Date: Thu, 10 May 2007 16:42:55 +0100
From: J Smith <jsmith381@hotmail.com>
Subject: War Graves and Trenches

Warning: this is a piece of fiction written for the enjoyment of guys who
like to read about guys getting it on with other guys.  It concerns a
16-year old schoolboy and a member of staff in his thirties who are forced
to share a hotel room on a school trip.  If that's not your thing, or is
illegal where you are, or if you're too young, then turn back now.
Otherwise, read on and let me know if it got you hot or if you want a
continuation.  Cheers, jsmith381@hotmail.com


********

WAR GRAVES AND TRENCHES

It was a fuck-up from the start.

There were only so many places on the trip, and I only made it to the
waiting list.  Most guys said it was really worth trying to get on, others
that it was the best trip of the year.  The war graves themselves weren't
the feature of course, but the nights out in Brussels were said to be good
value for lads our age with money to spend.
  But I had missed the deadline for applications, and now all my pals were
off to Belgium to learn about the war and party in a city where it was
rumoured you could drink and eat well for next to no cash, pick up dope
with no hassle and maybe even chance a few euros on a sidestreet blowjob.

It was all bullshit of course.  None of my mates, at sixteen years old,
would have been gutsy enough to pay a women to suck them off; but I guess
the possibility that it could happen was more of a thrill than the
actuality of being chicken.  Even so, I was gutted at not going.

And then there was all the shit with Forsythe.  God knows what he actually
did; nobody has ever really got to the details.  But he certainly seems to
have shagged Reggie's daughter good and proper.  Reggie was Head of
History, in most respects a hard nut to be avoided.  He was clever but
malicious; academic but evil.  Essays not up to scratch would be burnt in
front of the class.  Substandard work was often returned covered in dog
piss.  "You fucking little toerags - how many times do you need to learn
the fucking causes of the Russian Revolution?" he would bark.  He got a
total hardon for his own cuntyness.  He really was a cumstain.  But he got
good results, I guess.

He had this daughter called Letitia, or maybe Fenella.  Some fucking stupid
name.  She was our age or maybe a year younger - about fifteen.  She had
long hair and big tits, and was a total fucking cocktease.  As one of only
about five females on campus under the age of fifty, she knew the power she
had over the several hundred boys.  She would lick her lips and push her
tits together as we went past down to the sports fields.  Most guys wanked
themselves stupid thinking of cumming between her baps.  (They were full,
heavy and pink.  Even I thought it might be worth a try.)  But Forsythe got
found out, and the shit hit the fan.  Reggie went fucking ballistic and
Forsythe disappeared, a total hero.  Somebody had finally shagged Jemima!
(Or Camilla?).  Forsythe was sacked: behaviour unbecoming of a gentleman.
Ha!  There was never anything gentlemanlike about Forsythe.  He used to
towel-whip the nippers and flick his hard dick against his thigh until he
shot his jizz in the showers after cricket. Fuck off Forsythe, you perv,
everyone laughed.  Serious business, he would reply, when you got too much
jizz in your system.  Gotta let it out or all kinds of shit could happen.

All kinds of shit did happen.  He boned Rosanna, or Selena - then Reggie
found out somehow and had him marched off the premises, probably with his
dick in a paper bag.  I wonder if he got to fuck those baps before Reggie
cut his dick off.  Anyway, there was a space on the War Graves trip.

"So, are you in?" leered Reggie at me.  "It really is a most educational
excursion..."

I was in.  But there was a catch.  The numbers were all screwed, the rooms
had been booked in twos and I was the last on board.  Fucking hell, I was
going to have to share with a member of staff.  Please god let it not be
Reggie.  The cunt.

It wasn't Reggie.  He got to share with Daggers, who was a dreary bastard
of an art teacher, about 50, probably alcoholic, definitely unhygienic,
married to a fat cow.  I got Keppel, the smart-arse cross-country mod langs
guy.  He was also a cunt, but at least had a full head of hair.  Of the
three, Reggie, Daggers or Keppel, anyone would have picked Keppel.  But he
was still an arse, and as hard as nails.  He would twat your head hard with
the spine of a dictionary if you got anything wrong in class.  He was at
least 90% of the reason I had given up German.

Jesus, that first night.  My pals fell into their snug twosomes, drunk as
assholes, ready to snore and fart their way through the night until
breakfast.  I had just as much to drink as anyone but tried to hide it as I
crashed back to the room where Keppel was doing some stretches on the floor
or some such fucking crap.

"Pissed, are you?" drawled Keppel, as I stumbled over the shoes I had just
kicked off.  "Keep control of your system if you possibly can, you little
turd.  I won't take kindly to vomit all over my gear."  The tight Afrikaner
twang in his vowels gave his voice a curt nastiness.

What a fucking shit.  I went into the bathroom and pissed and farted really
loudly, and drank about two pints of water.  Then I stripped off to my
boxers, fell into bed and tried to ignore him and his callisthenics.  Or
Yoga.  Or What-the-fuck-Ever.  I was asleep in a few seconds, even with the
lights on full.

I awoke suddenly, and looked at my watch.  It was 3.03am, my head throbbed,
I was desperately dehydrated, and the pressure on my bladder was almost
painful.  Jesus, my throat felt like the Sahara.  I struggled out of bed
and lurched for the bathroom.  There were four full litre bottles of water
on the shelf, all cold.  I drank two of them in next to no time, and had a
fantastically long and satisfying piss, trying to make as much thunder
noise with my piss stream as possible.  Maybe I shouldn't have done that.
Keppel yelled "shut the fuck up!" even before I was shaking the drips off.
I cracked open a third bottle of water - it was even more life-giving than
the others.  Keppel appeared as I had it upended totally, glugging deeply
at the ice cold relief.

"Could you fucking make any more noise, you little ass wipe?" he grunted,
shoving past me to get to the pisser.  He was wearing white boxerbriefs.
They bulged.  My head was staring at the ceiling as I held the water
bottle, but somehow I still noticed his bulge.  Shit, I was in trouble.  I
had to get back to bed before I sprang a boner.  He turned and pissed, even
more noisily than me.  I looked at his back, flawless, broad, tanned.
Shit, the fucker was fit.  He ran miles a week, and it was obvious.
  He was toned.  I recapped the water and turned back to bed, already on
the way to hard.  I was under the covers before he himself got back into
bed.  He was heavy-breathing within a couple of minutes, then lightly
snoring.  I nursed my erection.

Oh well: why not.  I pushed back my covers, hooked my boxers under my balls
and jerked it, thinking of Keppel's bulge.  I shot up my stomach a couple
of minutes later, hitting my face and neck.  Relieved, I pulled the covers
up and slept like a dead man.

Keppel was up and about earlier than me.  I first heard him talking quietly
on the phone, presumably to Reggie, about the arrangements of the day.
Then he was in an out of the bathroom several times, and I heard him take a
dump and a shower.
  Then there was a long pause in which I guessed he was shaving, but I was
half in and out of sleep so I wasn't paying much attention.  Suddenly
Keppel said, "out of bed, lad" right close to my ear.  I yawned and opened
my eyes.  He was standing with his back to me, with a white towel around
his waist.  His back was as perfect as I had seen it while he was pissing
in the middle of the night.  Better get into the bathroom before he spotted
my morning glory.

But it wasn't to be.  As I got out of bed, he turned and looked at me.  I
just stood quite still, unable to get past him, so I waited until he had
paid me another insult.  That was the first time he looked at me properly,
I think.  He was a couple of inches taller than me, but not much.  A bit
broader, but then I was skinny at that age.  He ran his eyes up and down
me.  I felt embarrassed.

"Jesus, boy.  Look at you.  Cum tracks all up your chest and a full-on bone
in your lunch box.  Get in the fucking bathroom and make yourself
presentable.  And have some fucking manners and ask before you wank off in
my presence again."  Then he turned, loosened his towel and threw it on his
bed and started to dress.  His ass was as hard as rock, hairless white buns
above taut thighs.  I ran the shower and used the noise as cover for
another explosive wank.  The bastard had somehow got to me.

The graveyards were sobering.  The ladchat and bullshit, alive as usual on
the bus, began to fade when we first saw the endless lines of dead heroes,
and was a faint memory by the time we walked among the graves listening to
the unthinkable statistics the tour guide churned out.  Left to our own
thoughts for a while, most guys walked off on their own to contemplate the
phenomenal price the Allies had paid to defeat the Nazis.  Some guys cried
to themselves.  I was one.  (All denied it later, of course).  Hundreds,
thousands of soldiers in this cemetery alone; some known, some anonymous,
most not much older than us.  I was completely surprised by my reaction,
and totally unprepared for it.  I walked aimlessly, avoiding the company of
others, reading the endless names, wandering far from the place where the
tour guide had tailed off.  Towards some shady woodland at the extreme edge
of the vast acreage, I stood and looked at yet another grave stone.  Tommy
Butler, Fusilier, Age 19.  RIP.

I don't know how long I stood there.  But it was a long while.  The sun and
the near silence seemed to envelope me, and I became one with Tommy Butler
for a while.

"Too much to take in, eh, this place?" said a voice just behind me.  It was
Keppel.

The bastard.  I ignored him.

"What kind of life do you think old Tommy here had, eh?"

I didn't want to speak to anyone, and stayed quiet.  I resented Keppel's
presence and radiated my strongest fuck-off vibes.

"Just fucking nineteen, eh?  Just a fucking kid.  Fuckin hell.  Probably
called up at 18, sent to the Front, dead within a year.  Drunk a few times
for certain, but definitely never been stoned.  First and only time
overseas to the wartime hell of Northern France; no Spanish sunshine for
him.  Probably still a virgin too.  A few fumbles with his mates, perhaps."

I just wished Keppel would shut up and fuck off.  He placed his hand on my
shoulder.

"What about you, kid?  You're three years younger than Tommy here.  What
would you do, if you only had three years left?"

I still stayed quiet.  The pressure on my shoulder became an insistent
squeeze.  I wanted him to remove his hand.  But he didn't.

"Three years..." he intoned, quieter, leaning in to my ear.  "Would that be
long enough, do you think?"

He gripped harder, and I felt the pain in my shoulder.  Fuck, Keppel was a
hard cunt of a bastard.  I determined not to show he was hurting me.

"You reckon that would be long enough, to scratch that itch you got, kid?
All that stuff you think about?  All that stuff you daren't tell your mates
about?"

Now his mouth was right next to my ear.  I could feel the warmth of his
breath on my neck.

"Or can you not even own up to it yourself yet?" he whispered, mocking, and
stabbed his grip on my shoulder so hard I cried out and flinched.

"Fuck off, perv," I groaned as I twisted out of his grasp.

He laughed.  "I'm the perv, am I?  You're the one with the boner, boy."

He turned and walked away, towards some distant figures contemplating other
graves, his forceful, aggressive masculinity evident even in his swagger.

Fuck him.

*****

Reggie, Daggers and Keppel didn't care what we got up to as long as nobody
died and they weren't inconvenienced, and that night we went out to drink
as heavily as we had the night before.  But even though we had money in our
pockets and a whole night in front of us, the mood wasn't there.  It had
been a desperately sad, serious day and nobody much felt like gratuitous
drunkenness or even cheap oral sex.  About 10pm the evening petered out and
the crowd disintegrated.  I was one of those who went back to the hotel.

As I went into the room I could hear Keppel in the shower.  Relieved I
didn't have to speak to him I dropped onto my bed and searched round for
something to read.
  I was tired and slightly drunk and I knew I would be asleep in minutes.
I slithered out of my jeans and shirt and lay on the bed in my boxers,
looking at a guide book from the War Graves and Trenches people.

"Fucking hell, kid," grunted Keppel as he came out the bathroom door and
saw me.  "Don't just sneak in like that. I had no idea you were here.  Why
the fuck are you back this early anyway?"

I looked at him - it seemed ok to, because it seemed this was a
conversation.  Still, with a small towel round his waist and the water
dripping off his cropped blond hair onto his broad shoulders, it was
difficult to keep my voice level.

"Not much appetite for beer after all those graves I guess," I said
quietly, almost unable to control my eyes from sweeping all over his hard
torso.  His large nipples, the clippered fair hair on his chest and his
dense, dirty blond treasure trail plunging southwards over his rigid abs
into his towel were all branded into my memory in a split second - filed
into the wank bank.  I would examine that snap-shot later, but for now I
had to maintain eye contact.

"You bunch of pussies.  Back in bed before the adults have even gone out?"
He laughed and turned away from me.  The conversation was over and I turned
back to my book.  He was rummaging in his bag and then I knew he was going
to remove his towel.  I did not know where to look.  Had it been one of my
mates, we would have laughed, or it would not have been an issue.  But now
a searing hot guy who I knew to be a cunt but who I had already had two hot
wanks about was going to flash me his cock.  And if I reacted wrong I would
be out the school, like Forsythe, probably also with my dick in a paper
bag.

But he turned his back to me, and the towel was briefly used to rub the
inside of his thighs, then to vigorously towel his hair.  As he bent over
to step into another snow- white pair of rod-hugging boxerbriefs, I caught
a snatched glimpse of a heavy ballbag between his legs.  His ass, the same
pair of granite-hard white buns I had seen the night before, nearly made me
lose my load as the underwear he had selected slipped over his mounds to
encase his ass.  Almost relieved I hadn't seen his dick, I rolled over onto
my stomach and studied my book intently as he continued to dress.  My bone
nearly bore a hole in the mattress.

"Back later, kid," he said, almost chattily.  "And don't drink all the
fucking water tonight."

I looked up as he went out the door.  He flicked the light off leaving only
my bedside lamp lit, but even in the silhouette of half-light I could see
that his red polo shirt emphasised his broad shoulders and his faded Levis
rode tantalisingly over his hard ass.

Jesus.

The moment the door clicked shut I rolled over onto my back and hooked my
boxers under my balls, letting my hardon slap against my stomach.  A strand
of clear sticky precum glinted in the lamplight.  I worked my dick very
hard and fast for about twenty seconds, to try and lessen the overwhelming
tension in my whole body, then taking a deep breath, got up to look for a
prize, dick bobbing.

Easy as pie.  Keppel had a white linen kit bag on top of his main luggage
and I knew instantly it was his laundry.  A pair of grey and red sports
socks and that day's pair of white CKs were on top.  Oh man.  I huffed one
of the socks and nearly passed out.  In that second I decided I would cum
in one of them and put it back in his laundry bag.  The other sock seemed
even more intense - sweaty, fetid and sexy.  Fuck, this was going to be the
quickest wank in history.

I jumped back on bed and lost my boxers.  I lay back and snorted hungrily
at the second sock while I poked my dick into the first and started a hard
slow action.  Tight grip, so that the sock made full contact with all my
wet erection.  Oh my God.  My ass started to lift off the bed and fuck
upwards into the sock and my hand.  I just couldn't seem to stop it.

I was still clutching the CKs, but the sock I was sniffing was so intense I
didn't want to leave it.  Then I realised I could have both.  I stuffed the
toe end of the sock into my mouth and then snorted the inside of the cock
pouch on those CKs.  Oh Fucking Hell.  The beautiful aroma of cock faintly
tinged with piss.  Man cock.  Real hard bastard Afrikaner cock.  And the
taste of his toe gunk and sneaker sweat all around my mouth.  With his CKs
arranged over my nose and his sock in my mouth, my free hand tweaked my
nipple while I fucked the other sock.  This was the best wank I had ever
had.  It was going to be over in only a few moments, but in the meantime...
I gave into it totally.  I started to moan and writhe and buck my hips.  I
always cum harder if I let myself get vocal, and I started to let go.

"Oh yeah you fuckin stud, oh yeah your hot sweaty feet and your fuckin
fuckin hot chest... oh yeah man, do me with your rock hard dick..."

The sound of the door opening only registered partially on my radar, but
the sound of it clicking shut sent me into a terrified frenzy. The level of
panic that shot through me was like a high-voltage electric shock, and the
adrenaline that was immediately injected into my system made me wildly
snatch at all the stolen clothing and somehow, somehow try frantically to
hide it and then get myself under the bedclothes in the three-quarters of a
second it would take before he--

"What the...?"

One foot on the floor, one knee on the bed, my long erection bouncing,
pointing right at him; I didn't know what to do - I was more desperate than
I had ever been.  I had one hand behind my back with the stolen gear in it,
but as I looked at him staring at me in incredulity, I realised one of his
socks was still on the bed.  I had managed nothing.  I hadn't hidden the
gear or myself.  Worse, I had frozen still while looking at him.  And my
cock was still hard as a hammer.  Coyly - and pointlessly - I tried to put
a hand in front of it.

Whatever he had expected to see, it wasn't this, and he was momentarily
flummoxed by the sight of me. His hand wandered to the desk where his
forgotten wallet - obviously the reason for his sudden return - too late I
saw it, far too late - as if he was still acting on previous instinct.
Then, within a second, he began to realise what he was looking it.

"You fucking little pervert," he snarled, nastily.  "I've not even been
gone five minutes.  Look at you, wanking your bone before I'm even out the
fuckin door."

I was paralysed.  My heart was thumping a thousand to the minute, but it
was the only part of me that seemed able to move.  Inside I screamed for
help.  Please let this be a nightmare, please let me wake up right now...
But no.  Instead he identified the stray sock that was still on my bed,
still scrunched up from where I had been fucking it, and still wet with my
precum.

"And my fucking socks?  You little fucker."  His hard tight vowels became
even more aggressive, and his eyes narrowed.  Yet his voice and his anger
and his aggression just made my dick throb even harder, and my heart pump
like I would explode.

"Oh my god, oh my god..." I muttered to myself, somehow trying to edit him
out of the room.  Finally I found some coordination and I reached for my
boxers and tried to step into them.  In doing so I put down on the bed what
I had been hiding behind my back.

"And my skids...?" he said, quietly, incredulously.

Oh Jesus.  How could I have done that?  He pounced on them, as if to check
they were his.  The slightly yellow piss mark on the inside of the cock
pouch was turned outwards as I had spread it over my nose to snort.

"You've been jerking off sniffing my underwear?"

His voice was so quiet I couldn't bear it.  I tripped slightly as my left
leg wouldn't go into my boxers.  My cock still bounced like a loose
cucumber.

"You filthy, dirty little cunt."  He unbuckled his belt in a flash and
whipped it out in one loud crack.  "Get over here right now."

Shit.  He was going to beat me.  My panic became desperation.  "Please, Mr
Keppel, no sir, I'm sorry, I won't do it again, I just..."

"Get over here right now or I will punch you into next week."

His voice chilled me into submission.  I still couldn't get both legs into
my boxers, so I staggered over to him.  He took his belt and threw it onto
the bed.  I was surprised - had he changed his mind on whipping me?  And
then, my God.  He unpopped his jeans buttons in one rip and pushed them to
his knees.  His snowy white boxerbriefs were revealed - the bulge as
awesome as ever.  His thighs like solid trunks.

"Wha...what shall I... what do you...?"

I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to do; I had no idea what he
was thinking or expecting.  I stood in front of him - not daring to think.
He brought his hands up to my face and then placed them on my shoulders.
Without any delay or messing about he pressed my shoulders firmly downwards
until I was kneeling in front of him.  My heart nearly exploded.

"Surely a little undie-sniffer like you does not fucking require
instructions?" he sneered.  He grabbed the back of my head and pulled it
firmly into his crotch.  The bulge smashed me on the nose.  Then he held
his head in place and began to squirm his hefty package into my face.

"Seeing as you seem to like my gear so much, here's the real thing," he
sniggered.  I do not know why he found this funny.  Either it was an
exquisite torture designed to humiliate me further, or he genuinely wanted
me to get to work on his rod.  Either way my own dick strained upwards in
desperate hardness.  The contact, the smell, the warmth, the increasing
rigidity of his packet made me mad with sexlust.  I'd never had any sexual
contact with anyone before and I felt like I might cum at any point.  I
tried to push my nose in a little further, transfixed, hungry, scared
stiff.

"Jesus fucking Christ, are you a total numskull?  Open your mouth.  Now."

I opened my mouth and looked up at him.  He seemed without any emotion as
he flipped his stiffening shaft out of his undies and slapped it into my
face.  That was the moment I knew something fundamental about myself: I
wanted nothing more than his cock in my mouth.  Everything went out of my
head except his cock, snaking in front of me.  The fact that he had caught
me and I was terrified, the unexpected possibility that he might actually
be up for messing about, even the fact that I was naked on my knees with my
own long rod bolt upright and impossibly hard, all faded away.
  The only thing in existence was his cock.  I had nothing to compare it
with except my own, but it seemed big, beautiful, manly and completely
irresistible.  It bounced and bobbed as it hardened further and as he
continued to slap it around my face.
  I was desperate for the taste of it, and tried to catch it in my open,
gagging mouth, but he kept swinging it out of reach, dancing in front of my
eyes, too close for me to look at properly, but still hypnotic.  And he
sniggered.

"Gotta open wider than that, boy. You think this is just like your pals'
little dicks?"

I stretched open as wide as if I was at the dentist.  He laughed again.

"Now we might be in business."

He smeared his cockhead over my lips, and I tried to lick and taste him,
but he seemed to be enjoying teasing me.

"Oh what a little slut you have turned out to be.  Look at you, hard as a
rock and desperate for cock!"  He snorted in amusement at his own rhyme.
"Well, boy, your education starts here."

He put his hand on the back of my head and pushed his knobend into my
mouth.  The smell, the warmth, the hardness, the taste - I was overwhelmed
by so many sensations I went light-headed and thought I might faint.  I
closed my mouth around his fat cockhead and loose foreskin, and I was
transported to other-worldly bliss.  I had never even seen an erection
other than my own up close, certainly never touched one, and now I had one
in my mouth.  I hadn't seen this one yet either, not properly, and I had no
idea how big it was - no true sense of its size at all - but at sixteen I
couldn't have immediately and accurately sized a guy to the nearest half
inch like I can now.  And in fact, even though I had a cock in my mouth, I
still hadn't actually touched one.  My right hand went instinctively to the
thick strong shaft that joined his helmet to his body, gripping hard,
feeling and massaging, then wanking, thrilled at its fat, thick rigidity.
My left hand went to my own dick, which was so hard it was in danger of
snapping.  I got into a rhythm, natural, easy, obvious.  I wanked both
cocks and suckled hungrily on the top two inches of his now iron-hard
erection.  I felt my whole body buzzing with purpose, with sex, with life.

"Leave your own dick, alone, boy," he said, gruffly.  "Don't want this
party over before it's started."

I doubted that something as common place as me ejaculating - I had, after
all, had two or three orgasms a day for the last four years - would stop me
sucking his cock, but I did what he said.  Quickly I found that without the
familiar handiwork on my own cock, my desire for his cock became, if
possible, even greater.  The only way I could get release now was from
sucking, and I chomped and vacuumed like my life depended on it.

I was assaulted by so many new sensations that I could hardly process them
all.  I never imagined that hardness could be so smooth, or so warm, or
that warmth could somehow have a taste, or that soapy smells would be as
hot as the musk of manliness.  I never realised that a scrotum could feel
so heavy, or that a bush displays a cock like a cushion, like a podium.  I
never thought that the pushing, insistent thrust of a hard shaft in my soft
mouth could feel so unbearably sexy that it reverberated all around my
body, making my dick throb and my balls churn.  I used my saliva to make
him as slick as I could, and scooped the excess along his rod to wank him
better.  He loved it.  I always thought that when I gave my first blowjob I
would try to copy what I had seen done in the hundreds of hours of porn I
had watched online, but when it came to it instinct seemed a better guide.
I knew I would not be able to take all of him to the root, and I didn't
want to anyway.  It was so sexy to hold the throbbing fat rod and slurp the
end that I got up to about three inches of him inside me, and wanted no
more.  Even though he seemed eager to push it in further, he didn't force
me.  There still seemed to be room for both my hands on his shaft, and when
I started a two- handed assault while my tongue flicked under his fat glans
with his skin full back, I sensed that I had him.

Something had shifted.  His body language was compliant, relaxed.  I
realised I had the power now and another surge of adrenaline hit me. He had
become a pussy!
  He was moaning and writhing and rubbing his nipples and smoothing his
hands over his flat belly and taut thighs.  He kept one hand on my head,
but it was out of the enjoyment of mussing my hair more than to steer the
action.  I was now steering!  My cock ached and ached, dripping streams of
clear snot, begging for attention, for release.  I felt like a hard, hard
cunt ignoring it, and I loved the feeling.

Since I started work on him, the insults had stopped, the aggression faded
to deep sexual enjoyment.  I knew he was just going to sit back and wait
for me to deliver a climax for him.  In fact that is literally what he then
did: removed me from his cock, then sat at the head of my bed, leaning back
against the wall, knees slightly raised and his legs wide open, his hairy
trench spread slightly open in front of my pillows.  At some point he had
lost his red polo shirt, and was now clad only in socks.  He smiled at me,
an invitation to resume my work on his monstrous prong, which I saw
properly now for the first time.  It was a glorious slab of meat: a long,
fat, straight woody: the head fatter than the rest: and the balls, bush and
trail making the whole into something approaching perfection.  To my
teenage first-timer's eyes, it was way beyond a dream.  He smiled again.
Another realisation: I preferred him when he was arrogant.

As I looked at him there, I knew something about myself, and something
about him.  First, I was gay.  This was something I had known for a long
time in a theoretical sense, but now I knew in a practical one.  Looking at
this masculine masterpiece, I knew I would never want Corinna's soft baps,
or even wonder about them any more.  For me, the way forward was cock, and
it was a something or a relief to know that for sure.  Second, Keppel was
an arrogant bully, but I seemed to have tamed him.
  Even so, I strongly suspected this party, as he called it, would be more
likely to end with his orgasm than mine.  So I decided to get mine first.
I didn't want him to walk all over me, even if this was my first time out.

I smiled back, and knelt on the bed between his legs.  As if we were old
buddies, he massaged my head, rubbing my hair and neck as I went back to
his awesome schlong.  In this position I realised I had more control, and
set about exploring his foreskin properly.  I soon found I could draw it
back and forth while in my mouth, and it was an obvious jump to getting my
tongue underneath his slack skin and stretching it with my tongue and mouth
while I wanked him.  My own enjoyment of this new manoeuvre was
sensational; I felt somehow like I was getting right inside him.  But it
was nothing to his own pleasure.

"Jesus, boy, oh fuck yeah, oh man, that's done it, fuck yeah... fuck
yeah...  right there..."

"Kep!  You in there?  You found your wallet?"

Reggie's voice as he banged on the door made my whole body tense and
freeze, but Keppel kept massaging my head and neck, an indication that I
should keep sucking.

"Yeah, Reg," he called.  "I got it, but I suddenly don't feel too good.
Give me a while and I might catch you up."

"Sure, Kep.  We'll be at that same bar and then on to the strip club."

Then he was gone.  I stopped and looked at "Kep".  "What kind of strip
club?" I asked.

"Girls, pole dancing, just a bar.  Nothing amazing.  Drinks cost a fortune
though.  Reggie likes to stick 20 Euro notes right into their cunnies."

I considered our new positions.  This was a our first ever conversation,
and it was mainly due to the fact that I was between his legs giving my
first blowjob, while trying to ignore the intensely painful need to work on
my own cock.

"You into that?" I ventured.

"What do you think?" he laughed again.

"I think you'd rather be here with me doing this."

"You think right, boy.  Sex with a hot guy beats boning a pussy any day."

"Does that make me a hot guy?"

"Baby," he laughed, "you are the hottest guy in school.  And I knew you
were a homo two years ago."

"How?"

"You stared at Forsythe for a whole lesson once.  Imagining what it would
be like to suck his dick, probably."

I was quiet.  Forsythe had been my secret.  I had loved him from a distance
for a time, wanking myself into a frenzy just at the thought of the back of
his neck, or the curl of his hair.  I was gutted when Reggie got him
expelled for boning Lucinda.  Suddenly I knew I didn't want to talk to
Keppel about Forsythe.  He would only belittle what I felt, and anyway we
had more pressing matters to hand.  I went back to my blowjob, and within a
minute I had him back up at boiling point.  Again I found that if I could
ignore my own crushing desire to masturbate, I had absolute control over
Kep.  I slowed and sped up, and slowed again, and each time he quivered and
moaned in response was more confirmation that to suck was not necessarily
to be passive.  His great fat solid member throbbed hard in my hands and my
mouth, and his breathing was fast and shallow.  I sensed he was very close
to orgasm.

So I stopped.

"Actually I was mainly fantasising about you," I said as I got up off my
knees and stood on the bed in front of him.  He gasped at the termination
of my mouthwork.  "I knew you were a hard cunt.  I knew you'd lay back and
take a blowjob.  I dreamt your cock would be a porno dick, and it is.  But
I wanked like a fucking demon wondering if you'd be man enough to suck me
off too."

Maybe I risked him just drawing a close to our fun, but I didn't think so.
There was a look in his eyes like I had never seen in anyone.  He stared at
my strong, straight aching teen bone, not as fat as his, but as long and as
beautiful.  He wanted it.  He fucking wanted it.  He looked up at me
briefly, then back to my dick.

I'd got him nearly to the point of no return, and now I'd presented him
with my dick.  His hands came up to my hips, and brushed my fair skin
lightly.  He leaned forward and his mouth was inches from my cockhead.  I
was faint with anticipation.  I ran my hands over his cropped hair.

He said nothing, but his lips were parting.  He was going to do it.  Keppel
was going to suck my cock!  He had resisted for no more than ten seconds.

He was as much a homo as me.


*********

Does this warrant a second part?  Drop me a line if you enjoyed it, or if
you'd like a list of my other stuff at Nifty.
jsmith381@hotmail.com