Date: Mon, 28 Dec 2009 19:10:57 +0700
From: cunctator@hush.com
Subject: Wayne

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Cunctator issues the redundant advice that this story is submitted
for inclusion in the Gay Male Adult-Youth section of the archive
and obviously contains the sort of material one might expect to
find in a section so named. The Nifty site consists of archives of
fictional material and the present story should be regarded as
such. Cunctator has no motive other than to entertain consenting
adults.

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When he was 60 or so, King Edward I of England married a girl
not much older than 16.

The age difference does not seem to have prevented pleasant-
enough married life and enough sex to produce several
children. His new bit of stuff was cheerfully accepted as
Queen.

I am heartened by the success old Edward had with his age gap
bride, because the age gap between me and my shag-stuff is
roughly the same.

But not exactly the same. Mathematical parity cannot disguise
the fact that 60 on 16 is not quite the same as 56 on 12. And
I can't marry a twelve-year-old, even if I wanted to.

What we can do is the sex bit. He likes that.

**

I knew he would be different before I ever met him.

Wayne.

My state high school is situated in a rural English idyll. The
sheer cost of owning property in the catchment area rules out
new immigrants. There is little trade locally, so we are short
of Jews. There are no corner shops or restaurants, so we are
short of other ethnic minorities. The occasional transient
gipsies are resisted. The dent in the otherwise circular
catchment area that excludes a large former council estate
cannot be accidental.

The boys are all called Rupert, Giles, Sebastian and other top-
end-of-the-middle-class names. There are girls too but I've
never mastered enough interest in them to get a grip on
individual names.

We do not have boys called Wayne, so I was on guard before I
clapped eyes on him.

**

Some people believe in what they sometime call gaydar. It
isn't relevant to me because I'm not gay, at least not in the
sense that I fancy grown men.

But a junior version of gaydar does seem to kick in sometimes.
On very rare occasions it does more than kick. On this
occasion it produced an immediate pleasurable spasm somewhere
deep behind my balls. Human anatomy remains mostly a mystery
to me, but the sight of this boy did something strange and
exciting to mine.

I've been reading Nifty stories for over a decade, so I know
that the juvenile lead is invariably blond and blue-eyed. I
noted the irony as I stared at huge blue eyes equipped with
impossibly girlish eye-lashes, surrounded and partly obscured
by straw blond hair wildly exceeding the school's prim dress
code.

I stared too long. My inner dictator marked his card as "To be
had, pronto."

He stared back. There was something about his guileless gaze
that responded "No sweat, I'm yours when you want me."

**
Our school follows on from an 8-12 middle school, so we get
new boys (all right, yes, and girls) at Year 8, so 12-ish.
These kids were lined up outside my classroom for their first
English lesson with me, so I had never seen them before.

I marched them in and let them sit down at any seat they
chose. Then I moved them around. I like to think it
establishes right at the outset that I'm in charge, and that
no one steps out of line in my class. It does, and they never
do. It also gets the boys where I want them - likely trouble
makers right under my nose where they can't; and eye-candy
close enough to get a good look at.

I had blond blue-eyes down as both likely trouble and as eye-
candy. I put him in the desk right next to the teacher's
table. It's the only desk where the occupant is actually close
enough to touch, if I dare.

He was still staring at me with his huge eyes as he sat in the
assigned seat, near me (well, very near me). I fancied I could
read his face. "I could be a real pain, but if you're nice to
me I won't be." On a hunch I said "I bet you're Wayne."

He didn't reply, just smiled happily. A smirky middle-class
boy-voice from the middle of the class muttered "Wayne the
wanker."

Wayne turned in his seat. "Leas oi gert summat worf wankin,"
he growled derisively, more in amusement than embarrassment. A
local rural accent that thick is a rarity in anyone under 50.

I tapped the desk and frowned in the general direction, none
too sure who had uttered the mutter.

"It's true, Sir" piped up a teacher's-pet-squeal-on-anyone-
girl-voice. "In our old school he used to sit at the back and
get his thing out."

"Enough!" I commanded. "I don't want to hear about that." I
had exerted my authority; a sudden hush followed. As a touch
of humour to keep the atmosphere good, I added, looking at
Wayne, "And I don't want to see that either." Amid a  good-
natured titter Wayne looked at me with a slight smile that
appeared to say, "I bet you do really." My embarrassed quick
looking away confirmed to him my unspoken, "Yes, indeed I do."
Without a word being said between us, we both knew where we
stood.

**

The first lesson established that Wayne wasn't stupid,
although quite a few of the other pupils treated him as though
he were. He simply saw the futility of prolonging his
education, a concept he later neatly encapsulated as "Don'
need a Ph.D. ter drive a tractor." This was indeed a school
with kids who were statistically much more likely to get a
Ph.D. than to ever drive a tractor. He took little active part
in the lesson, but paid enough attention to know what was
going on. He regarded the lesson in the way he might have
looked at a TV programme that was mildly amusing but of no
real relevance to him. Whenever I glanced at him, his eyes
were fixed on me.

As the kids were filing out at the end, he hung back. Once he
was satisfied no one was listening, he fixed me with his eyes
and spoke to me as though I'd known him all his life, not just
for 40 minutes. "You wanna see moy kittens?"

There was something utterly childish in his offer - a small
boy wanting someone to see his little pets. I would have
accepted his offer for that alone. But the knowing look in his
eyes suggested I was being invited to view more than kittens.
I nodded agreement.

"Bull car park 4:30." He was gone.

"The Bull" had until recently been a pub in a nearby
gentrified village that feeds our school. Now it was for sale,
and already looking a bit derelict. It was a fair way from
nearby houses, and the car park was secluded behind high
walls.

Wayne might be 12 and look childishly innocent, but he had
just set up a rendezvous where we would probably be
undisturbed in whatever we chose to do.

No, Wayne was far from stupid.

**

At 4:30 Wayne cycled into the car park, complete with three
kittens in an old army haversack. As I came to know over the
succeeding months, he wasn't strong on greetings or other
unnecessary verbiage. Without preamble he explained that he
had kept them alive after being told to drown them, using a
mixture of bottle-feeding and surreptitious reunions with mum-
cat who had been allowed to keep one kitten. He wanted me to
take him and them to the local small town where a pet shop had
agreed to accept them. So was that it, I thought, just a
meeting for a free ride into town with illicit cat-cargo?

We went. Wayne emerged from the pet shop with a mere 50p to
show for his kittens. "Bastards din wanna  pay me nowt" was
his disgusted comment, but he seemed pleased the kittens might
eventually get a good life.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Gotta get me bike" was all he offered. What would I get, I
wondered.

I didn't have to wait until we got to the car park. One the
way into town he had played with the kittens. On the way back
he transferred the focus of his playful fingers to undoing my
fly and extracting a hugely stiff cock. He never asked - just
took it for granted that I would like what he was doing.
Somehow the fact that we had only just met, and that he was
only 12, and that I was his somewhat elderly English teacher,
didn't enter into the equation at all. We met as equals.

Within a few moments I had to push his hands away to stop
myself erupting. "Not while I'm driving," I said. Another
oddity - it never crossed my mind to say "Don't do that, I'm
your teacher for God's sake." We both knew it didn't matter,
and we weren't going to stop at a quick fumble in the car.

 Back at the car park he jumped quickly out of the car. My
first thought was that he was intent of pedalling off before I
could assault him. But no - he moved (where did he learn to
wiggle his arse like that?) towards a building that looked
like it had been the outside lavatories before the Bull
adopted indoor sanitation. He climbed in a window and invited
me to do the same - no concession to age and infirmity in his
mind.

Once in, he stood with his front against me, his faced pressed
against my chest near an armpit, breathing in deeply. He was
relishing man-scent. I pressed my face into the top of his
sandy mop of hair, relishing not-too-recently-washed-boy-
scent.

After inhaling each other for a minute or two, Wayne
disengaged and fished in his pocket. He held a three-quarters-
used small tube of KY in front of my face.  "Not big on
foreplay, then," I thought.

My amused bafflement must have shown on my face. "Be
Prepared," he quoted. "Scouts?" I asked, experiencing a sudden
notion that the 1st Ambridge Scout Group in his home village
might be a Niftyesque hotbed of sodomy. "Nah," he answered,
"Not now. Fuckin' turd that runs it were always sniffin' roun'
me like `e wanted to get up me arse, then when I told `im `e
could, `e come over all narky an' tol' me not to come any
more."

I experienced sympathy for the said turd. I too had once worn
the "Duty before Desire" tee-shirt. Those days were gone, and
today Wayne was going to get what he wanted.

"C'mon," he urged, still without foreplay or any sense that
the offer would be rejected this time. (Am I such an open
book?) I took the KY. "You got any ...," I started to ask.
"Nah," he interrupted. "Don' like the messy things. Anyway, it
ain't like all the village's been up there." The implication
was that a reasonable proportion of the village had, but who
was I to care just at that moment?

He turned around. There were four breezeblocks on the floor
beside the wall, in two piles of two about as far apart as a
boy's wide-open legs. Their presence was clearly no surprise
to him. He climbed up, placing a foot on each pile, and
agilely flattening himself against the wall. "Hold me," he
commanded. He was lithe and light, and I easily held him in
position with a hand against his back while he fumbled to undo
his belt and trouser buttons. I moved in, now holding him
pinned against the wall with my chest and belly as I started
undoing my own trousers. He was squashed flat against the
wall, his head turned sideways with one cheek against the
rough concrete. We both eased our nether garments down just
far enough to allow essential operations to commence. His bare
arse was just at the right height for entering, and his head
was just below my face so I could bury my nose in his hair as
I screwed him.

I put a little gob of the KY on my cock, but truth to tell
there was so much precum sloshing around I hardly needed it.
And Wayne wasn't hard to enter. I briefly wondered again how
much of the village had already sampled the delights of
Wayne's anus, but animal instincts took over and I began to
fuck him. He had only his thin tee-shirt between his chest and
the hard concrete wall and must have been uncomfortable, but
it was clear that his attention was only on what I was doing
behind him. He groaned and cooed contentedly as I fucked him
harder and harder, gasping a little as the harder thrusts
slammed his little body and face against the wall. This wasn't
a comfortable position for him to be fucked in, but he had
chosen it, and he seemed to enjoy the feeling of being trapped
and at my mercy. For me it was a perfect position, giving
straight access to his hole with no room for him to escape the
force of the deeper thrusts. He wasn't some fragile bud being
gently deflowered; he was a young slut who was clearly used to
being fucked hard, and loved it.

I snaked my arms round between his hips and the wall to get at
his cock. He had spoken the truth in class; he did have
something that was worth wanking, maybe four inches, uncut of
course, quite sturdy, with no pubic hair that I could feel,
but with definite precum wetness at the tip.

Wayne was a wiggler. He wiggled his arse from side to side as
I ploughed in and out, giving a nice twist to the feel of it.
He wiggled his arse back and forward, so sometimes I went in
deeper than other times. My deepest thrust squashed his little
body against the wall, ensuring maximum penetration. It didn't
last long, but it was a lovely ride while it lasted. Soon I
was spurting heavily inside him.

As soon as he knew I was done, he wriggled free of my cock. He
stepped down from the blocks, turning to face me. He put his
hand on my shoulder, urging me down to a sucking position.
Once in, his cock pulsed strongly of its own accord with
minimal encouragement from me. This too did not last long, and
within moments I had delightfully sweet boycum swilling round
my mouth. I savoured a while, then swallowed.

I let his cock drool and then slip out. I moved up his now
relaxed body and nuzzled my lips on his cheek, very slightly
grazed from being crushed against the wall. He turned his head
so that our lips came together. We kissed open-mouthed
briefly. His breath and mouth had a scent and savour that
seemed oddly familiar but which I could not immediately place.
Then it came to me - strong lager.

I held him and kissed him. I released his mouth and held him
some more. The slut-in-a-hurry was now a soppy-little-boy in
no hurry at all. Then he did the most unexpected thing of all.
"I love you," he whispered.

"Good," was all I managed in reply.

**

Once recovered from his orgasm he was active and businesslike
again. He was off quickly, anxious not to be late and invite
questions.

"Do we get to do this again?" I asked as he mounted his pretty
arse carefully on his bike seat.

"Course," he answered. "Morning break at school tomorrow, if
you can think of a safe place."

As he began to pedal away he smiled shyly over his shoulder.
"Oi'm glad you liked moy kittens."