The following story is a work of gay erotic fiction dealing with the sexuality of boys of high school age and a relationship (so far, non-sexual, but border-line) between an adult male and a high school age boy.  If such stories are not to your liking or if you are not of legal age to read such stories in your jurisdiction, please exit now.

This is a work of fiction and in no ways draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

This work is copyrighted ã by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific  written permission of the author.  It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

This is the first of a projected series of interrelated stories which will appear under the collective title, Montgomery Hall.   While it is expected that the individual stories will stand independently,  they should be more enjoyable if read as a group.  If you wish to receive e-mail notification of subsequent posting,  please let me know by sending your request to the e-mail address below.

jvoyager@hotmail.com

Monty called out,  "get your butt moving.  It's a new day!"

As tired as I was, I followed.  He and his older brother Dave and I bolted down cereal and orange juice and fifteen minutes later we were loaded into their mother's car for the drive back to Montgomery Hall.

It really was a beautiful day.  There were a few big white clouds hanging low along the western horizon.  The cooler air, which had moved in late yesterday, had cleared out the usual mid-summer haze, leaving the sky a brilliant blue.

"Do you boys all have hats?"   Dave and Monty's mother was asking.  We assured her that we did.  "Good.  It's just the kind of day you can get a really bad sunburn.  I know your grandmother keeps a good supply of sun block and she will insist you use it.  Don't give her any arguments."

Monty, who had managed to grab the front seat next to their mother, spoke up.  "Don't worry, mom, we've all seen those health films in school.  They make sure you get the message."

Dave and I lolled in the back seat, hoping for a brief snooze after our long night of talk.  His eyes were closed and his head rested against the back of the car seat.   We were all wearing cut-offs and T-shirts and Dave's legs were spread wide, pressing his right leg against mine.  The soft golden hair on our leg rubbed together, driving me wild.

It only took a few minutes to drive the distance and soon we were pulling up at the end of the long drive.  The guys' mother came to a crunchy stop on the gravel circle in front of the big house and we pilled out.  Before we had made it to the huge front door, it opened and Ben stepped out.   He was wearing seersucker slacks and a long sleeved white dress shirt, open at the collar and with no tie.  The selves were rolled up almost to the elbows, revealing his huge, muscular forearms.  "Morning, Carol Ann.  How's my Mister David doing this morning?

"Just fine, Ben.  He headed for Jackson about an hour ago."

"And his Misses?  You doing just fine?"

"Just fine, Ben.  Better,  soon as I turn these young night owls over to you, though."

"Well, I reckon I can take them in charge.   The big boss is out in the roses already.    She left orders for them to get themselves on out there lickety-split."

We piled out of the car and headed off, only to be stopped by a sharp command from Dave and Monty's mother.  "You boys forgetting your manners?  Come back here and day a proper `Good Morning' to Mister Ben before you head off."

We all returned and said our `Good Mornings' and waited for the signal the we could go off around the house to the gardens.

"Good Morning to you, too,"  Ben said in his low rumbling voice.  He sounded like you'd expect a Blues singer to sound speaking, almost singing but not quite.  "No get.  I got orders to have sandwiches ready for you all at noon."

We nodded and went on our way.

The boys' grandmother was, in fact, already working in the roses.  She was enthroned on her little folding stool, dressed in a long sleeved yellow blouse and rather full-cut slacks, a broad-brimmed hat on her head and a box of gardening tools at her side.  Except for the slacks she really looked like one of those grand old southern ladies, and even the slacks were so fully cut that they almost looked like an ankle-length skirt.

As we approached her, she reached into the toolbox and produced a large white tube of sun block.  "Morning, boys.  Get yourselves well covered with this lotion and then let's get down to work.   We need to get four beds done today, trimming the old blossoms and pull the weeds.  Then we'll put down fertilizer around each plant and add mulch were it's needed.  I figure we all keep at it and we can be done in about four or five hours."

"Dave and I have tennis lessons at two, Grandma."

"Well, let's get going then,"  she replied, and we quickly began.    There were heavy gardening gloves for each of us, which was important.  The roses were full of thorns.  A large, rather old-fashioned garden cart was parked between the two beds we were to work on first, and as we accumulated our own little piles of trimmings, we transferred them to the cart.  With four of us working, it filled rather quickly.

There were no formal assignment of partners and we all worked more or less together.  But as the morning wore on, Dave and I moved a little ahead, working from opposite sides of a bed, sort of facing each other, as Monty and Mrs. Cutler did the same a little distance back long the beds.

"You as tired as I am?"  Dave asked at one point.

"Yeah, we sure talked too late last night,"  I grinned.

"That's okay," he grinned back.  "I enjoyed it."

By noon we had finished two beds and were about half way through the third when Ben came out to ask where we were eating lunch.

"Oh, inside, Ben," Mrs. C said.  "We need to cool off and then I am going to have to let the boys go on working by themselves.  I have to finish some paper work this afternoon."
 
The five of us walked together to the house and went in though the mud room, stopping to wash up.  When we went on into the kitchen I was pleased and surprised to see that Martin was already setting at the kitchen table reading the morning newspapers.   "Morning, all," he said as we approached.  He rose and held her chair for his mother.

We had not finished lunch when Dave and Monty's mother called from the front of the house.

"Come on through, Carol Ann."  Mrs. C called back.  "We're in the kitchen, just finishing lunch."

When she joined us, she gave her mother-in-law a brief, but affectionate kiss on the cheek and then exchanged kisses with Martin, who had risen to help her with a chair.  "You boys about ready to go?" she asked.  "It's after one and you need to go home and change before I take you to the country club."

There was a sudden burst of concern from the boys, who were concerned that we hadn't yet finished the beds their grandmother wanted done today.

"It's okay,"  I insisted,  "my mom isn't coming to get me until five, so I can finish the rest on my own."

"Went me to help Tim, Mother?"  Martin said, and my heart jumped in my chest.

"You trim my roses, Martin, and we won't seem new blooms for two or three years."

They all laughed but Martin seemed to take it well.  "Let Tim do the trimming and I'll be his assistant.  Surely you'll trust me to pick up the trash and spread mulch."

"Now there's a solution I can be quite happy with," Mrs. C said.   "I really like the idea of this young man being boss."

So it was decided.   After we finished lunch, I walked out to the car with the boys while Martin went to change into work clothes.

"I really enjoyed last night,"  I said to them as they were getting into their mother's car.

"We did, too,"  Monty said.  I had noticed that he often spoke first and for both of them.

"Yeah,"  Dave smiled,  "you just went to sleep."

"Well, you know what I mean,"  Monty responded, looking a little sheepish.

"Yeah,"  Dave said.  "I really hope we can do it again real soon.  I enjoyed getting to know you better."

"Me, too,"  I said, suddenly feeling very shy.

"I guess we'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah?"  I said, not quite following.

"At church."
"Oh, sure.  Great,"  I said, almost stammering, which wasn't like me.

"Okay, then,"  Monty said.  He had again taken the front seat next to his mother.

"See ya,"  Dave grinned and reached out and gave me a light hit on the shoulder.  Then he turned and climbed into the back seat.

I went back to the rose beds and began to work where we had left off before lunch

As I continued trimming the rose bushes, I thought again that I couldn't believe my luck ,  having some time alone with Martin.  Now that it seemed to be happening, I found myself completely at a loss.  I had no idea  how to open the conversation I wanted to have with him.  I couldn't just say, "hay, Martin, Dave says you're gay.  I think I am too.  Can we talk about it?"

Before I had time to work myself up into a complete nervous frenzy,  Martin was back.  He had changed from  khaki slacks to a pair of dark green shorts and a white tank top.  Oh, man!  He is so good looking.

"Okay, Boss,"  he grinned as he approached me, "what do I do?"

"Well,  sir,"  I said, thankful that roses were at least neutral territory,  "I guess you can take that cart load of trimmings and dump them.  My problem is that I don't know were Monty took the cart this morning.  I think he dumped it over behind the greenhouse."

"No problem," Martin said,  "when I was a kid, and failed mother's  Rose Trimming 100, I  was never the less trusted to put  trash in the compost, so at least I know where this stuff goes."

"Okay, great,"  I said, feeling very self-conscious.  "And I guess, sir, when you   get back we can start spreading some mulch in this bed to finish it off, then we just have one more bed to go."

"One other thing, Tim."

"Yes, sir?"

"That's the other thing.  The `sir' has got to go."  He smiled at me and I sort of grinned back at him.  "Can you do that, Tim?  Drop the `sir,' I mean."

"I'll try, s…"

"If you're wondering what you should call me, may I suggest Martin, or even Marty.  Just about everyone except my mother calls me that."

"It'll be hard, but I'll try."

"Good man."  And he was off toward the greenhouse.   As the afternoon wore on I found that working with Martin was easy and pleasant.  I managed, with only a few slips, to call him Martin, but could not bring myself to call him Marty.

He asked me about school and life in Greenwood.  When he learned I played football he was very impressed.  But it was only after repeated questions that he told me about his own career in high school and then at Old Miss.

"You are a bright kid, Tim,"  he said, after we had exhausted the subject of sports.  "I bet you do well in school as well.   Academically, I mean."

"Yes, I do okay."

"So the summer school course you were taking wasn't a make-up."

"No, extra credit,"  I said.  "Well, actually advanced placement."

"What, exactly, does that mean?"

"Well, Greenwood isn't what you'd call a really big high school.  The offerings aren't all that great in some areas.  So they let students who have taken the highest courses they offer in some areas take advanced placement classes at Valley."

"That's were your father teaches."

"Yes.  So anyway, I was taking this summer school course so I can go ahead and take Algebra I at Valley this fall.  I'll get high school credit for it, but once I get my diploma,  Valley will give me a college transcript for the courses I've taken there.  It will mean I can go on into more advanced classes as a college freshman."

"And you'll only be a junior this fall."

"Right,"  I said, as I added a bundle of  rose clippings to the cart.  "Same as Dave."

"Ah, so you and he are the same age."

"Well, sort of.  I was sixteen in May.  Dave's birthday is in May, too.   Well,  I guess you know that."

"Yeah,  I was around then,"  he grinned as he went on spreading mulch.

"So, anyway, he's really a whole year younger than me, but we're both going to be juniors this fall. I guess he skipped a year or something."

"Yeah, he skipped fifth grade.  They were just converting from the old elementary-junior high-senior high system to the elementary-middle school, high school system.    He may have skipped a year, but I bet he's not one bit brighter than you, Tim."

"Well, I know he makes great grades, too.  But he's sure a lot smarter than me when it comes to just knowing about life and stuff."  As soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.

"He's a great kid, for sure,"  Martin said,  "but he's my nephew, after all.  I can be just a little proud of him."   He spread the last of the mulch.  "David, I mean my  brother David, the kids' dad, told me you know Dave and Monty from swimming and water safety classes."

"Yeah, and church, too."

"Oh?  You and your folks go to Grace?"

"Yep.  Dave and I were in conformation classes together.  But the guys aren't in the youth group much.  I sure wish they were, but I guess it's kind of far for their folks to drive them back on Sunday evenings after they have been over to Greenwood once alreday for the morning service."

"Well, maybe after Dave starts driving, they can do that."

"Yeah, that would be great."
"Well, I guess with sports and keeping your grades up, you don't have a lot of time for social stuff."  I was so glad he put it like that.  I get so tired of adults asking if I've got a girlfriend."

"Pretty much.  I'm going to be junior class president as well, so there won't be a lot of time left over."

We had finished the beds and Martin started to pick up the remaining  trimmings and load them in the cart.  I picked up the tools and gloves and then remembered that Mrs. C's little camp stool was still back by the first bed we worked on,  and went to get it.  When I got back Martin had the last of the trimmings picked up and was adding the tools to the top of the pile in the cart.

"I just realized," I said, "I don't know were the tools and stuff go."

"There's a room back of the greenhouse,"  Martin said, "come on.  I'll show you."

I walked along as he took the cart around to the compost pile and dumped it.  Then he pushed the little cart over to a door at the back of the greenhouse, pulled it open and pushed the cart into a large and very neat work room.  He put the cart against the wall, just inside the door and then showed me where the clippers and other tools went.

"Come on," he said as he finished, I'll show you the greenhouse.  We walked through a double door from the work room into the greenhouse and I was amazed by the huge number of plants.

"Wow,"  I said,  "this time of year, I'd have expected it to be empty."

"Yeah, that's what most people think about greenhouses.  That they are only for keeping tropical plants worm in the winter.  But, you know, when you stop to think about it, there are a lot of plants which need to be protected from our Mississippi summer sun, so the greenhouse is useful all year around."

"You mean like plants that can't stand the heat?"

"Well, to some degree, but remember, a lot of the tropical plants we grow in the States are native to the rain forests.  They may like the heat, but the naturally grow on the lowest levels of triple canopy forests and don't get much direct sunlight.  You put them out in broad daylight in Mississippi and you'd bake them in no time."

"Is that why there are those fabric shades hung under big areas of the glass roof?"

"Right.  In the fall that stuff will come down and most of  these plants will be moved back into the house.  This time of year mother uses fresh flowers in the house so she doesn't have room for these.

We walked through to another section of the greenhouse where hundreds of mums were being grown in pots.  "These are starter plants for fall.  In late September they will be planted in the big beds along the highway and the drive and the front of the house.   You stick around a few weeks and mother will have you helping with the transplanting."

"So I guess what you are saying is that there are a lot of plants which have to be in a kind of protected environment to do their best."

"Yeah,"  Martin said, as we went out onto the lawn in front of the greenhouse,  "just like people."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, some people seem to thrive just about any place.  But there are others who need a little protection, maybe a little more nurturing, at least at certain seasons of their lives, to reach their full potential.  It doesn't mean they're weaker or not don't have as much stamina, they just need the right environment to    flourish."

"They don't do their best in our `hot Mississippi summers,'"  I quoted him.

He grinned at me, and at that moment he reminded me so much of  Dave.  I realized this was just   how Dave would look in twenty years.  "And Mississippi can be rather hot in more ways than one, rather oppressive,"  he said, "you know what I mean, Tim?"

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"I thought you might."  Then he turned and walked across the lawn, away from the house, making me kick-start to catch up with him.  "Come on, its hot as hell and I'm ready for a swim."

"My swimming suit is in the pool house."

"We're heading for the lake.  No suits need, in fact, no suits allowed."

I had a moment of panic.  "Ugh, I don't know if I have time.  My mom's picking me up at five."

"Not wearing a watch, are you, Tim."

"No."

"There's plenty of time, it's not quite three."

"How'd you know that?"

"The wall clock in the work room."

"Oh."  I had no more excuses.

We walked across a wide section of the lawn, then into a thick grove of old trees.  when we came out on the other side we were facing a beautiful little lake that I hadn't even known was there.  Martin led the way along the shore until we came to a wider clearing.  On the bank there was  wooden dock sticking out into the water and further out, a wooden float about ten or twelve feet square.  On it, I saw, was a low diving board.  Inland from the dock about two or three hundred feet, stood a tall stone tower.  I looked like a scene from a fairy tale.

Martin stopped at the land end of the dock and began pulling of his shoes.  I had a knot in the pit of my stomach.  Did I dare get naked around this guy?  It was one thing to throw a boner with Dave and Monty, and that was bad enough.  But here, with Martin, and he was sure to guess what I was thinking about, what I had been thinking about ever since I had seen him for the first time yesterday morning.

I stood frozen to the ground about ten feet from him as Martin pulled off his tank to and then with no delay or embarrassment, tugged off his shorts and walked naked to the end of the dock.  His tan, muscular body seemed to glow in the afternoon sun.'

"Come on, slow poke, get with the program."

I had no choice, without looking like a fool, so  I walked over to the dock, pulled off my T-shirt and shoes, then my shorts and  ran for the end of the dock as Martin dove in and began to swim with powerful strokes toward the  floating platform.

I almost caught up with him and we pulled ourselves up onto the float at almost exactly the same time.  I had known it wasn't really a race, and he had a bit of a head start on me, but somehow my competitive instincts kicked in and I felt as if I had to win.

We were both a little winded, and lay on our backs breathing hard.  After a few moments, Martin rose up on one elbow and looked over at me.  "Okay, sport?"

"Yeah," I grinned.  "I want to go out for swimming again this year.  I guess I'd better start working out."

"Wouldn't hurt."  He stood up and walked to the  diving board,  stood for a second and then took three steps toward its far end, taking a little hop on the last stride, and springing up into a perfect jack knife, then cutting the water like a fish.  It was  such a beautiful dive.  His sleek body cutting through the air and then into the water, gave me a sudden chill.  I was lying on my stomach, my increasingly hard cock pressed against the rough planks of the deck.  I raised up on my elbows, supporting my upper body so I could follow him with my eyes as he swam with strong, leisurely strokes.   He was just so beautiful.

Martin swam around a little, doing little figure-eights as I continued to lie on the floating platform, watching him.  When he pulled himself gracefully out of the water, it was in one fluid motion, like a dancer.  Then he lay down on his back about five feet from me, one leg bent, his knee raised up, the other leg stretched out flat on the wooden deck.   His arms went up, his hands clasped behind his head, his eyes closed.  He was so natural about it, completely exposed to my view, but with no embarrassment.  It reminded me of the naturalness with which Dave and Monty had been naked together in front of me.  I wondered if it was a learned openness or some inherited easiness, some sense of comfort with self.   I realized that this was what I had never felt in all those locker room secessions after work outs or after games.   I could be surrounded by other guys, naked, dressing, showering, seemingly unconcerned about being so exposed, so vulnerable in one anothers' presence.  Was it all a rouse, were they really as uncomfortable as I was?    Or were they somehow blessed by a lack of modesty which could make my own life such hell?

Martin wasn't even breathing hard.  He lay there, his body glowing in the warm afternoon sun and I couldn't take my eyes off him.  Somehow I felt emboldened because his eyes were closed.  I allowed myself to look at his body with leisurely attention.  He was in incredible shape, as I had already observed.  There was no fat on him and he had a kind of mature physique which was so different from my own, or, for that matter, Dave's or Monty's.   All three of us were in great shape and our bodies showed the effects our hard physical training, but for all that, we still had the bodies of boys,  of strong, muscular young men.

But Martin's body had the kind of hard, defined beauty I remembered from pictures of classical sculpture, the body of a mature god, not a young athlete.   Bulging veins ran up his arms, across his biceps.  Other patterns of blood  vessels laced the hard, defined muscles of his legs and I could even see were his lower belly, below the defined abdominal muscles, was prescribed by a network of veins which descended, disappearing into the thick, blond pubic patch.  His dick, while by no means hard, was somewhat distended and lay in a lazy arch over his thigh.  Like his nephews and myself, he was circumcised.

I saw that he had very little body hair, only the thick patch of curling gold ringlets above his cock and a little sparse growth in his armpits.  His chest was completely smooth but there was a rather substantial overlay of golden hair on his tan legs.

It was at that moment, as my eyes were fixed on him, that he suddenly turned his head toward me and opened his eyes.  They widened a little, looking into my own with a quizzical intensity.  I realized that what I could not have ventured to say with my lips had all been conveyed in one split second by my eyes.  He knew, as certainly as anything, that I was lusting for him with every atom of my being.

"Going through some tough times, huh, Tim?"

He spoke with a gentleness which ripped my heart.  There was no undercurrent of jest or derision in his soft voice, just a statement of fact, an admission of concern.  His voice carried the power of empathy which could only come from one who had been were I was.

I tired to speak but my voice failed me.  I tired to say a simple "yes," but all that I could utter was a kind of grown.  I knew it came from the very center of my being.  It was the sound of my  aching heart.

In an instant, Martin rolled over on his side, somehow crossing  the space between us.    His left arm went around my upper body and he pulled me into a strong, loving embrace.  We were both lying on our sides, our bodies pressed together.  My right arm went around him and I found my face pressed into his throat, just below his chin.  It was hardly a graceful position but it didn't seem to matter to either of us.  He held me as I was overcome with all the hurt and fear and frustration I had tired to contain was suddenly spilling out in deep, racking sobs.

Martin held me until my breathing gradually returned so something like normal.  I realized that my cock was desperately hard, pressed between us.  I  think his was too.  But somehow it didn't matter; all embarrassment was gone.  Gradually, as my breathing settled, I overcame my fear of speaking and said the only thing which I could manage, but it contained it all.

"I so want you, Martin."

"Hush, Timmy,"  he whispered,  his breath hot against my ear.  "Calm down."

I didn't want to calm down!  Now that I had admitted the truth to him and to myself I wanted him  to take me there on the float in the middle of the little lake, under the hot Mississippi July sun.  I wanted to give myself to him, to be ravaged by him.  I wanted my innocence erased, my virginity,  not so much taken as offered up to him.  I wanted him to make love to me in every way one man can make love to another.  It wasn't just a sexual need I wanted met, or a sexual act which I wanted to perform, it was a total giving of myself to him, only that which would satisfy the need which raged in me.

"Please, Martin," I managed to whisper,  "please do it, make love to me."

"You don't know what you're saying, Tim.  Please just calm down."

I couldn't believe he was rejecting me.  Was I not good enough, beautiful enough, appealing enough, to merit his love, or failing that, his sexual pleasure.  If he didn't love me, and how could I really expect that,  why couldn't he just take me for his own pleasure,  for his own gratification?  It was as if I was offering myself to him and he was rejecting the one gift I had to offer, my youth, my innocence, my yielded and waiting body.

"No,"  I sobbed, "you don't understand, I want you to take me, use me."

He pulled back a little and then placed his warm lips on my feverish forehead.   His kiss was full of concern,  caring, but I felt no passion in it.  He whispered again,  "I understand, Tim.  I really, truly understand.  That isn't what I said."

"What?"  I sputtered.

"I said, `you don't know what you're saying.'"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you are overcome by the power of truth, of admitting the truth to me, to yourself.   That's a very potent thing.  What you need right now is not sex, not acting on the admitted truth, but just taking time to absorb it,  come to terms with it.  I can help you do that, but having sex with you, at least right now, would just complicate and delay what you really need to be accomplishing."

I found myself trembling in his arms.  I wanted sexual release and he was offering me philosophy!

"But I'm asking you to make love to me!"

"I know."

"Are you saying, `no.'"

He laughed.  It was a kind, gentle little chuckle but it resonated deep in him, from his chest into mine.

"I'm saying `not now.'  You can always ask again when you're really ready and not just when you think you are."

"But, Martin, I am ready, I want it, I want you."

That laugh again.  I felt it in my chest, as if he was passing a gift of himself from his body into mine.  "Remember what we talked about in the greenhouse?"

"Sure."

"About some plants needing a little protection, a little special nurturing?"

"I remember."

"Well, do you remember those mums we were looking at?  They aren't ready to be planted out in the full summer sun.  But when the time comes, when they are ready, when the nights are a little cooler and the sun is setting a little earlier, then they can go out into the world and they will bloom with such abandon that they will bring people driving by from miles around just to admire their beauty, their extravagant beauty."

I managed a little laugh of my own.  I realized to my horror that my nose had run and I had left a sticky trail of snot down his chest.  "You calling me a mum."

He gave me a gentle slap on the back side and said, "yeah, I guess I am."

"So I can ask again."

"Any time you want."

"And maybe you'll do it?   You'll have sex with me?"

"Maybe."

This time I knew he was teasing.   "Maybe?"

"Yep."

"Gee, Martin, what do I have to do?  Here I am throwing myself at you and you're flat turning me down."  I tried to keep my voice light.   If he could kid about it, I could kid back.

"You'll know when the time is right."  His strong hand was stroking my back, holding my body to his.  "I'll know, too."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes."  We were both silent for a few moments, just lying there as the hot sun played over our naked bodies,  his hand stroking my back, moving up over my shoulder, moving down over my arm, the one which I had placed around him.  My left arm was sandwiched uncomfortably between my body and the rough deck but I wasn't about to move it and risk ending this.  My cock hard and wet against him and I could feel his own pressing into my belly.  "Tell me something, Tim."

"Sure, anything."

"Have you ever had  sex with a man?"

"I've never had sex with anyone,"  I blurted out before I thought about it.

"Well, then!"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Tim, you're offering me your virginity."

"Yeah, I am."

"That's a very valuable gift, Tim, one you don't give lightly, and one I couldn't take lightly."

"What do you mean?"

"Well,  you can only give it once, so you want to be very sure you are giving it to the right person.  I'm incredibly flattered that you think I'm that person, but you really must be sure."

"I'm sure, Martin.  I know I'm sure."  I waited a moment expecting him to say something more.  When he didn't, I went on.  "You can't imagine how much I want you, now much I admire you.  I don't want to just have sex with you, I want you to be, well, you know, kind of like my teacher."

"Well, then!"

"What?"

"Well, that's all the more reason to wait.  All the more reason it needs to be special."

"It would be special."

"Not some quickie out here in the middle of the lake, that's not special, not special enough.  He sort of cleared his throat and added, "not what you deserve."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, young man, when I deflower a beautiful guy like you, I demand a little sense of ceremony, a sense of the special nature of the event."

"Now you're kidding me."

"No, not really.  I would want us to have time, leisure, no chance of interruption.  And I would want us to be absolutely sure you were really ready, that you really understood the importance of what you were getting into.  And….."

"Yeah, and what?"

"Well, Tim, you know I'm an attorney?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, so an attorney is a sworn officer of the court.  It is my duty under oath to uphold the laws of the state."

Now I knew he was kidding.  "But you're an attorney in New York, not Mississippi."

"Ah, but I am a member of the Bar in Mississippi as well as New York and about six other states as well."

"And?"

"Well, I haven't actually practiced law in Mississippi except for a couple of cases were I represented family interests here.  But it seems to be that it is illegal, in the strict sense of the law, for an adult to have sex, even consensual sex, with a person below the age of consent."

"What's `the age of consent?'"

"There, I got you!  If you were of the age of consent under Mississippi law, you'd probably know.  At least, it's a matter that needs to be thoroughly researched."

"And what does it mean if I'm not of  `the age of consent?   Does that mean you won't have sex with me `till I get that old, eighteen or twenty or something?  Anyway, what difference would it make?"

"Well, simply put, I could be guilty of child abuse, or child endangerment, or, God forged, statutory rape."

"You got to be kidding!"

"Does it apply to guys who are younger having sex together, you know, not with an older guy, just between themselves?"

"No, that's not covered," he said, then, to my horror, added,  "So you telling me you got the hots for my nephews?"

God Almighty!  Does this guy never quit?  Am I that obvious?  Can he just look at me and tell?

"It's okay, sport,"  he said with a grin.  "I've got to admit they are pretty cute guys."

"Gees,  Martin, how'd you know?  I mean, well, you know,  we haven't done anything, really."  I realized I had turned bright red, and not from the sun, from sheer embarrassment, and to top it off, I was stammering again.

"Well, I knew it just from watching you guys together around the kitchen table, you looking at them, them looking at  you.  There was no small electrical charge in the air, fellow.  Anyway, what do you mean, `really,'  isn't that what you said?  `We haven't done anything really.'"

I know I must have looked as guilty as hell.  "Well, Dave and me."

"'Dave and I,'  smart boy, get your grammar down."

I hate that.  My mother does it all the time.  "Whatever."

He smiled again, that easy, friendly, caring smile, and I milted.  I would have told him anything.

"So?"

"We kissed, Dave and me.  I mean, I kissed him, but he kissed back, you know."

"How was it?"

"Wonderful.  I thought my whole body was going into spontaneous combustion."

"Neat,"  he smiled.  "So you've done a lot of kissing?"

"No!  Well, you know, girls."  He didn't respond and I felt compelled to explain.  "You know, you go on a date because it's expected, a school dance, some party.  When you take them home they expect you to kiss them, but it isn't the same, not like kissing Dave."

He reached up and ruffled my hair, also something my mother does and which I usually hate, but this was different.  I didn't mind at all.

"So, if I may ask, rather indelicately, why don't you just go to bed with Dave?"

"Oh, man  I have no idea if he'd go for it or kill me on the spot."

"He wouldn't kill you, Tim.  I can tell you that much from the looks that were going back and forth while we were having lunch."

"Well, besides, I wouldn't know what to do.  I'd mess it all up out of complete ignorance."

"There's nothing wrong with learning together."

"I guess, but you know, Dave is so self assured.  It's  like he'd know just what to do, even if he'd never done it before.

Martin laughed, and held me to him.
 

"What a life you've got ahead, Tim."  Then he kissed me, not on the lips, but on the cheek.  It was still cool, so cool.   "I feel honored that you want me to, you know, teach you."  For the first time I sensed a little awkwardness in his response.  "But anyway, that still leaves us with the question of legal age in Mississippi."

"I think it stinks.  It can't be for real."

"No, not at all, Mister.  Sex is pretty serious stuff, especially in the eyes of the courts."

"Well, what can we do?"

"Oh, I'd better check it out.  But you know, when there's a law, there's always a way around it."

"So how would you get around this one, saying it says I'm too young?"

"Well, you know if a girl wants to get married and she's too young under state law, she can always get permission from her parents and then she can get married, no matter how young she is, within reason, of course."

I know at that moment a look of absolute horror came over my face.  I assumed he was still kidding me, but suddenly the implications of what he had just said hit me.  "You're not going to ask my dad for permission?"

He burst out in a deep, raucous laugh and rolled over on his  back away from me.  Then all of a sudden he was on his feet, first pulling me up, then grasping me and lifting me and then tossing me out into the water.  When I surfaced, spewing water from mouth and nose, he was still standing on the floating deck, and still laughing.

"I can see it now.  I can talk to him tomorrow morning after church.  "Good morning, Mr. Arnold,"  I'd say,  "I'm Martin Cutler and I'd like your permission to fuck your son."

I expect to have the next story in this series posted within the next two weeks,