurt.

My thoughts are disturbed by the barking dogs. I hit the brake, jump out and, with a feeling of frustration at their intrusion on my reveries, scream, "Shut up!" They cringe and cower back under the building.

Hooray for me! The schoolie just mastered a new skill! Scaring dogs.

Marty has a cold beer waiting to thrust into my hand. He cheerfully announces, "Here's to our two-week anniversary!" I accept it thankfully, but I'm determined that tonight will not be a repeat of the first Friday. I want to remember everything that I say and do. And everything that Marty does!

Anniversary indeed! What a joker! Such a fun guy!

After two cans, Marty asks, "So, are you ready for the demonstration?" I am about to question what the hell he's talking about, when my memory overcomes the light effect of the alcohol. The men's room demonstration! I had said that I wasn't ready to try it yet - without him demonstrating first. I look him squarely in the eye and detect the most mischievous intent.

I think, `Why not? Will's having fun with Jake, so I may as well entertain myself with a hole in a piece of wood in the back of an ex country dunny! Besides, I'll get to see Marty's hot body - in action!'

"Yeah, why not?" I say enthusiastically. I take a leaf out of Will's book on perception and intercept Marty's glances. He's checking to see if I'm getting hard. Because I can see that he certainly is! Haha.

"Just let me get out of my `work' clothes, and I'll be right with you." I go to my room and Marty follows, under the pretence of telling me about the snake that he saw earlier today. My intuition tells me that he's far more interested in another kind of snake.

I do a quick change, mostly with my back to him. Am I cruel, or what? "OK. Let's go!" I announce. Marty grabs the porn mag on the way out and heads off at a pace that is brisker than is usual for him, almost an urgency.

When we get to the men's room, he places the mag on the cabinet and then goes into a quick strip. He's eager. First the shirt. Then the boots. And he lets his cut-offs drop to the ground and steps out of them, allowing his very hard cock to spring free.

He's facing me. He puts his hands on his hips, tilts his head slightly and raises an eyebrow all of which give me the not-so-subtle hint to do the same, which I do, but in teasingly slow motion. I'm truly incorrigible!

He takes the mag down and turns a few pages. His cock twitches a couple of times and he puts the mag back on the cabinet, face down at the open page. I think, `What? The sight of me naked and hard isn't sufficient stimulation for him?'

He takes the tub of Vaseline, unscrews the lid and scoops out a dollop, placing the open tub up next to the mag. I watch as he carefully lubes up one of the holes and then smears the rest on his stiffness. He edges his body over to the hole and pauses with his elongated shaft at its entrance.

"Ready for the action?" he asks with a quivering joviality in his voice. I nod and give him the thumbs up.

He rests one hand on the wall for support then slowly pushes his cock into the hole. His eyes are closed as if he is imagining something, or someone, else. He pulls all the way back and repeats his penetration. Then he slowly begins some regular and rhythmic thrusting. I can see his cock going in and out of the hole and observe his ecstatic expression.

However, my eyes are more keenly attracted to the contractions of his backside - the squeezing of his cheeks together, and the hollows that form on the side of his muscular glutes each time that he thrusts forward. I watch and take in the repetitive action and wonder, `if he's like this with a lump of wood, how would he be in bed?'

I move closely behind him and place my hands on his glutes so that I can feel the rhythm, not just watch it. He moans at my touch and pauses momentarily to savour it, then picks up speed as the moans gradually turn into grunts and gasps. Louder. Faster.

I move my hands to the side of his hips and move forward enough to allow my stiffness to rest vertically between his cheeks. Almost immediately, he freezes and I can feel the spasms of his ejaculation pulse throughout his body, and mine.

He leans fully back against me, and I wrap my arms around his chest and nuzzle his neck as he comes down from his orgasm. "Get the idea?" he whispers. I don't have to answer! We both laugh.

I take a few steps backwards and he pulls out of the hole and cleans himself off with some tissues. Then he grabs the Vaseline and I put my hand out to take it. "Can I do it?" he asks nervously. I look at the desire in his eyes. I nod assent, wondering whether this will be the first or the second time that he has felt my naked cock, thinking back to my first Friday's drunken stupor.

I reach for the porn mag, keen to see what he was looking at that turned him on. The open pages do not really answer the question that is running through my mind.

On the left, a young guy is spooning a girl with his tool firmly planted into her from behind and they both have looks of ecstasy on their faces.

On the right, I see the rear view of two men; one guy with his cock deep in a smaller guy's backside. The one on bottom has low hanging balls and the guy on the top has fatter, rounder ones to complement his cute bum.

I immediately imagine `the boar in the bull, recalling Marty's reference to mine and his respectively. I still don't know which picture he was focussing on - the straight one, or the gay one, and whether he's imagining himself inside the girl, or me inside of him or vice versa.

My mental vacillation is interrupted by the feel of the Vaseline being gently spread up and down my shaft, not just once but multiple times, with a good fondling of my boar-like balls thrown in.

I give him a look that implies, `Enough Marty. You're not supposed to be jacking me off, you know.' He pulls an embarrassed, almost-guilty face, shrugs and backs off, nodding towards the holes.

I decide to use the same one as he did. It's already primed for use! Perfect fit! I emulate his moves and immediately envision myself in another place, with another, younger hole. I push in and pull out slowly, savouring each movement. He fondles my contracting bum cheeks for a few seconds as I did to him and then disappears to the outside. I'm not sure whether he's giving me privacy or...

I suddenly feel my cock slide into something warm and slick. I hope it's his lubed hand, although I imagine a couple of orifices that it could be. `Anyway', I think, `he's enjoying himself and so am I.

It has been days since I had relief and, even though I try to delay the ending, I feel my eruption building. I thrust and moan and groan, and I feel Marty's fingers helping me to get there.

Without any verbal warning to my `assistant', I spurt hard, then I hear Mary's voice, "Fuck, you've shot me!" He squeezes the last drops of cum out of me and lets go. When he comes back inside, wearing the cheesiest grin, I can see my stuff on his stomach and running down his thigh. We share the tissues, pick up our clothes and amble back to the house, naked, with my hand around his waist and his hand on my backside, his fingers lightly exploring the cleft between my cheeks.

I ponder that mucking around with Marty, I feel none of the professional restraint, but also none of the emotional attachment, that I do with Will. I wonder how far I should allow this `friendship' with Marty to go, while, at the same time, continuing to exercise a huge measure of self-imposed restriction with Will.

There is no sense in getting dressed, so we lounge naked in our chairs and toast each other with another can of beer.

"Thanks for the demo, Marty" I manage through a smirk.

"Hey, you're a real quick learner!" he laughs.

 

After a perfect Saturday morning breakfast of a huge serving of lamb's fry and bacon with hot buttered toast and coffee, we go into what I'm sure will become our normal routine - with Marty heading into Big Town and me going to the school to prepare the next week's work - week three coming up!

I haven't been at the school more than about twenty minutes when I hear chattering. I can recognise Karl and Kurt's voices now, without needing to see them. I look up from my recently-cushioned seat and my eyes follow them along the verandah to the doorway. "Come in boys," I call. I'm not used to seeing them dressed in anything except their school clothes or their white underpants, or nothing. LOL. These adolescent cherubs, with their thick, sandy-blond hair swept across their foreheads, are wearing tight white T-shirts and blue jeans that must have been bought for them before they started their most recent growth spurt. Their jeans don't yet bulge the way that Marty's or Will's do, but you can definitely tell that their gender is male!

"Hello Mr Grant. We thought that Litt..., umm William might have been here." They walk across and sit on the little kids' desk directly in front of me.

"It's hard to not call him `Little Willie', isn't it?" I joke. "His cousin, Marty, is having the same problem. No, he's not here. He was invited up to Jake's because Jane is spending the weekend in Big Town with one of her friends."

They look disappointed. Karl adds, "Dad's gone into town too and we thought that we would just stay at home and hang out with Willi...am."

Kurt looks a little sheepish and, with his eyed slightly downcast, avoiding mine, asks, "Mr Grant, can we please talk to you about something?"

"Yes, Kurt. You can talk to me about anything." I suspect that it's not going to be about his school work. I guess that it is either going to be about them and Will, or about him mistaking me for Will at the weir last week. I prompt him, "Is it personal stuff?"

"Yes, sir, it is" he replies.

"Well, I'm happy to discuss personal stuff if you like, but let's agree on something before we start. Anything personal that you and I discuss will remain confidential between just you and me. I won't be sharing it with anyone else - not William, not your father, not anyone. I suspect that you might want to `keep it quiet' too. Are you OK to keep everything just between you guys and me?"

They make humming-type affirmative sounds and nod excitedly.

I add, "Unless you tell me that you have murdered somebody, then I might just have to say something about that to the police."

They look at each other, then with their bright blue eyes staring straight at me, their faces brighten into beaming grins, accompanied by giggles at my attempted humour. I extend my hand to each of them to shake on it and I say, "Deal?" They respond positively.

"Good." I say. "Now, what would you like to talk about?"

There is a short silence while the boys look at each other for courage. Karl nods to his brother, and Kurt opens up. "Mr. Grant, I want to apologise for what I did last week at the weir."

Now, I've been wondering all week, with him seeming to avoid eye contact with me, about that which Kurt is thinking and how he is feeling.

I resist the urge to jump in and provide instant absolution. I just smile and wait to see if there is anything he wants to add - a technique I learned somewhere: provide somebody enough silence in a conversation and it will be hard for them to resist filling it.

"I really thought that you were William," Kurt confesses. "I couldn't see anything in the river water and when I felt your legs, I thought they were his, and so I just..."

I can tell that he is going to have difficulty explaining the next bit, but I just nod and keep my mouth shut.

"Mr Grant," he continues, "we were playing this game, and in the game it's OK to grab somebody, so I'm really sorry for doing it to you."

He's got the worst of it out, so I decide to end my torturous silence. "Thank you, Kurt, for the apology. I must say that I've never been grabbed by one of my students before. It was a real surprise. And you held on for quite a while, didn't you? But I don't want you to think that I was angry with you, or upset about what happened."

Both boys look at each other, obviously trying to understand what I am saying.

I continue, "Boys, I'm a guy too, and I know how much fun it can be for guys to muck around with other guys - whether it's on a football field, or wrestling, or naked in the river - especially when they are thirteen years old. And, yes, I was thirteen once myself."

Part of what I am saying is deliberately cryptic, but if they are smart, they'll work it out. I add, "Boys, all I can say is, be very careful where you do it, and make sure that you check first if anyone's around who might see you."

Karl, who's allowed his brother to wear the heat so far, chimes in, "We normally do, Mr Grant. We just weren't expecting you to be there. That's why Kurt didn't check. He really thought that you were William, because where you were sitting was right where William dived under."

"No further explanations necessary," I say. "The three of you were just normal boys having normal fun."

They smile at my unexpectedly `cool' response. I detect a bit of pulsing movement in Kurt's jeans and he discretely moves to cover with his hands a sideways-lengthening bulge.

I look at him squarely and say, "And that's normal too. Those things..." indicating the front of his pants, "...seem to have a mind of their own sometimes - getting hard at the most embarrassing times."

Looking directly into my eyes, he grins at me and removes his hands. Some noticeable pulsing, swelling and further elongation continues.

I decide to change the subject. "So, guys, tell me about your mum and dad."

Karl, as seems to be usual, takes the lead. "Umm, mum doesn't live with us. When we were about eleven, mum was really sick and said that she couldn't live here with the heat and flies anymore, so she went back to live with grandma and grandpa in Brisbane. She thought that she'd taught us enough so that the three of us could look after ourselves until she got better, and that we could visit her any time. So, for now, it's just dad and us. We live over there."

He points out the other house near the river, between the school and Will's place.

He continues, "Dad manages a property about two hours' drive up the road, but prefers to live here in The Village. He works really hard. He's usually very tired at the end of the day. Sometimes he goes to the pub for a drink, and a few times each week he takes some beer over to have a drink and a chat with `Aunt Lilly' and to keep her company. Whenever he goes over there, William is allowed to come to our place and we get to muck around for a while."

I understand `Aunt Lilly' to be a term of social `respect' for Will's mother rather than indicating some blood relationship. I'm not sure whether Karl fully understands what I have just interpreted by his statement. But I'll bet that Will knows what his mum and Mr Andersen do when he visits regularly to `have a drink and a chat and to keep her company'.

I wonder whether Will has explained it to them. Maybe not. He's not mentioned anything to me about it. Maybe they already know. Anyway, I'd much prefer Lilly to satisfy her needs with a grown man than with her own son. Even if it is the father of two of my other students!

"Guys, thanks for coming and having a chat. I promise that I'll keep everything a secret between us, as we agreed. Any time you want to talk about `guy stuff' or anything else, I'm happy to be here for you. And I'm sorry that William isn't here today. But now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better get some work done."

"OK, Mr Grant. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much - for everything." Karl says, jumping up and leading the way to the door. I follow them, and can't resist giving Kurt a couple of forgiving pats on his firm, round butt as he follows his brother. He gives what sounds like an excited squeak.

Kurt turns to me and almost whispers with a very impish grin, "You know if you wanted to muck around in the river with me, I mean...us, any time, that it would be a lot of fun. OK, Mr Grant?"

I look at him, trying to discern his intent then, allowing a slight grin to come over my face, I give him a wink, and wonder how much of Will is rubbing off on him. He grins broadly and returns a greatly exaggerated and mischievous wink.

Then he chases after Karl. I feel my professional resolve continuing to weaken.

I put in a few hours of work and head back to Marty's for lunch. He's not there. It's unusual, being alone in the house. I'm used to either having Marty, or both him and Will, around.

I decide to utilise the alone time to `nose around' a little or, should I be politically correct and say, `more fully acquaint myself with my surroundings'.

I've not been in Marty's bedroom, nor looked into his store room. Marty has left his room tidy. Very plain. Double bed, wardrobe and a bedside chest of drawers upon which there is a nondescript low-wattage lamp plus a box of tissues.

I look into his wardrobe. It's all fairly Spartan, with a few light-coloured dress shirts and jeans on hangers, a pair of dress slacks and one dark jacket. Not a tie in sight.

There are some drawers in which I see some socks, some folded T-shirts and two or three pairs of shorts, including his favourite cut-offs. There is also some underwear - very underused, I'd say.

The bedside chest is a little more revealing. The bottom drawer has a few more porn mags. The second drawer contains some basic medication - aspirin, Band-Aids, vitamins, etc. and the top drawer contains lube, condoms and two different-sized dildos. Hmm. I feel guilty for snooping, but what I've found doesn't shock me.

I skip the store room. Marty told me on day #1 what he keeps there, but I would certainly like to see Will's artwork. I will ask him to show it to me himself. I grab a can of lemonade from the fridge and settle into one of the armchairs. With no TV to watch, I look at the pile of magazines for inspiration. The porn mag is back in there.

Taking a mouthful of lemonade, I put the can down, remove the porn mag from the pile and start turning the pages, savouring what I see. I skip the girl-only pages and focus on the guys - alone, with girls and with other guys.

It's difficult to stay soft. I turn pages with one hand, while toying with my growing erection with the other. I close my eyes and, for a moment, allow myself to imagine that it is Will's or Kurt's hand on me.

I do what I wouldn't let Will do in the car - slowly slide down my zipper and feel around inside. I savour the feeling of rubbing my hard cock through my thin undies. Then I undo my belt and the button at the waist of my pants, fold the flaps down and run my hand inside my CKs. My cock pops out and my hand reaches farther down to liberate my confined balls. I continue turning pages and rubbing myself, rubbing and turning. I stop at the double page that Marty had open in the men's room and take in all the details of the him-in-her, and the him-in-him. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of pre-cum being spread up and down my rigid cock.

The dogs start barking. Oh no! Why now? Fuck! I struggle to stuff everything back in, zip up and put the porn mag back on the pile, as I hear Marty silence the dogs.

He comes in as I recline slightly with the can of lemonade trying to look as though nothing was happening.

Marty says, "Hi," looks almost automatically at my crotch, then at the pile of magazines, smirks and continues to the kitchen with a box of groceries.

Shit. I'm not as smart as I thought I was. I just realise that I've left the porn mag on top of the pile, instead of returning it to the bottom. And he knows!

Marty puts everything away, grabs two beers and then sits in the other chair. "Oh, I see you're on the soft stuff," he says as he opens one beer. "Doesn't matter. The second one won't go to waste." He drains the first in rapid time, burps loudly, excuses himself, then opens the second.

He talks about the trip to town, meeting friends and says that he'd like to introduce me to them. I can tell that he's nervous, because he's running his sentences together rapidly and forgetting to breathe.

What he is also doing is occasionally glancing at my crotch. When I look down, I can tell why. There's a small but obvious wet patch that, together with the porn mag on top of the pile, is totally incriminating. I expect him to make some smart-arse wise crack about it, but he doesn't.

Throughout the afternoon, over dinner and into the early evening he continues to drink and talk about everything, from the fun he derives from deliberately annoying his mother to the preponderance of self-serving politicians currently in office.

Finally, his mouth stops. Perhaps his mouth and facial muscles have reached the point of chronic fatigue. He slouches and drops his latest, now-empty, can, which clatters on the wooden floor. Then... silence.

He looks really awkward, slumped to the side like that. I can't leave him in that position so I decide to put him to bed. I manage to get him to his feet, holding one of his arms over my shoulder, and manage to support his weight as I half-drag him to his double bed. I let him flop backwards with his knees over the edge and his feet just off the floor. I take off his boots and socks. "Mmmm" he groans. I lightly rub his feet. No response. Should I go the whole hog?

I fumble with the buttons on his shirt and fold it open, revealing his obscenely-perfect, chiselled pecs and abs. I pause to fully take in the perfection in front of me. Removing his shirt is a bit of a struggle manoeuvring his arms and also in sliding it off under his semi-comatose body.

I say, "Marty. Can you hear me? Do you want me to take off your jeans too?"

No answer, except the beginning of a snore. I unhurriedly run my hands over his chest and abdomen a few times, relishing the feel of his toned muscles. All the while I am talking to him and getting absolutely no response.

My hands follow his treasure trail of brown hair to the top of his jeans. I undo his belt and then the top button. I slowly slide the zipper down revealing his bushy pubes, and I pause while I watch his cock harden and extend down the leg of his jeans, stretching the denim as it grows.

Still no verbal response. So, grabbing his jeans alternately by the legs and the waist, I slide them downward, with my eyes glued to his cock and balls as they slowly emerge, all the while glancing at his face in case he starts to waken. My confidence grows and I soon have him totally naked.

Marty stirs ever so slightly and my heart jumps. He mumbles in long, slow fragments of speech, "Demonstration... show you... Where's the damn hole? Where the fucking Vaseline?" He's dreaming of our time together in the men's room, and I decide to play along within his delirium.

I reach for the lube in his top draw and squeeze some into my palm. Then I take hold of his cock and start to slide my slickened fist up and down. He mumbles, "Found it... Watch me... very... very... carefully... now..." I vary the speed and depth of my rubbing, exactly as he demonstrated at the hole.

So hard is his cock and so soft is his skin, it feels like rubbing a steel rod with a silken glove. His breathing becomes erratic. His muscles tense. His low hangers draw up and his cock swells slightly. I cup his balls with my other hand and then there is a massive series of spurts and he utters a low groan. He's a mess, from chin to pubes.

I release him and reach for the tissues. I wipe my hands and then clean him up and continue to absorb the remaining dribbles of cum as they ooze out of his thick but softening sausage.

I take the wad of tissues to the toilet and flush them, then return to Marty's room and manoeuvre his head up to his pillows, and cover him with a sheet. When he wakes up in the morning, he will know that I've undressed him and put him to bed. Will he remember or deduce anything else?

I go back to the toilet to relieve my own Kransky. It doesn't take long, thinking of what I've just done to Marty.

My sleep is only disturbed by the smell of breakfast. I don my undies, go to relieve my bladder, wash my face and hands and head out to the kitchen. The beer cans have all gone. There was more than a dozen last night.

I try to act `normal' and say, "I hope you don't mind me putting you to bed last night. You'd passed out cold here. Just returning the favour." And I smile at him.

Marty responds with, "Thank you Tom. I appreciate everything you did for me last night."

I continue to smile but say nothing, my conscience pricked by the innuendo, whether he intended it or not. I'm not going to be the one who raises the subject of jacking him off! Maybe he was meaning something else, like my keeping a full can in his hand all night, or my fixing dinner for us both, or for supporting his political biases. I can feel my heart rate increase and my palms have become sweaty. I think, `please don't let him tell me that he knows what I did!' I'd die of embarrassment.

Marty lays a hand on my forearm and quietly says, "In addition to the first House Rule, Tom, I have another one - if it feels right, just go for it." I look at him inquisitively as my heart beat manifests itself at my temples, throbbing at a rapid rate.

continues, "I'm a seasoned drinker. Did you really think that I'd passed out last night? It takes more than a dozen tinnies spread across an afternoon and night to put me to sleep."

Massive pause and silence.

Then he resumes in a low and sensuous voice, "You enjoyed it too, didn't you?"

Nausea!

"I let you do it," he says, "because I knew that you wanted to. I loved every moment of it. I didn't respond, even though I wanted to, because you would have known I was awake, and that would have freaked you out and you would have stopped. Right?"

"Marty, I'm feeling ashamed. I'm really sorry" I tell him.

"No." he says. "Don't be sorry and don't feel embarrassed. It's OK to have needs and to be able to relieve them. You certainly relieved my need." That smirk. "I haven't felt that good for a long time. However, it was hard not to scream out as I erupted!"

I just stare at him, not knowing how to respond. "So, you wanted to do it back to me, did you?" I ask.

"Yep. Would you have liked me to? Would you have let me?"

All I can say is, "I know that you're not drunk now, and I'm not freaked out... How do you feel about just pretending that I am you last night, passed out on the lounge, and you are me, and carry me to your bed?"

"Yeah, I reckon that I could give that a go." He smirks and I think, `This is going be fun.'

Then I feign collapse.

 

(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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