It was the third time that week I'd decided to take the long way. And like the previous two times it wasn't a decision I'd made lightly.
Walking home for a school kid like me wasn't fun. I didn't look forward to the end of the day like the rest. Each time the final bell pierced the silence of the classroom, I knew, in ten minutes, I'd be fair game. When its shrill, metallic cry rang in my ears I knew, soon, there'd be no one, at least contractually obliged to protect me.
All I could do was hang around until they'd streamed out, pushing and shoving in their laughing packs, and wait for whichever bored, indifferent teacher to give me the look. The look that says for the love of god, please leave.
Then it was always the same. Headphones in, but music off so I could ignore the oh-so-original and hilarious words hurled at me from a distance without being deaf to footsteps racing up from behind. Head down, no eye contact. All the way home.
But even though the longer it took the more chances bored kids had to break more of my bones without fear of suspensions or expulsions, every extra step was worth it.
Since I knew where I could spot his car or catch a glimpse of a shaved head attached to broad, muscular shoulders and those thick, strong, hairy-as-hell legs, it was a risk I was willing to take.
I suppose I shouldn't call it the long way home. Until I found Mr. Price it was my only way home.
Surprisingly, the atmosphere on the cold, grey concrete in the early evening autumn dim was different. Lads walked by in their usual groups but talked in hushed voices. I felt their eyes on me as we passed on the narrow pavement. Them on their way to town, me towards the outer suburbs. But that, as they say, was that.
No names, no shoving. No laughter. By then surely everyone had heard the news. Society likes to think girls are the gossipers, but scratch away macho fašades and you'll find it's a human trait indiscriminate of gender. Boys love to bitch. But, their renewed sense of indignation I assumed would be waiting for me, was nowhere to be seen or heard.
Another group passed. Quiet. Nothing. I smiled to myself.
At seventeen I'd already given up caring what people thought or said about me. What was the point? It didn't change anything. But this was interesting. This did. What it would change I didn't know, but it certainly gave me more to think about on my journey.
And what a journey it had been already. That I wouldn't have expected in a million years.
He apologised. He actually stood there, face to face, and apologised. And then his proposal was nothing short of genius. For him, at least. Why stop at two when there were plenty of willing boys looking for action?
As the steady flow of headlights trundled by, yellow or white toward and red away, I thought about the names that had popped up on my MSN window the night before and the faces and bodies they were attached to.
I wondered, as the pedestrian crossing beeped overhead and exhaust fumes mingled with the steam from my breath, if more of them would be willing to take the conversation onto texts now the king of school had given his royal decree.
I pulled out my phone as I made it incident-free past a group of chavs smoking weed and revving their mopeds by the entrance to a muddy, gravel footpath. I thumbed through my messages as my black shoes crunched onwards and the sweet, sticky second-hand smoke danced up my nostrils.
There was Daniel. My year but older: already eighteen. An inch shorter than my six foot, he was toned and muscular in all the right places from years of playing football. Calves you could sink your teeth into. Amazing arse. Smart too.
Oxbridge-bound, he'd known how it worked. Once he'd understood I'd keep my mouth shut, he hadn't been afraid to send all sorts. It had started with a picture. A grainy image of an eight-inch cock in some girl's mouth. He'd wanted to know if it turned me on.
It hadn't take much to get him to send more. First more pictures: better quality; more body. Then videos: girls again; solo performances. Then his parents had gone out one night.
I stopped in my tracks and pressed play on my screen. It was only a nine-second clip but his cock looked great sliding in and out of my mouth, and the amplified sound of my saliva sloshing through my earbuds made my own cock fill my underwear.
The slurping ended and fast feet hitting small stones took its place. They were right behind me but I knew the muffled sound of running trainers. I didn't even look up as a jogger shot past in my peripheral in a flash of red. Shuffling my trousers I did the best to hide the lump in my pants and walked on.
Not far now.
Then, of course, there was James. Five-foot-three he was the perfect seventeen-year-old pocket bottom. Bright red hair, smooth porcelain skin and the tightest, pertest arse imaginable. I'd caught him looking at my cock in the library toilets one Friday afternoon.
Naturally the kid had been shy, at first. And, to be honest, I didn't blame him for keeping schtum about his sexuality, what with already being ginger and basically a midget. But I'd seen it in his eyes. The way he'd looked at me, pleading to let him look longer or take him into the cubicle and fuck him senseless.
Logistics-wise that would have been impossible, of course. So I'd fingered him and took his number instead. He'd need a bit more practice if he wanted to take Adam, but there was no doubt he'd look superb getting stretched open from both ends.
And then there was Phil. Phil was a cum-swallower, not a cock-sucker. Taking dicks in the mouth wasn't his bag, apparently, but slurping down big white mouthfuls was.
Not that I cared. If it meant I could watch him twitch as my load hit the back of his throat and poured into his stomach as he knelt in his parent's kitchen and looked up at me with those big green eyes he could be anything.
Now that Adam wanted to join the party, a million quid said he wouldn't turn down two delicious feedings. He could be our little piggy.
The ground underneath turned soft and I looked up from the glare of my phone. A large green field stretched away, bordered on the far side by the dried-up remains of a thin, bush-lined creek and a medium-size forest, still leafy but beginning to shed its lush summer coat.
Above it the weak sun was not far from setting below the tops of the trees, but in the crisp twilight almost every square-foot in front was visible in the orangey-pink glow. I put my phone in my pocket and took a seat on a nearby bench. My bench.
It was quiet today.
To the right a middle-aged woman in an oversized, bright blue puffer jacket threw a stick to a long-haired cocker spaniel. It bounded after its prize only to stop disappointed at the feeble distance it had travelled. Lying down next to it, it gnawed on the wood and ignored its master's pleas to return.
Behind, a man and woman in scarves and hats strolled away holding hands. I could see from the pink leads draped around the man's shoulders they were more dog walkers. In the distance two chocolate Labradors bounded and played together, directionless and free.
I sighed. Lucky bitches.
To my left a small group of young kids played football and further on adults sipped steaming drinks from flasks and talked amongst themselves; all keeping at least one eye on the little ones. I assumed Mr. Price didn't have any children, what with being a closet case and all, but everyone knows assumptions make an ass out of you and me. So I scanned the fathers.
No shaved heads. No rugged physiques. All there was were wrinkled, tired faces and bodies let go under nice clothes probably picked out by dutiful wives. Oh the joys of parenthood and marriage.
Standing I took one last look. Left to right. Right to left. No one new. No one else. Another disappointing night. Another pointless detour.
Pulling out my phone I slumped onto the bench. At least I wasn't at a complete loss. Opening a new note I typed:
Hey man. I have a proposition for you. When's good to talk?
Then I copied the text and pasted it into a new message. Daniel: send. Ginger James: send. Phil-Me-Up: send. Then I sat still and enjoyed the last few minutes of sunlight as the cold wind bit at my neck and hands and face.
I wondered what people did before iPhones and the internet was invented. I thought about all the special codes and clothes men had to know and wear if they wanted to advertise their status without being thrown in jail or beaten or worse.
I made a bet with myself that James would be the first to reply. Daniel's fondness for multimedia worked in his favour, but James was eager. He never failed to text back. Not that either were a for-sure winner. With a message as hopefully intriguing as mine it was anyone's game.
No more than five minutes had passed when my phone vibrated in my pocket but, as I reached in, a pinprick of red popped into my peripheral again. The jogger in the red t-shirt had reappeared, tiny on the horizon. I squinted and watched him grow as he ran closer and closer. I froze.
Broad shoulders. Shaved head. Those legs. I could recognise them anywhere.
I'd stared at them enough times, dreaming of running my tongue up the inside of each thigh and tasting his sweat, or feeling their heat locked around my head as pubes prickled my nostrils and his cock choked me from the inside. I swear they were the only reason I didn't skip sport class.
Grabbing my bag I pulled out my sweater and a book. Plain black. Of Mice and Men. Then I undid my school tie and bundled it away with my blazer. He couldn't see me in my uniform, not yet. After what had happened it was impossible to know his reaction.
This was a reconnaissance mission, through and through. I needed to confirm his location. That's it. Then, another day, I would attack. How and when I wasn't sure, but then and there all I could do was throw him a smile or a cheeky wink if he looked my way. No more.
Placing my bag under the bench I shuffled my feet in front of it, leaned forward and opened my book. I was just a guy, reading in the park. Nothing unusual about that. I looked up. Casually. My heart skipped a beat. He looked sensational.
No more than twenty metres from me he had slowed to a walk. His red t-shirt clung to his wide, bulky but toned torso, wet and burgundy with sweat. Clouds of steam billowed out of his mouth, hanging open and panting for air. His muscular arms bulged with a thick vein here and there and his large hands rested on his waist.
His heavenly legs stamped, step by step, closer and closer, tired but still powerful; his giant, hairy quads stretched the rough, black fabric of his tiny rugby shorts. Haloed by the setting sun behind him every inch of his body looked more amazing than before. He stopped five metres from me and stretched.
Bending forward he grabbed his ankles and held the position. For a big bloke he was flexible. Three seconds turned into five. Eight turned into ten. Then he stood up straight, slowly, twisted left and twisted right, reached into the air, stood on tip toes and then stood back down and swung his arms down and around. Then he locked his eyes on mine.
I smiled. I winked.
Or if there was, some subtle sign of recognition or excitement or anything at all, he was too far away to tell. He just looked away, walked past slowly and continued his jog back down the gravel and away from the field.
Pulling my bag from under the bench I stood up and flung it over my shoulder. I watched his big, bubble arse cheeks rise and fall as he ran away. Mission successful.
My phone vibrated in my pocket again. New Message: Ginger James.
Mission successful indeed.
To be continued ...
Head over to my website to learn more about Oscar's adventures, including new and exclusive content about my upcoming eBook Oscar Down Under, as well as an audio recording of Oscar, Part 9.
Copyright Jack Ladd 2016
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