J. H. P. Cash, 367

When I Were Nowt But a Lad 20

That week that Robert was away was bliss. I still had a few 'O' Level papers, but they were well-spaced. I think that the sun may even have been shining. Guy seemed completely relaxed and happy, not only when we were alone together, but whenever I saw him around the House and school.

Our bliss was slightly compromised by, well, a compromise. When Nick Davies returned, Dab asked if he and Andy could use Robert's bedsit as well, since they now had no access to Nick's.

"What? Four of us? Dab, that spoils the whole point of us being alone," I protested.

"Not all together," said Dab. "We could have a sort-of... rota."

"You've had a whole week with Andy. I've only had a few days with Guy. It won't be the same if we have to sneak out and let you in or something. The sleeping together bit's almost the best bit."

"No problem. Look, we'll have first shift, then you and Guy can go in and have the rest of the night, including sleeping 'til dawn."

"It won't be the same," I said.

Dab got Andy onto Guy. Guy came to me and said, "Andy's my friend and Dab's your friend: it'd be nice to share it with them."

Jesus! Christian charity! Guy's Dad would have been proud of him. Possibly.

To Dab I said: "It's not fair. You know Guy hero-worships Andy and you're just using that to get him to do what you want."

"Ahem," said Charlie. "I think that Guy hero-worships you a little, and..."

"That's not the same!" I said.

"No, no. No, indeed. Silly me!" said Charlie, turning away.

"It's not!" I insisted.

"I just said it wasn't," said Charlie, smiling.

We agreed that Dab and Andy could use Robert's bedsit for an hour and then they'd have to come and wake Guy and me and we could have it for the rest of the night.

"Incidentally," I asked Dab, "have you bummed Andy yet?"

Dab said, "No. We tried, but he's really, really not into it. So we've adopted your and Guy's solution." He smiled at me. Guy had told him.

Charlie looked up: "Which is?"

"Will you tell him or shall I?" asked Dab.

"You," I said, going out to put the kettle on.

When I came back with our drinks Charlie said, "Well, well. 'The World Turned Upside Down' indeed! The oppressed rise up and fuck the oppressor." Both Charlie and I were intending to take History at 'A' Level but Charlie's reading list was that of an undergraduate already. Christopher Hill's classic had only come out a year before. I hadn't read it, but Charlie had told me about it.

"We are hardly Puritans or Royals, are we?" I replied. "'Though you can be a bit of a Ranter, sometimes, I suppose."

"Well, we are Cavaliers," Dab pointed out.

"Ruff ruff!" I half-barked.

The hot-bedding arrangement worked out quite well the first night. I was actually able to go to sleep after Lights Out and rely on Dab to wake me when he and Andy had finished their shift. Andy had woken Guy, who was in Robert's bed waiting for me when I got there, grinning hugely.

"What?" I said.

"Andy's bumming Dab!" said Guy, obviously delighted.

"Oh yes," I said, "I thought you knew that."

"Not 'til just now, no."

"So you and Dab don't tell each other everything, then. Or you and Andy." I thought briefly of what I wasn't telling anybody.

"I think it's great!" said Guy. "Funny, but fab. Two Little Boys bumming their Big Boys."

No doubt comforted and encouraged by the knowledge that his hero figure was emulating him, Guy laid in with great gusto. This time I lay on my side and then on my front and Guy paced himself a little. He'd spunked within a few minutes previously, but this time he moved more slowly, luxuriating in doing something he now knew was really OK. We'd cuddled a bit first, and I'd sucked his cock briefly, but he'd been keen to "get on with it". Once his cock was in my bumhole, however, the urgency lessened. He was playing the considerate lover. He played with my cock when we were on our sides and when he asked me to lie on my front he at first stayed still inside me, humming a little to himself and kissing the back of my neck and shoulders.

It was strange for me. Very exciting. Guy was even more sensuous than I'd known him before. His youthful enthusiasm was being tempered by a slightly more mature, stronger but subtle lust. I could not help feeling a bit like his Little Boy. At the same time I felt that protective caring, and, now, a sort of pride: my Little Boy was growing up.

The next night Dab woke me and said, "Guy's got an idea. I'm coming back with you."

In Robert's bedsit, Guy was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pyjamas and Andy was lying in the bed, presumably naked. Guy’s hand was on the bedclothes where Andy's cock would be. Andy had his hands behind his head, lying back enjoying himself.

"We shouldn't all be in here together," I said. "It's taking the piss!"

"Wait 'til you hear Guy's idea," said Dab.

"Yeah," said Andy.

Guy blushed and hesitated, but then explained: "I thought that, well, Andy's not as big as you or Dab... his dick, I mean, and I thought that if he bummed me then it wouldn't hurt so much and I might get used to it."

"But Andy doesn't want to do stuff with you!" I protested, despite the evidence of Guy's hand.

"Changed my mind, didn't I?" said Andy, grinning. "Guy asked so nicely." He and Guy collapsed in giggles.

I looked at Dab. For no good reason I thought that he might have set this up.

"We've only got one more night after this before Robert gets back. I want to be with Guy."

"You'll still be able to borrow the bedsit after he gets back," Dab pointed out.

"And you and Guy could stay after anyway," said Andy.

"It's too many of us," I said. "We're bound to make too much noise."

"I didn't mean join in," said Andy. "You two could watch."

That was immediately arousing. I had been thinking "Do I want Andy bumming Guy?" Now I was thinking "Do I want to watch Andy bumming Guy?" And the answer was given by my stiffening cock.

"And then Andy and I would leave you two alone together," Dab said.

Did I want Dab watching Andy bumming my Guy? The possessiveness I felt towards Guy was unusual in me. When I was Guy's age, or "stage", rather, I had not by any means stuck to one sexual partner. I'd had that little twinge of jealously when Robert had started having other boys, but had got over that easily. But Guy? Guy wasn't that kind of boy, much though I wanted him to be so in my fantasies. He wasn't a slut like me. And did I want Dab watching? I was already a little jealous of their friendship.

"It'll be smooth," said Guy. "And maybe if Andy does me then later it'll be easier for you..."

I thought about how often Andy might have to bum Guy for that to be true.

And I was convinced. Of course it was a great idea! Watching Andy fuck Guy would be great - their two bodies so different. Watching alongside Dab would be great - we could wank each other as we watched. I imagined the scene.

Guy was taking off his pyjama jacket. Andy reached for the open jar of Vaseline on the bedside shelf. I didn't move. When Guy was naked, Dab took the Vaseline, pulled down the bedclothes, and rubbed some onto Andy's cock.

"Um, hang on," I said. "Wait, Guy needs... he can't just shove it straight in." I took the jar of Vaseline from Dab and told Guy to lie back across the bed and lift his legs. Andy was propped up at the head of the bed, gently stroking his cock. Guy lay across his legs a little. I took a fingerful of gel and nudged Dab out of the way so that I could get at Guy's arsehole. He was smiling at me. I was careful, despite the huge excitement I felt at the idea of greasing my Little Boy for someone else's cock.

Dab sat on the other side of Guy and reached out to rub his tummy. Guy smiled at him. I flashed on Iain and Mike (the original Mike) preparing me for spit-roasting. Any possessiveness was gone. It was horny seeing Guy being stroked by my best friend. I thought about what it might be like to watch Dab bumming Guy while Guy sucked on my cock. I saw Guy in my place with Iain and Mike, then with Dab and me.

Andy was still just stroking himself languidly, the pasha awaiting the preparation of his boy. Guy's face had tightened a little as I pushed my finger in, but now he was looking more relaxed, his hips even moving minimally. "OK?" I asked quietly. Guy nodded: "Uh huh. It's OK." Dab was holding Guy's cock. Not wanking him, just holding. When I had bummed him before, Guy had been anxious to move on from this bit to the actual act. Now he seemed to understand that the more his arsehole was fingered, the easier it might be to take Andy's dick. Perhaps, I thought, Dab had been giving his advice.

"Move down here, Andy, so Guy can lie up there," said Dab. "Guy, lie back like you are, only at the top of the bed." A slightly indignant notion something like "Hey, that's my boyfriend you're ordering around!" passed through my mind, but the indignation immediately switched to excitement.

"Wouldn't it be easier on their sides?" I suggested.

"Nah," said Dab. "Andy likes it this way, and we can get to see more."

Indeed. Andy looked almost loving as he lined his cock up at Guy's bumhole. He was, as usual, very stiff. He had to pull his dick down from his tummy to get the angle right. Watching his dick bend slightly as he pushed it against the tight hole was lovely. Guy was biting his lower lip; not in pain, but in anticipation.

"Just relax. Try breathing slowly," Dab advised. I looked down at my own hard dick sticking out of my flies. I didn't think that Andy was actually that much smaller. Slimmer, though, yes. The head of his dick slipped in and Guy gasped. I tried to put an arm round his shoulders, but it was all too difficult. His feet were back virtually knocking against the wall at the head of the bed. Andy was leaning over him, the hand that was not guiding his cock was to one side of Guy's head, propping his torso up. I could just reach in and put my hand on Guy's tummy, rubbing it as if rubbing away a sting. Guy was breathing quickly through his open mouth. Andy looked up at him.

"It's OK," Guy panted out. "It's OK. Just a minute." His breathing slowed. I saw that Dab was slowly wanking his own dick. He stroked Andy's back. Guy looked up at me and gave me a tight little smile. Even seeing the pain he was enduring was exciting. i started wanking my dick. Then I felt guilty. The three of us were using him. We were getting the pleasure; he was just striving to take the discomfort.

"OK," said Guy. "Try a bit further." Andy's wiry, muscled body was taut above him. By this time he had a little patch of pubic hair just above his cock. Guy's pubic hair was still light, sparse. Andy grimaced a little himself as his foreskin was pushed further back as more of his cock slid in.

Guy breathed more quickly again, but he looked a little surprised.

"OK?" Andy asked again.

"Yeah. Yeah! Go in a bit more." As Andy did so, Guy looked as if he might be about to cry out. But he didn't and Andy moved further in.

"You've got half of it," said Dab, reaching in to touch Andy's cock where it was lodged in Guy's hole.

"Oh, God!" Guy gasped. "Only half?"

"Aye," Andy grinned, "big aren't I?"

Dab swatted him sharply on the bum. "You're doing this 'cos you're small, not 'cos you're big."

"Guy, don't... if it's too much," I said.

His smile this time was just slightly more cheeky than it was pained.

"It's OK... he's not that big!"

Andy put both hands down, either side of Guy's head.

"Just move in and out a bit but don't go any further," Dab suggested.

Andy pulled out a little and then moved forward. The whole of his cock slid into Guy's arsehole. Guy turned his head towards the wall and groaned. I thought for a moment that this was perhaps Andy's revenge for Guy's little crack, but he looked worried rather than triumphant.

"Fuck!" he said. "It just went in. I wasn't... you OK, Guy?"

Guy nodded. Still looking at the wall. He swallowed. Andy's little bunch of pubes was up against Guy's hole. The sight was wonderful; so horny that I stopped myself from suggesting again that Guy could stop this if he wanted to. He turned his head to me and his sigh this time might almost have been contented. He actually giggled.

"It's OK. Really," he said to me. Then to Andy: "You can start properly now. It's OK."

I would like to be able to say that Andy's smaller cock stimulated Guy more than it hurt him and that he pleaded for harder, deeper fucking. But he was really still just enduring, rather than enjoying. Well, at least not enjoying the physical act. He did look at me a couple of times in a way that I could have interpreted as proud, or pleased, that he was taking this. And his cock was hard again now. Dab and I were wanking ourselves as we watched. I had a better view, standing higher up the side of the bed, whereas Dab was level with Andy's hips. Dab put his free arm around my waist. Andy leant further in towards Guy's chest. We could no longer see the point where his cock entered Guy. I reached out and ran my free hand through Guy's tightly curled hair. I spunked, shooting over both the smaller boys, spotting their flanks. I wanted Dab to do the same and pressed his hips towards the bed. Guy was looking down to where my spunk lay, watching Dab's hand and cock as he started to come.

Andy speeded up. Guy moved his head, as if stretching an ache from his neck. Andy lowered himself completely onto Guy's chest and panted into his ear as he spunked in his bumhole. Guy looked a little relieved as Andy stopped moving and lay on him. Dab and I stood there, holding our dribbling cocks.

Andy stirred and, without hesitation, moved down to take Guy's dick in his mouth. He seemed unconcerned that the spunk on Guy's side was thus smeared onto his cheek. I wanted to bend and lick Guy's tummy and Andy's face, eating the spunk. I wanted to be able to come again, onto Andy's face as he sucked Guy's cock.

Guy had both his hands on Andy's head. He usually didn't come just from being sucked - I would alternate sucking and wanking him until he was ready and then bring him off with my mouth. Now, though, he raised his hips and shuddered a little. Andy swallowed. So much for not really fancying Guy.

Andy looked up at Dab and I. We must have looked somewhat ridiculous, standing by the bed with our softening dicks in our hands.

Andy grinned: "Look at you two pervs."

Guy looked over and giggled. I reached for the box of tissues.

During the last few days of that Summer Term, I had a hint of things to come with Mike. I arrived at his flat on a half-holiday afternoon and found a new boy sitting on his sofa, smoking and watching telly. Well, I say "new boy", but I mean that he was new to Mike - or Mike's flat anyway. Paul was in Guy and Andy's year but in the House of which Mike was an Assistant Housemaster. The Red Book exercise had flagged him up as definitely-probable and I'd passed on the rating to Mike. It surprised me a little, now, that Mike had taken so long to get around to him. He was attractive in a slightly quirky way. He was handsome rather than pretty, and a little stocky rather than the traditionally slim Little Boy. Not fat, but a definite forward in rugby rather than a winger. His hair was unusually short for the time - short-back-and-sides when most boys tried to get away with hair at least over the ears and touching the collar (the rule was "off the collar", so there was a funny little neck-stretching routine boys would go through when the Housemaster came round at lunch to list those due for a haircut when the school barber was in.) A butch little number, but cute (as I wouldn't have said until some years later).

Paul and I nodded "Hi" to each other, both a little nervous, or suspicious. Mike sat next to Paul on the sofa and so I sat in the armchair usually used by Mike. I lit a ciggie - by now I'd abandoned the courtesy of asking.

"I was just telling Paul about our photo shoots," said Mike.

OK. This was new. Usually it'd be the softer boy mags first. I didn't know what to say, apart from, "Uh huh?"

Paul was looking at the telly.

"Would you mind showing Paul some of the photos?" asked Mike.

"Not..." I started.

"No, not all of them. Just some." Mike smiled. Paul glanced over at me.

By now Mike had an old metal ammunition box in which he kept his porn. The collection, the shop-bought and the home-made together, had long outgrown the original cash-box. The ammunition box was padlocked and kept in the bedroom.

Mike gave me the key to the padlock. "Are you sure this is OK?" I asked him.

"Paul's seen the mags. He likes them. He just doesn't believe about the shoots we've done."

Paul nodded, not looking at me. Of course he believes it, I thought to myself. He just wants to see the photos. Mike might already have shown them to him anyway, I realised. Then I understood that my agreeing to show them to Paul was not the important thing - my actually getting them from the locked box and giving them to Paul myself was what Mike most wanted. "I wouldn't show them to anyone without your permission" was what he seems to be saying, but he was also saying, "I want you to show them to Paul - and get them out yourself and offer them to Paul. You do it for me. You take all the responsibility." He knew that I wouldn't refuse. And, anyway, I was excited by the idea of Paul looking at pics of me naked, and... and, whatever.

I went to get the concertina file that contained my photos. Inside there were numerous envelopes, one for each session, containing negatives and prints. The envelopes were dated and some had little descriptive notes on. I did the filing; I'd made the notes and dated the envelopes. Were this taking place now I would no doubt have created a little database with all the porn recorded.

The envelopes with "Piss" and "Dildos" written on them in my neat hand were the ones that I didn't want Paul to see. I didn't know quite how explicit Mike wanted the photos to be shown to Paul to be. Previously I'd been in on the process from the beginning, I'd have known what mags Paul had seen and how he'd responded.

Out of the envelopes, at the back of the concertina file, were blow-ups of some of the more "arty" prints. I didn't think that I looked my best in profile, gazing thoughtfully into the distance, even in black and white, so I didn't bother with those.

"Just begin at the beginning, why don't you?" said Mike. Paul looked up at me as I stood there with the file open in my hands. I took out a bunch of envelopes from the front of the file and handed them to Paul. I took out the envelopes containing the dirtiest photos and handed the rest of the file to Mike.

"I'll just put these away," I said, and went back into the bedroom before Mike could say anything. In the bedroom I slipped the envelopes into the box, locked it and lay on Mike's bed. We never had sex in here, but I had been allowed to rest in here on a couple of occasions when I'd needed to sober up a little. It was a completely unremarkable room. Had a film set designer been creating the bedroom of a bachelor master at a British public school in the first half of the 1970s, this was what they would have produced. The single bed was barely more comfortable than our beds in the dorms and bedsits. There was one of those gas fires with the clay burners. The furniture was all heavy, dark wood. On top of the wardrobe there was a battered leather suitcase. There was one print on the wall opposite the bed: a view of the cathedral in Mike's home town, perhaps?

I could hear Paul giggling as Mike talked him quietly through the sessions. Had it been Guy's laughter I wouldn't have minded - I'd have been pleased. But I couldn't hear this well enough to tell whether it was mocking, embarrassed or, perhaps, excited? I rubbed my hard cock through my trousers. My dick knew that this was horny, even if I was... what? I didn't know. I thought of Paul looking at photos of me pushing two fingers into my arsehole and imagined his cock stiff as mine was. I wanted to wank, but that would be silly. Why didn't I just go back into the living room and join in the fun? I thought about the photos I'd held back, and that got me even more aroused. Fuck, think of Paul perving over those! Paul wanking his little dick looking at me lying in my own and Mike's piss. Or me with a torch up my arse, the light fractured by the camera lens.

Mike pushed open the door. I stopped rubbing my dick and rolled away from him.

"You know I don't like you in here. Stop sulking and come through," Mike said. "And you left your fag burning in the ashtray. I had to put it out."

Mike left, knowing that I would follow. I tried to arrange my hard dick so it didn't show too obviously, but then realised that they were already looking at images of the thing completely uncovered.

When I went into the living room, Paul grinned up at me. "These are smooth! They're really horny," he said, utterly guilelessly. Almost admiringly. "These are much better than the magazine photos." Perhaps not so guileless then - he was flattering Mike a little. Mike would see through that, but be pleased by it.

Mike's right arm was around Paul's shoulder. His left hand was at Paul's groin. Paul held the photos he was looking at a little high, giving Mike room to stroke him. There were photos scattered at their feet. I was a little distressed - they'd have to be re-sorted into the correct envelopes. Paul had a little pile beside him on the sofa. Favourite picks. Thank God they seem to have left the negatives in the envelopes - that would help with sorting them later.

Mike was undoing Paul's belt buckle. "Why don't you get your things off?" he asked me. Paul looked up at me, smiled, and sat back to give Mike easier access to his zip. I sat and pulled off my elastic-sided boots (officially approved now - available in the School Outfitters). I had no blazer on - it was warm and "Shirt Sleeves Order" had been given weeks previously. Paul was unbuttoning his shirt and kicking off his shoes as Mike pulled his trousers down his thighs. Mike usually got me to undress myself. And left me to undress new boys. Paul seemed particularly keen. Thinking back now, I imagine that Mike may have been working on him slowly for some time, as he had initially with me. Paul was the first boy from his own House he'd had up to his flat, as far as I knew. Perhaps he had been as cautious with Paul as he had at first been with me.

At the time, I'd stopped wondering about motives, meaning, and what I felt emotionally. Getting naked in front of Paul, and watching Paul being got naked in front of me, was arousing enough for me to put all that aside.

Once I'd got everything off, I picked up the pile of photos beside Paul on the sofa and made to sit beside him. Paul grabbed for the small pile, saying, "Hey! Those are my favourites."

"Leave them," said Mike. "Why don't you sit here in front of us." He indicated the floor in front of the sofa. Paul pulled his own underpants down and kicked them off. He slumped back happily on the sofa, his legs spread. He had only a light dusting of pubes and a neat, circumcised cock sticking straight up in the air. He stretched as if he was sunbathing happily somewhere relaxing, not as if he was naked in his Assistant Housemaster's flat with that master stroking his thighs. There was something delicate about his narrow hips and they set off very nicely a broad, solid chest.

"Paul's been telling me about the stuff that goes on in his Junior Dorm on the nights I'm not on duty," Mike said.

"When you're on duty too, Sir! We just wait 'til a bit later and you've come back here."

Well, Paul's House was meant to be second only to mine in the amount of queering that went on.

"But the Seniors in our House are a little better behaved than the ones in your House," said Mike.

"Not all of them," Paul protested, almost offended.

Mike was wanking him now. I was wanking myself.

"Paul's not sure that he wants to do anything with a much older boy..." Mike continued.

"Could've fooled me," I thought, watching Paul's hips move as Mike played with his dick and balls.

"Do you really let him bum you?" Paul asked me. They obviously hadn't got that far into the photos then. Although in those that showed a cock in my arsehole or mouth, you couldn't tell whose cock it was. Mike was wielding the camera, after all. He did have a timer delay, but I'd realised by this point that he's never appear in an identifiable way in any of the photos. He even hated me taking "candid" photos of him as he came into the room, say, fully clothed.

Did I ever get tired of people not believing that I let myself be fucked so willingly? I don't think so. I was quite proud, really. Not of the piss and dildos, that was just dirty, but the taking big cocks... Yeah, that was smooth.

I was sitting crossed-legged between Paul's legs. I reached out to touch his balls and Mike took his hand away. I hooked a finger over Paul's cock and leaned forward to lick the head. Paul moaned quietly and slumped down more. Leaning forward over my crossed knees hurt, so I scrambled up and knelt, taking Paul's cock in my mouth again. He'd obviously been sucked before: he fell naturally in to a gentle rhythm of thrusting his cock between my lips. Not fucking, but just moving a little in time with my mouth's action on his dick. He put one hand on the back of my neck, again gently. He just held my neck, not pushing.

Mike stood up and took his trousers down. I looked at him and looked up at Paul looking at him. Mike slipped his underpants down and sat back down. He took Paul's free hand and put it on his cock. I couldn't see properly from where I was between Paul's legs, but I could feel Paul's arms moving as he wanked Mike's dick. Fuck, he was cool - no nerves, no coyness. I licked his balls. Now he did put a little pressure on my neck, pulling my mouth up onto him. I licked down under his balls and he immediately raised his legs. God, where had this boy been? I licked his bumhole, not bothering with the nicety of doing his buttocks or crack first.

Mike pulled Paul's nearest leg higher so that he could see. Paul's hand was knocked off his cock by this action and he put it on the top of my head. Mike moved it away - it must have been interrupting his view.

I licked at Paul's arse for a couple of minutes, wanking myself hard. Mike moved a hand to the back of my neck, displacing Paul's, He pulled my head over to his balls. Paul's leg dropped awkwardly onto my back, then he shifted it, sitting up a little to watch me licking Mike's balls. Mike quickly moved my head up so that he could slide his cock into my mouth. I wished that I could see Paul's face as he watched. Just out of the corner of my eye I could see his arm moving - he must have been wanking.

As usual with Mike (except when he was taking photos) things moved on quite fast. He stood and I turned on my knees to watch as he got the KY out from a drawer in a wall unit. I took it from him and leant forward on one hand so that my bum was exposed to Paul while I put the stuff in me. I felt Mike's finger replace mine. He moved it around inside me forcefully. Not brutally, but not gently either. Paul was saying "Fuck!" or "Christ!" or something, but I really wasn't concentrating.

I stayed on all fours in front of the sofa as Mike fucked me.

I couldn't see Paul, so I just imagined him wanking and looking. Mike was fucking me quite hard, and I was moaning a little. Then he stopped, pulling out but not completely. I imagined Paul leaning in to look closer. I tried to look back to see if he was. He'd moved along the sofa a little to be level with the action, as it were. I twisted round and saw that he was looking intently at what I was sure was the point where Mike's cock entered me. I couldn't see Paul's dick, but again I could see a moving hand. I wanted to suck Paul while Mike fucked me, but I wasn't going to ask for that. Paul was probably unshockable and probably wouldn't have objected to having his cock sucked again, but I still didn't want him to think that I'd do anything (despite all the evidence to the contrary).

As it was, Paul came before either Mike or I, slumping back on the sofa again so that his spunk spurted onto his tummy. Just a few, very thin spurts. Mike groaned and came in my arse. I rolled onto my back on the carpet and wanked myself furiously, looking at Paul's spunk-streaked tummy. Mike usually had a camera within reach and he, looking a little ludicrous with his trousers and underpants round his ankles, took a couple of shots of me as I spunked. Then he turned to Paul, who put a hand in front of his face as Mike took photos of his spunk on his belly. How come I'd never thought of that? Mike wasn't aiming the camera at Paul's face anyway.

Mike threw a couple of tissues at me but I said, "Need a pee anyway..." and headed for the bathroom. I sat, wiped my arse and had a long, satisfying piss. I felt hot. It was a sweaty day. "Can I have a shower?" I called through to Mike.

There was no reply, so I decided that I could.

It was one of those fairly crappy showers that were commonplace in Britain at that time - usually a pathetic dribble which ran hot and cold but could be just about guaranteed to suddenly turn into a deluge of freezing cold or scalding hot water for a few seconds without warning. I stood and forced myself not to try to work out what this afternoon meant.

When I came out of the shower, towel round my waist, there was no sign of Paul. There was a large gin-and-tonic and an unopened pack of Kents on the table beside the end of the sofa where I normally sat. I assumed that these were rewards, but Mike was staring angrily and unseeingly at the golf ball printer clattering out the football results on the telly. I unwrapped the cellophane from the ciggies, enjoying the way that you could tear off the sliver paper from just one side of the top of the pack, then tap sharply on the other side to make the fags rise up to the point when you could put one in your mouth and pull it right out. I sat took a swig of my gin-and-tonic and then started tidying up the photographs scattered around the floor and sofa.

I laid all the negatives from each session on the relevant envelope, spread out across the floor. I knew where most of the prints should go, and if I was uncertain, could use the negatives to check. Although I was uninterested in football the lilt and rhythm of the final scores now being read out was, like any familiar chant, soothing. The Scottish results were always best: "Heart of Midlothian, 4; Queen of the South 1. Hamilton Academicals 2, Kilmarnock, 2..."

Mike crushed out his cigarette and said, sounding amazingly furious, "I suppose your amah taught you that, did she, how to piss against the side of the bowl and not in the water, so you don't make any noise?"

What? What the fuck was this about? I'd come out of the loo about fifteen minutes before. What was he talking about?

"God, you're such a little middle-class goody-goody, aren't you? So fucking conventional!"

And I'm thinking, "I do pee in the water, don't I? No one ever told me not to! I do. I do. And anyway, I was sitting down when I peed just then, 'cos I was going wiping your spunk out of my arsehole." But he was ranting on: "Never break any rules. Your Housemaster can rely on you, can't he? Master Fucking Reliable. All your essays in on time. Would it kill you to have an original thought?" And on and on, and I'm thinking, "Hang on, I'm sitting here with a master at my boarding school, I'm 14, I'm smoking a Kent, I'm drinking a gin and tonic and I'm in a towel after a shower 'cos he's just been buggering me in front of a 13 year-old. And these photos aren't that conventional."

Only I wasn't, was I? I was thinking, "Oh, God, I've upset him. What have I done wrong? How can I make him like me again? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll be a bad boy, I promise."

"And stop faffing around with those fucking photographs," Mike concluded.

For the second time that afternoon, I had no idea what to say. I enacted my defiance by taking a large swig of gin and getting back to sorting the pics.

"There's nothing wrong with this, you know," I said. "You told me how important it was to be methodical in photography."

"In the developing and fixing, yes. In the darkroom. I'm surprised you don't have a little index card system." said Mike

This was incredibly unfair. The whole careful sorting and storage of the photographs had been his idea in the first place.

Mike went for a piss. A noisy one - he left the bathroom door open.

I emptied the envelopes one by one onto the floor, mixing the sorted pics with the still unsorted. I was starting to chuck them around the room when Mike returned.

He looked at the mess and laughed. "Well, at least that shows some spirit for a change."

I grabbed my clothes and stomped off to the bathroom to get dressed. I was actually crying and couldn't quite believe it. I hadn't cried for, oh, months. The fucking bastard. I rinsed my face and went back into the living room to get my boots and struggled into them in the hall. Then I just left.

But I went back, of course. The next day. To apologise for my appalling behaviour.

And so I became a revolutionary, didn't I? Only I didn't throw paving stones in the streets of Paris or protest in Grosvenor Square. No, I rebelled like Mike told me to and became even more committed to the cause of sex with boys. And I passed those boys on to Mike to have sex with.

But that was the following term.

Guy wanted us to write during the summer holidays. I bought him some pre-paid blue airmail "flimsies" and explained that despite the regular flights letters could still take a week or so. He put them in the top of his school trunk.

Later, I checked with him: "Are you sure that your parents won't think it odd, you getting letters from South East Asia?" I asked.

"No, just put some nice stamps on and I'll say it's a friend from school helping with my stamp collection."

We were in Robert's bed together for the last time. Robert was due back from an end-of-term drink at the Senior Club quite soon. I'd persuaded Guy that it was OK for us to lie together with our spunk still on our tummies. We'd only come a few minutes before, but my cock was hardening again. It was going to be seven or eight weeks before we could be together like this again. Guy's cock got stiff as he felt mine. I pushed the sheet off us and slid down the bed to suck him. Guy suggested that we do each other. This wasn't unusual, but not regular for us. As Guy started sucking my dick I wet a finger in my mouth and reached back to place it against his arsehole. He moved his cock more forcefully in my mouth as I pushed in. I lifted off his cock to say, "Do me too!" and Guy put his spit-covered finger to my hole. You know how teenaged boys just cum and cum again a few minutes later? Well, maybe the rumours about bromide in the tea at my school where true, because Guy and I took ages to spunk a second time. Long, delicious minutes. And Guy swallowed my spunk when I did finally come as happily as I did his.

When Robert came in shortly afterwards he said, "Finished then? I looked in before and you two were lost in your own little world. Fancy having to wait to get in my own bedsit!" I'm not sure that he'd ever looked at Guy naked for so long - obviously he'd seen him dressing or undressing in the dorm. Guy smiled at him, snatched up his pyjamas and gave Robert a kiss. Then me.

"Anything left for me?" asked Robert as Guy left. I wasn't sure, but I was willing to give it a go. After all, it was his last night as a queer.

Little Spurt 09

A Piece of Cake

My mother made me a homosexual (yes, yes: if you send her the wool she'll make you one too). It wasn't a deliberate thing, you understand. She just seemed to encourage me in all the "Future Homosexuals of the British Commonwealth" activities I enjoyed - acting (and associated dressing up), high-board diving, reading more than was good for me, writing poetry, appreciating antique porcelain - and to collude with me in my disapproval of butcher activities such as soccer, the "Hash House Harriers" and martial arts (I gave up judo for yoga before even passing my yellow belt). She was a stalwart of the local amateur dramatics company and always made me audition for any child roles. At my primary school she produced and directed "A Pageant of History" (British History, of course - even in "The Far East" we understood that there was no other History) in which I played a leading caveman (discovering fire), William Shakespeare (in doublet and tights), Winston Churchill (in a fetching approximation of a "siren suit", doing an appalling imitation of his "Never in the field of human conflict..." speech, spotlights searching the stage around me) and a Carnaby Street fashionista (basically Quentin Crisp without the dyed hair). My brother played a Norman baron (in chain-mail armour, made of knitted string sprayed silver), Robert the Bruce, Sir Walter Raleigh, and John Lennon. It was essentially The Red Detachment of Women for the recently-defunct British Empire.

My mother had sent out to her a British monthly magazine called "Plays and Players" which reviewed British theatre, profiled and interviewed British actors and published the occasional "Whither British Theatre?" article. It came by "surface mail" (i.e. ship) as airmail was still very expensive then, and so we got it about six weeks late. I loved it. Each issue would have a "Complete Playscript" of a new play just opening in London in a pull-out section in the middle. These I used to read avidly. One of these plays, which I read during a holiday back home from school in Britain, was John Mortimer's "A Voyage Around My Father". In one scene the young John Mortimer character is given a talk by his prep school Headmaster, just before leaving for public school, in which he is warned that older boys might sometimes try to be "too friendly" and even offer him "a piece of cake". "Under no circumstances are you to accept such an offer", the bemused little boy is told.

When I got back to school I delightedly told Dab about this scene. He told me how pathetic his prep school Headmaster's "Leavers Talk" had been, with its own obscure warnings about "dirty habits". We adopted the "piece of cake" idea as a code phrase for suggesting sex when others were around (or simply whenever we wanted to, since we always thought it hilarious). I would lean over to Dab's bed and say "Would you like a piece of cake?" and he'd reply, "That would be lovely thank you, as long as you don't get too friendly." We'd spot a hot sprog and Dab would say, "Do you think we should invite him to our study for a piece of cake?" If a friend ever actually did offer a piece of cake - sharing a birthday cake, for example - Dab and I would laugh our heads off while the boy offering would just look blankly at us.

Garrison Keillor once wrote that, "The trouble with needy people is that they are just so... needy". Without wishing to appear needy, or attention-seeking or anything really, really bad like that, I wouldn't mind one or two more emails indicating that people are reading this. Pretty please?

Email: spelchek@hushmail.com